Tuesday, February 1

 

It’s forecast to be 28 degrees today and that follows several other hot days of over thirty;  that’s unusual for us in these southern regions.  At least the skies are black so we could have rain later.  The unit is air-conditioned, of course, so we’ve been comfortable while ever we’re at home but, if we go out, that’s another matter.  Another issue is that I have needed to water each evening. 

 

We determined when we moved here that gardening would not be part of the deal.  No mass planting of roses, no herbaceous borders, no spring blooms for a bit of cheer.  The builder made an attempt at landscaping when he put the units on the market by piling wood chips around the place, outlining a few flower beds and planting some green stuff here and there.  It looks pretty good and doesn’t take much effort to maintain it: an occasional mow of the grass and a watering of the shrubs when we haven’t had rain.

 

With this weather, though, I’ve been watering each night and it’s drawn our attention to the outside of the unit and started us thinking of what we might have to do to make one or two areas more attractive without making more work for myself.  Being on a small block, the fences are close to the windows.  They’re constructed of a yellow wood which might look better when it weathers to a grey colour but that could take years.  It’s the fence outside the loungeroom which is the main issue.  When visitors come, the view they have is not the most attractive and we’ve decided we need to do something about it.

 

I’m not keen to dig up the ground so we’ve been looking at some kind of shelves which we could cover with pot plants which won’t take much looking-after and can be replaced from time to time.  Bunnings, surprisingly, were very disappointing when we went looking as were other local garden supply places, so I have turned, as I often do, to eBay.  The shelves I have ordered have been promised to arrive on my birthday and I will have the task of assembling them.  How hard can it be?

Monday, January 31

 

I’m writing this little bit of trivia on a very nice MacBook Air.  I’ve always been a fan of Apple computers but as their price rose over the years, I had to move my allegiance to the Windows system.  Of course, there’s nothing wrong with Windows but, there’s an elegance about Apple which stands out.  Those extra few hundred dollars on the price give the manufacturers something to work with.

 

I was whinging a few weeks ago that my HP desktop was showing signs of age.  I’d had it a few years and there’s clearly a built-in obsolence with these things which meant it was time for a replacement.  I accepted the intellectual arguments that everything needs to be replaced sometime but I knew that the new model I purchased would be no more exciting than the one I was condemning to the tip.

 

That’s what it was about, I realised.  I didn’t want more of the same – a cheaply built, minimally featured workhorse.  I wanted a top-of-the-range thoroughbred that I could stroke sensually and feel …. No, I’m getting silly!

 

Nera said she had just been given a new laptop by her employer and the Macbook she had been using was available.  Maybe, I’d like to try it out.  If I liked it, she was sure we could pick one up second-hand.  She had bought hers, for a few hundred dollars, from a school which was upgrading and that was happening all the time.  I was unsure; I had my heart set on a desktop but as soon as I saw the machine, I was hooked.

 

Apple think a lot about presentation.  It’s sleek and silver and seems to purr as it sits on the desk.  It’s often said about Macs that they just work.  This one has a keyboard that’s a delight to use, the screen is clear and the functionality is perfect.  It’s taken a little bit of time to get used to but I’m hooked.

 

Nera hasn’t asked for it back yet but we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.

Sunday, January 30

 

Sometimes a phrase or a passage in a book can stop the reader in his tracks.  It might be a particularly elegant piece of prose, almost poetic in its construction, or it might be a cold, brutal collection of words describing a bleak, hopeless situation.

 

I came across one such phrase yesterday as I was reading the first Cormoran Strike book in the series.  Yes, I became so frustrated with Book 5, I had to go back to the beginning of the series and start again.  I’ll read them in sequence now, over a period of a few weeks and hope I can cling on to the thread of detail this time.

 

Anyway, in Book 1, The Cuckoo’s Calling, Robin has become engaged to Matthew and has taken a job as a temp with Cormoran Strike.  She doesn’t know it yet, but her life is about to take a very sudden and sharp turn.

 

She is at home, washing up, and explaining to Matthew about her day at the detective agency and he is not taking her as seriously as she might like.  She examines her feelings and finds Matthew fails to live up to her expectations

 

“Robin felt as though her own worth had been impugned.  Strike had seemed interested in the things she had found online.  Strike expressed gratitude for her efficiency and initiative.

 

She waited until (Matthew) had walked away into the sitting room before turning off the tap.  There was, she noticed, a fragment of frozen pea caught in the setting of her engagement ring.”

 

The engagement ring, symbol of her hopes for the future, now sullied and defaced by a fragment of pea.  Is this a sign that her engagement is doomed, that she will realise that Matthew is not the man for her?  I wouldn’t be surprised, and it’s a very nice piece of writing.

Saturday, January 29

 

I might have mentioned that the new doctor at our practice was one of my junior staff when I ran the boarding house at Friends School in the late-1970s.  He remembered me although I had no memory of him at all.  I went to see him because I was having pains in my hands;  the left one was clearly arthritic but the right one was a different kind of pain entirely.  He sent me to get an X-ray of my left hand and an ultrasound of my right elbow.  I wondered why he was looking at my elbow when it is my hand that’s painful, but he said it’s all related.

 

I had to go back to see him yesterday.  I don’t know whether it is worse if the doctor gives you bad news or if he gives you good.  Today, it was a bit of both.  Yes, I have arthritis in my left hand and not much I can do about it, and they can’t see anything wrong with my right elbow.  That’s all very well, but my hand is still sore.

 

“I could give you anti-inflammatories,” he said, “but they often cause other problems.  We could fuse the bones in the left hand but you would lose the use of it.  You should probably just continue as you are.”

 

I’m not sure I like a doctor who gives up so easily.  He didn’t even offer me some of those new hi-tech designer opiates.

 

“Thanks for your help, doc,” I said. “I’ll see myself out.”

 

Marilyn came in yesterday with a plate of small cakes made by Mellany, one of Nera’s filipina friends.  They were clearly for Australia Day because some of them had little flags stuck in them.  Very patriotic!  I noticed that one of the flags was upside down and I remembered from my Scout days that this was a sign of distress.  Was Mellany alright or was this her way of asking for help?

 

Or, perhaps a mistake had been made in the Chinese factory where the flags were made, and that’s more likely.  I can imagine the consternation when the mistake was discovered.  “What shall we do?  Do we need to scrap them?”

 

“No, send them to Tasmania; they’ll never notice the difference.”

Friday, January 28

 

I’ve been reading the latest in a series of books written by JK Rowling under the pseudonym, Robert Galbraith.  The main character is a young woman, Robin Ellicott who goes to work with a struggling private detective called Cormoran Strike.  Troubled Blood is the fifth book in the series and I think I’ve missed reading one or two of the previous ones.  In any case, I’m struggling to make sense of some of the back story.

 

Cormoran Strike is the estranged son of a well-known rock singer and there is a motley gang of relations and hangers-on that he wants nothing to do with.  There are too many references in the current novel about this background.  I remember reading the first book, The Cuckoo’s Calling but have no recollection of the details.  Why does the word Cuckoo’s have an apostrophe?  Does it mean the cuckoo is calling or the cuckoo has a calling?  Do I have to go back and start again with the series?

 

I enjoy book series but I expect each individual book to stand alone and not depend too much on what happened previously.  The author needs to cater for the casual reader who picks up one of the later books in the series and enjoys it so much they go looking for more.  It’s the ongoing characters I enjoy but I’m not particularly interested in keeping notes from one book to the next so I can follow the thread.  Maybe Ms Rowling is too smug about her success with Harry to think things through.

 

I suppose her Harry Potter fans revelled in the obsessive detail she shovelled into her books about the young wizard but, for the ageing reader, wading through superfluous detail is just too much trouble.  I want to cut to the chase.

 

I checked Google to make sure I had my basic information correct and found the following disclaimer:

 

‘This section may contain an excessive amount of intricate detail that may interest only a particular audience.’

 

… and I second that.

Thursday, January 27

 

I’ve written over 1100 posts for this blog over the past 12 years, although not with the sort of regularity I might have wanted.  I’ve never doubted the value of what I am doing but the execution has left a bit to be desired.  There are periods, like the past three weeks, where I write nearly every day, and then there are flat spots like 2015 when I only wrote 22 in the whole year.

 

So what is the value of this indulgence?  There’s the value of the record, of course.  Marilyn asked me this morning: when was Andrea married?  A few minutes of scouring and there was the answer – January 27, 2018.  There’s the value of the memories, and I take great pleasure in re-reading excerpts from previous years and re-living the experiences they evoke.  There’s the mental health aspect.  Everyone likes to think that their life has meaning and that meaning is enhanced by the fact of writing it down.

 

There’s also self esteem.  When other parts of the body are slowing to a creaking halt, when your hair is thinning and your muscles are wasting away, when your eyes are dimming and your hearing is going, it is great to exercise the last part of your body to wither. If you want to accomplish something else in your life, you’ll have to use your mind and your memory.  Thank goodness for computers!

 

But, perhaps, the most important value is that it is a commitment.  It helps me to look for meaning in what happens day to day.  What happened today that is worth writing about?  How can I turn that anecdote into something worth recording?

 

Samuel Pepys wrote his dairy in the 17^th century and people still refer to it today.  Of course, the bit they want to read is the section about the Great Fire of London and I don’t expect that anyone will find the same interest in my jottings. 

 

I sometimes think that nobody will be interested in my comments about what we are watching on television, for example.  But writing for an audience is only part of the process.  I note that 7 people read yesterday’s blog, or maybe it was one person who read it 7 times.  If size of audience was the criterion for whether to write the blog or not, I would have given up years ago but, thankfully, it’s not.  I’ll write it anyway, and for other reasons.

Wednesday, January 26

 

In our house, we’re not great at reading TV guides so shows we might be inclined to watch are liable to pass us by.  Marilyn commented today that she thought we were getting behind in Call the Midwife so I went to iView to see whether she might be right.  I never found out because my eye was caught by a program called Alan and Miriam: Lost in Scotland.  We couldn’t resist, and turned it on.

 

What a show it is!  Alan Cumming and Miriam Margolyes were both born in Scotland and this program gives them a chance to drive around in a campervan revisiting their childhood.  Alan is cultured, erudite and witty; Miriam is coarse, earthy and witty.  It’s a brilliant show and we’ll look for the rest of the episodes.  Outstanding!

 

What else are we watching?  We’ve had a subscription to Acorn TV for a while now and are finding it pretty good value.  Apart from shows we have never heard of, like Under the Vines, The Sound, and My Life is Murder, all set in New Zealand, it has lots of old favourites like Poirot and Foyles War.

 

At the moment, we’ve gone back to the first series of Midsomer Murders, first aired in 1997. The early episodes have held up pretty well; they were old-fashioned to start with and they’re just a little bit more old-fashioned now.  But that suits us; we can’t watch the modern, aggressive shows and if we don’t see another dystopian or superhero blockbuster I’ll be a happy man. When did dystopian become a common word anyway?

 

Gradually we’ve moved away from US shows.  There’s a certain air about them which I don’t like: a ruthlessness, perhaps, or a smugness. I suppose TV shows reflect the values of the nation which made them.  Australian shows have a naivety, a certain air of apology for trying to copy the big boys.  UK shows swing between the farcical and the oh so cool.  US shows have a confident, even supercilious feeling as if to say they’re the kings of the medium and let’s not forget it.

 

I’ll have to develop this idea a bit more; maybe I’ve hit on something.

 

Otherwise, I hope you're celebrating Australia Day in an appropriate way.

Tuesday, January 25

I was browsing through Youtube looking for something that might amuse me when up popped a little video about a cable car in Nepal that takes pilgrims to the Manakamana Temple. And, by coincidence, we have been there, in November, 2010!

 

We were travelling in a mini-bus between Jomson in the mountains to Pokhara and were having an overnight stop at Riverside Springs.  The road was appalling, I remember, and with the dust and the heat we were ready for a swim.  We assumed that a place called Riverside Springs would have somewhere to swim, perhaps in the river or the springs.  As it happened, the ‘Springs’ only existed in a marketing executive’s imagination, the river was miles away, and the resort’s pool was being cleaned and wouldn’t be available for a couple of hours.

 

To fill in time, we decided to try out the cable car  It was massive, built by an Austrian company and constantly busy carrying pilgrims to and from the temple.  Prices for locals were very reasonable but ‘rich’ tourist were charged $15US.  There was a special price for goats who were on their way to be sacrificed, so only travelled one way. We didn’t happen to see any goats on our visit but, on the video, a group of 5 or 6 were being reluctantly shoved into a cage for their trip of a lifetime.

 

I found it hard to recognise any landmarks.  The view from all cable cars is the same and there has obviously been some development in the 11 years.  The faces in the crowd were typically Nepalese, though, and reminded me that we had met an elderly man travelling with his daughter who told us he was a Ghurkha and had served in the Indian army.

 

 

 

 

Monday, January 24

 

I’ve developed a taste over the years for Moccona Flat White coffee, marketed in a sachet.  It’s probably not the cheapest way of having coffee; that’s probably the spoonful of Nescafe in a mug and I still have that when I first wake-up in the morning.  But, for morning and afternoon breaks, it’s a mug of flat white for me. 

 

The lattes and cappuccinos which fill the same market niche are not the same. I find they have a nasty chemical flavour and they are made with a powdered milk which makes them frothy.  Horrible!  And the supermarket shelves are becoming crowded with a whole plethora of newcomers: cappuccinos and lattes in salted caramel, hazelnut and vanilla flavours, so-called ‘milks’ like almond and soy, and new manufacturers trying to grab a slice of the business.

 

Perhaps, there’s no room for plain old flat white any more because I’ve been having trouble getting my supplies, for the last few months.  Then I discovered that Amazon could deliver boxes to my door and that worked for a while until their supplies dried up and ‘Temporarily Unavailable’ appeared on their website.

 

I’m faced with a quandary.  My wants are few but flat white is one of them. Jamie, the big spender, says you can buy a machine that will produce a perfect flat white but that’s not the solution I want.

 

By chance, Marilyn popped in to the tiny IGA supermarket in Somerset the other day and, on the shelf, found a supply of ten boxes of wonderful, delightful Moccona Flat White Coffee.  She bought eight of the ten boxes available, leaving two for any desperate locals who needed their fix.  That should keep me content for a few weeks while I work out my next move.  There’s a rumour that Nescafe is introducing a similar product so I’ll keep my eyes out for that.

Sunday, January 23

 

I have some more information about the phenomenon I’ve just noticed where buyers of slabs of beer remove one can or one stubby from the slab to enjoy on the way home.  Jamie tells me it is a ‘thing’, ‘an Australian tradition’ and ‘everybody knows about it’.  Clearly, I’ve led a sheltered existence.

 

The solitary drink is called a ‘traveller’ and can be a can or a bottle.  In Queensland, though, it is almost invariably a bottle.  The law there is that you can be charged if an opened container of alcohol is found in the vehicle.  Drivers keep the cap of the stubby handy to replace it if they are stopped; you can’t reseal a can.

 

We drove out to Burnie yesterday, stopping at Latrobe for coffee on the way.  While Marilyn waited in the coffee shop for our drinks, I walked Archie up and down on the footpath.  A car pulled in behind us and a man of about my age, with his wife, climbed out and headed for the café.  The man realised he had forgotten something, turned back to the car and collected his mask.

 

“Don’t forgot your mask,” I said. “Or you’ll be in trouble.”  I realised too late that I shouldn’t have spoken.  He replied with a snarl, “Bloody useless thing.  Does no good and the government won’t even tell us where the hot spots are.”  To make sure I heard him, he repeated, ”They won’t tell us where the bloody hot spots are.”

 

I had broken two of my longstanding rules.  I had made eye contact and I had initiated a conversation.  I call them the Dodge City Rules, and I find that they are useful when you are visiting a strange town (like Dodge City).

The rules are:

1.     Never make eye contact with a stranger,

2.     Never start a conversation with a stranger,

3.     If a stranger talks to you, make a non-committal answer and get away as quickly as you can,

4.     Keep your hand near your weapon.

 

The best I could do in this situation was grunt ‘It’s tough’, and clutch my weapon more tightly.  In my case, my weapon was my walking stick.  Happily, Marilyn arrived with our coffees and we made ourselves scarce.

 

Later we stopped at Somerset, another one horse town, for lunch.  We found ourselves sharing the same bit of shade outside the café with a couple of locals.  Being careful not to make eye contact, I carefully tried to ignore them but, without any provocation, one thought it important to tell me, “Andy Murray’s done well at the Australian Open but now he’s been beaten by that little Jap.” 

 

Casual racism is alive and well in north-west Tasmania.

Saturday, January 22

 

We’re up early this morning.  Nera is working on the west coast and Jamie is with her.  We are looking after Archie and are at a bit of a loose end so have decided to drive out to Burnie to have lunch, let Archie re-acquaint himself with Jamie and have a leisurely drive home.  The forecast is for 27 degrees in Longford but only 23 in Burnie so that must be a good thing.

 

The last time we went to Burnie I was cajoled into buying a pair of Asics sports shoes for $180.  The physiotherapist and podiatrist were both recommending I get out of my cheap Kmart shoes and into something with more support.  I whinged and complained but to no avail.

 

Since then, I have worn these shoes every day – EVERY DAY!  It might only be for an hour in the morning before I change into something else to go out but, more likely, it will be all day.  They are the best, most comfortable, most supportive shoes I’ve ever had and, with the distinctive flash on the side, they have a certain cachet with the sporty set.

 

It was about 3 months ago that I bought them: 90 days.  $180 divided by 90 is $2 per day for the best shoes I’ve ever owned.  Even I can see that is a bargain.

Friday, January 21

 

I’ve talked before about the amenities of Longford just to show that we’re not a one-horse town.  We even have a BWS.   It’s a simple square building with three lanes at the front. We occasionally drive in and I sit in the car while Marilyn pops in to choose her bubbles.  If I don’t go in with her, she can cajole one of the staff to carry the box out to our boot, saving me the embarrassment of showing my lack of fitness.

 

Because there are only three lanes, I often find myself sitting behind another car or, more likely, a farm truck with a scruffy dog in the back.  I watch as the other driver staggers out from the shop with his slab or two and drops them in the boot or the back of the ute.  Almost invariably, he tears open the slab and takes out a cold tinny to enjoy on the way home. Today, the vehicle in front was a reasonably clean modern sedan and the driver was better dressed.  The slab was a more expensive beer but, still the same pattern: it was ripped open, one taken out and joined the driver in the front seat.

 

Maybe I’ve lived a sheltered life, but I’ve never come across that behaviour before and I’m sure it must be against the law – drinking and driving and all that.  Or have we come to the wild, wild west where the rules are different?

 

If the local police are looking for a way to improve their arrest rate, I could help them out with some information.  Although, I wouldn’t be surprised if the police turn a blind eye to what doesn’t seem to do much harm.  I’m sure they are busy enough chasing real criminals.

Thursday, January 20

 

I‘ve always been a fan of puzzles and, now that I have time on my hands, I usually have one or two on the go.  I used to buy them when I saw them in the supermarket but now I subscribe to a few publications and look forward to seeing them in the mail.  I read somewhere that doing puzzles will keep your brain from slowing down but I wonder how they can test that.  Sounds like a marketing slogan.  Some people turn their puzzle obsession into rewards.  Better Homes and Women’s Weekly have thick books with up to 100 puzzles and claim that each volume offers around $80000 in prizes.  I’ve sent off the entry form from time to time but it’s a futile exercise.

 

I’m keen on acrostic puzzles but they’re hard to come by.  There’s just one small book that I can find, published 6 times a year.  No prizes here, just the pleasure of working the puzzle out.  I’m having a rest from Sudoku which was my go-to puzzle preference for years.

 

My favourite book is Mr Wisdom’s Whopper.  It’s a modern version of a puzzle which first appeared in the Australasian Post in the 1960’s so it claims to be Australia’s oldest crossword puzzle.  There are 27 puzzles in each edition and there’s a strong repeat factor in the clues.  I think the clue ‘Marshall Mathers’ has appeared about 5 times in the current issue, and ‘New Orleans Jazz genre’ about the same number, but that’s OK.  (The answers are Eminem and trad).  It’s not surprising that there are repeats, as each puzzle has about 450 clues.  They also have to be fitted in to the grid which limits the possibilities.

 

I like the fact that there’s a local touch: ‘Launceston river’ (Tamar) is an easy one, as is ‘Wollongong mount’ (Keira). My geography has been improved by doing these puzzles.  Without thinking, I now know that Socotra is in Yemen and Asmara is in Eritrea.

 

I suspect the compiler is a person of about my age because a lot of the clues seem to be a product of my generation.  ‘English actor’ is more likely to be David Niven than Benedict Cumberbatch, and ‘US singer’ is probably Ella Fitzgerald rather than Britney Spears.  Music questions also delve into 60’s knowledge.  ‘Which band released ‘Howzat?” or ‘What was the Crystals big hit?’  (I’m sure you know it’s Sherbet and He’s a Rebel).

 

I’m working on the premise that keeping my mind active will delay the onset of dementia but I suppose I’ll never know if that’s right.

Wednesday, January 19

 

Last night, we found ourselves watching Spencer, the movie about a family Christmas that the Princess of Wales enjoyed/endured after she and Charles had separated.  I’m cynical enough to suspect that it wasn’t entirely true but that’s showbiz.

 

In fact, it was a cleverly made movie and would satisfy the various prejudices of those who think such things matter.  If you believe that Diana was a manipulative, self-centred prima donna, there was enough evidence in the movie to prove that you are right.  On the other hand, if your belief is that she was the innocent victim of a reactionary family obsessed with controlling every facet of how they were perceived by the public, that’s all there too.

 

If like me, you have no opinion, maybe find something else to fill in your time. 

 

For me, though, the riveting aspect was how much control the servants have in the grand scheme.   It is like an enormously complex puppet show and can only function if everything is worked out before-hand.   When a boy child turns 11 he is the right age to go shooting; what you wear is planned a week in advance, otherwise the servants wouldn’t know what to get ready.  It’s to the point where nothing else matters but the program.  Like a computer program which attains a life of its own, the protagonists for whom the program is written, become slaves to it.

 

Am I reading too much into it?  Probably and maybe I’m not getting enough sleep.

Tuesday, January 18

 

I’m not a great fan of verbal abuse even when it is aimed at polticians but, occasionally, I have to applaud a particularly clever insult.  Reading the headlines this morning I came across this gem of a description: ‘a ribbiting cane toad of a Prime Minister’.  Classic!  It was an article about the Novak Djokovic farce, written by a Jonathan Liew who was a new one to me.  I looked him up and noted he was a British Sportswriter.  So, was he writing about Scotty or about Boris? Either would fit but, on balance, because it was about Djokovic, I suspect that it was our own PM who was being castigated.

 

Why would anyone want to be Prime Minister when it puts you up for ridicule like that?  Surely the salary isn’t that good.

 

The same article mused about Djokovic’s self-belief and what will happen when he retires from playing tennis.  Will he be content to be a coach and part-time commentator?  A letter-writer, responding to Mr Liew’s article thinks not and predicts that Djokovic will take advantage of his status in Serbia, go into politics and will, one day, be the authoritarian leader of his country.

 

Just in the last few days we have a new service station in Longford.  We’re not a big town but we have three modern service stations, as well as an agency that sells agricultural equipment and another that sells boats.  Obviously, we service a large farming area and have to provide what the farmers want.

 

The new service station is a United outlet.  When we moved here, it was in a building which harked back to the fifties: concrete block with shabby paintwork, a sign that pointed customers to a long-abandoned restaurant, tired pumps (half of them not working) and toilets round the back which catered for the very desperate.  But, we could get 6c per litre off the marked price using our RACT card and every little bit counts.

 

One day, the cheerful young Indian man behind the till told Marilyn he was getting a makeover and even a Pieface.  Work started months ago and we’ve been watching it unfold.  The old tanks were dug up and replaced.  The original building has been refurbished and extended, and painted bright red.  Teams of electricians have worked around the clock and vast amounts of new concrete has been laid.  Modern pumps have been installed and the ovens and display cases for the pies have been delivered.

 

We expected it to be open by Christmas or New Year and looked forward to some sort of ceremony: balloons and streamers at least and maybe some attractions for the kids (not a jumping castle!!).  But, there was nothing.  With no fanfare, the service station quietly opened in the first week of January.

 

It has seemed a bit quiet and I suspected they haven’t managed to attract their old customers back.  Yesterday, I saw the first salvo in their campaign to make their mark.  Fuel prices have been reduced by 21c per litre less than the BP, and 25c less than the Ampol.  I had just filled up the other day so I have no room in my tank to take advantage of the discount and I can only hope it’s still available next week.

Monday, January 17

 

Has he gone yet?  This saga involving Novak Djokovic seems to drag on forever and the claims and counter-claims of both sides leave me breathless.  The rules should be bent for him because he’s trying to become the tennis player with the most wins!  He’s being targeted because he’s Serbian! Rules are rules and there should be no exceptions!  It wouldn’t happen if he were a woman!  Good riddance to a dickhead!

 

My head spins and, talking of spin, how much of this whole fiasco is designed to feed the re-election narrative of the government?  I liked the article I read yesterday asking when the government is going to extend its new No Dickheads policy to members of its own party.  When are Matt Canavan and George Christiansen going to be asked to pull their heads in?   Surely their actions are just as likely to give support to the anti-vax movement as anything Djokovic has done.  What is the government doing about Clive Palmer and Craig Kelly who are assiduously working to undermine the efforts of our health authorities?

 

Sometimes you just want to get back into bed and pull the blankets over your head.

Sunday, January 16

 

I read somewhere that an extraordinary percentage of home buyers regard a dishwasher as an absolute necessity when they are considering a prospective purchase.  I don’t suppose it’s surprising; everyone is keen to cut down on labour intensive activities and washing-up is one of the least popular household chores.

 

But does having a dishwasher stack up as a positive addition to a household?  I can only talk about the experiences of a relatively elderly two-person household and accept that things might be different for a family of 6.

 

When people reach our age, their diet changes.  No longer do we have complicated dinners which need multiple cooking utensils and mixing dishes.  We’re more likely to take something from the freezer and cook it in the plastic dish it came in.  Or we will have a toasted sandwich or bowl of soup.  A normal meal in our house might produce two dirty plates, 2 knives, 2 forks and, if I’m allowed to have a dessert, 1 dish and a spoon.  It might take three days to fill the dishwasher before we put it on; think of the dishes, covered in food residue, lying in the confines of the dishwasher for days.  Healthy?  I don’t think so.

 

Rinse the plates, before you put them in, I hear you say, but the strong recommendation from dishwasher specialists is to never rinse the plates: the dishwashing chemical attaches itself to the fragments of leftover food and that is necessary for a proper clean.  Yes, I know it sounds like balderdash but the man I heard saying this on television was wearing a white coat and had a rectangular badge on the pocket so we have to believe him.

 

Those dinner plates I mentioned are too big for the top drawer so need to be stacked in the bottom.  Do you find bending over easy nowadays?  I certainly don’t.

 

And teaspoons!  Since having a dishwasher, we’ve had to buy more teaspoons.  How many teaspoons does a two-person household need?  Apparently, lots, if you are in the habit of, each time you make a coffee, ensuring the teaspoon ends up in the dishwasher where it sits patiently waiting until the next cycle starts. And that might be three days.  Are we mad?  Does a teaspoon which has only been used to stir one or even two cups of coffee need a complex treatment of washing, sterilising and drying before it can be used again?  I try to beat the system by secreting my used teaspoon ready for another use but Marilyn always manages to find it and, with a tut, puts in into the dishwasher to make sure it has no residual germs.

 

They say that, before the gods destroy us, they will make us mad.  Hmmm!

Saturday, January 15

 

So, the Minister for immigration has bitten the bullet and cancelled Novak Djokavik’s visa.  It had to be done and Mr Hawke deserves our support.  He’s right to say that, if Djokovic had been allowed to stay, it would have given ammunition to the anti-vaxxers and it sends a positive message to people who are doing the right thing.

 

From a personal point of view, I couldn’t care less who plays in the Australian Open but I do get exercised about entitled, rich sports people who believe they are above the law.  I’ve never watched Tennis and don’t intend to start now.

 

Saying that, I used to watch Test Cricket avidly.  Forty years ago, we wouldn’t make plans for Summer activities if we couldn’t be sure we would be close to a TV.  We read the back pages of the newspaper in detail and discussed the various injuries of our heroes around the staff room table.

 

Then things changed.  Life took over and Cricket faded into the background.  However, yesterday was different.  The current test was to be played in Hobart, Australia is flying high, Covid is keeping us indoors.  It’s a perfect storm so this was the perfect opportunity for Marilyn and I to relive our younger days with Cricket on the telly.

 

I switched on at 11 but … nothing!  Check the guide and find it’s a day-night match and it won’t start until 2.  That’s a novice’s error and I realise how out of touch I am.  We turn back on at 2 but, still, nothing’s happening. There are groundsmen on the pitch and Ricky Ponting is pontificating out in the middle.  Is there a problem with summer time, or something?  Have I got the times wrong?  I give up, turn it off and go back to the book I am reading. 

 

At about 2.45, Marilyn suggests I have another look and, there they are, out on the pitch with Australia batting, and we have already lost a wicket.  That’s not what I expected!

 

We watch for an hour or two but the magic has gone.  The gladiatorial contest I was looking forward to has been replaced by a coterie of flannelled fools, numbly going through the motions.  All the hype of the Channel 7 and Sky commentators can’t take away from the fact that Cricket is the most unlikely spectator sport.  We were right to ditch it all those years ago and we won’t be going back.

Thursday, January 13

 

Marilyn and I have developed a mutually beneficial morning routine which seems to work very well on these days when we don’t have very much planned.  We seem to wake at about 7 and I like to get up straight away.  Marilyn prefers to stay in bed for a bit longer, reading and enjoying a cup and a bit of coffee.

 

I use the time when I have the loungeroom to myself to watch the news on TV and browse Youtube to see if there is anything interesting to look at.  Although I know there are enormous hidden depths to Youtube, I’ve only been interested in re-visiting places we’ve been or places we’d like to go to if circumstances were different.  I can spend hours walking through the streets of Takayama, recognising museums we’ve visited and even shops we’ve been in.  The presenters use little hand-held action cameras, recording on SD cards, rather than the clumsy video gear of bygone days

 

I find it enormously valuable when I’m planning hypothetical trips: what are the logistics of catching a ferry trip across the Straits of Gibraltar from Tarifa to Tangier and how would we get from the ferry terminal to a hotel in town, for example?  It’s all there, on Youtube, and explained with live pictures and in words easy to understand.

 

However, yesterday I was looking at videos of the fjords of Norway and heard the surprising news that engineers were planning to drill a tunnel between two fjords to allow cruise ships to take a short cut.  Not just small boats but very large, 60000 tonne passenger vessels.  It was a very professionally-produced video from a group called B1M and, looking further afield I found that they have also reported on the construction of a highway around the Atlantic coast of Norway which will have more bridges and tunnels than conventional roads, and given details of a highway which will allow trucks to drive from Denmark to the Mediterranean Sea, driving through the mountains rather than over them.

 

These are extraordinary engineering feats and, potentially, much more interesting than following someone’s meandering through the Canadian forests.  I might have to expand my searches.

Wednesday, January 12

 

I suppose it was inevitable and probably happened during previous epidemics but I was surprised to hear that the onward march of Covid is having an effect on supply lines and that we might find ourselves short of various things that we depend on.  News like this generally passes me by and I don’t wake up to the reality until I am personally affected.  And, even then, I am generally phlegmatic about it, taking my lead from Marie Antoinette who advised the peasants, “If you don’t have bread, then eat cake.”

 

Marilyn and I noticed the effect of the problem yesterday when we were putting together an on-line order for Coles.  The number of items marked ‘Temporarily Unavailable’ was extraordinary  but we muddled through.  A new question appeared on the Coles website: ‘If some item is unavailable, would you like us to provide a substitute at no extra charge?’  Marilyn liked the idea that they would take that responsibility and I liked the idea that there would be no extra charge, so we ticked the box.

 

And the order which arrived this morning is generally fine, with a couple of amendments.  I’m not sure that a lasagne is a reasonable substitute for Beef Brisket in a tomato sauce with Vegetables, but it’s a meal and we don’t have to make another trip to the shops.

 

The real problem, though, is that Inghams Chickens has had a disappointing number of their staff ringing in sick. Fewer chickens, therefore, will lose their lives and this will have an effect on supplies to supermarkets.  More importantly, though, it will reduce the amount of chicken pieces to be delivered to Colonel Sanders.  We might be on the brink of an Australia-wide shortage of Kentucky Fried Chicken!  It's not the end of the world but it might be the next worse thing.

Tuesday, January 11

 

Our little haven of calm here in Tasmania is being disturbed more and more by the scourge of Covid. On December 15, we had no cases, but this morning I note that we have more than 10700 and 13 people have died.  How do the people who made the decisions to open the borders cope with that knowledge?  Do they wake up every morning and reach for the briefing notes with trembling hands?  Do they somehow maintain the confidence to be sure that their decision was the right one?  Or do little fingers of doubt insinuate themselves into their consciousness?  I’m glad it wasn’t me having to decide when the border should open.  I think I would always put the good of individuals ahead of business profits but, then, I’d never allow myself to be in that position.

 

It’s an interesting outcome from the Djokovic trial.  The judge was quite firm in his ruling that Djokovic had done all he was required to do to get to Australia.  Whether he was vaccinated or not was irrelevant. There was a lawyer on ABC Radio this morning commenting on the case and he suggested that the Federal Government’s intervention was no more than a stunt to highlight what they claim are strong border protection policies.  There must be an election coming up.  The costs will probably amount to around $200000 which will be paid for by the taxpayer; a small price to remind the voting public that the Government is intent on keeping out riff-raff.

 

The stunt backfired a bit and I wouldn’t want to be Immigration Minister Hawke this morning deciding whether he should cancel Djokovic’s visa anyway.  Whatever he does will alienate a large section of the electorate, the last thing you want to do in an election year.  One unintended outcome has been that people are reminded of the appalling situation where refugees are incarcerated in cheap hotels for years at a time with no prospect of ever getting a visa.

Monday, January 10

 

More than a year ago, when we were packing up Dilston before moving into Longford, we realised we were going to have one lounge chair too many for the new unit.  We were taking an old, leather 3-piece suite with us and had ordered, from Harvey Norman, a new recliner chair for Marilyn and a matching 2-seater.  I was happy to designate one of the old chairs as mine but there was really no room in the unit for the second one.  It was pretty shabby, anyway, and had a couple of unsightly marks on the head rest.

Marilyn asked Francis, the fellow who was buying the house, if he had a use for it and he was delighted to take it off our hands, for no charge.  He said he had no furniture and he would be happy to have at least one chair to sit on.

This week, Jamie was browsing the local marketplace site on the internet and found the same chair being offered for sale for $50.  What a cheek!  He was tempted to send Francis our bank details so he could deposit our share of the proceeds.

Francis, of course, is a filipino and it seems to be a characteristic of people from the Philippines that they are always on the look out for ways to make a profit.  They are great entrepreneurs and buying and selling is in their blood.  Nera’s female friends all have a sideline: making and icing cakes, preparing specialty food, sewing, etc.  Even Nera, until she became too busy, had a sideline in buying and selling pot plants.

We’re the mugs.  When we found we had a surplus chair, we should have advertised it on Buy, Swap and Sell and waited for someone to make an offer, providing us with a few dollars to help with moving expenses.  Giving it away made no commercial sense and the good feeling we had in doing a good deed was just an indulgence.