Tuesday, March 1

 

I had to fill up the car yesterday and, for the first time in my life, handed over $86 at the counter.  $86!!!  At 184.9c per litre, that’s about 46 litres so, if I consume about 9 litres per 100Km, that’s around 500 kilometres before I have to fill up again.  We’re going to Deloraine this morning which is about 100 km round trip so 20% of my allocation has gone already.

 

I tried to find out why the cost has gone up so dramatically and there’s some story about our prices being linked to something in Singapore called the Mogas Index and that’s affected by the Russian invasion of Ukraine.  Why?  I’ll bet none of the fuel we use in Australia comes from Russia so why are we being hit?  I heard a commentator say that the Singapore index takes note of what’s happening in other jurisdictions and adjust its rate appropriately.

 

I wonder who benefits from that little lurk.  Not the motorists of Australia, I bet.  No doubt the super-wealthy sheikhs and oil barons of the Middle East are watching world events with a happy grin on their faces.

 

The other thing I discovered is that each litre of fuel sold in Australia is taxed at a rate of 44.2 cents.  Apparently, this is to pay for the costs of roads, etc.  At the moment it’s a tax rate of around 24% of my petrol expenditure.  I notice that it’s a flat rate and not a percentage so is not dependent on fluctuations in prices.  We wouldn’t want the government to be concerned that the flow of tax dollars might be interrupted.

 

We’re supposed to have a progressive tax rate in Australia so that those who earn more contribute more but, where petrol is concerned, I’m taxed at the same rate as Clive Palmer and Gina Rhinehart.  Is that fair?

 

As an aged pensioner, I question whether I’m being treated fairly.  But, it’s the other welfare recipients I really worry about.  The single Jobseeker rate is around $314 per week.  After paying rent and food, how much would be left?  What chance would an unemployed bloke have of finding $84 to fill up his tank, even if he had a car?  It makes me think of what our out-of-touch Federal Treasurer, Joe Hockey said in 2014, that poor people don’t drive cars.  It's a self-fulfilling prophecy, isn’t it?

 

Let’s be serious.  Cars are not a luxury so why tax them as if they were?  You can’t live a normal life in Australia without a car.  Our public transport system is appalling, especially in Tasmania and yet, the government still doesn’t see cars as a necessity.  They need to do better.

Monday, February 28

 

We’ve been watching a show called The Chelsea Detective and enjoying it enormously.  In the last episode we watched, one scene was shot on a bridge and, for a fleeting moment a sign on the bridge was visible: ‘All Troops Must Break Step When Crossing This Bridge’.  Of course, I went straight to Wikipedia to see what that was all about.

 

It was the Alfred Bridge and, in its early days, it was dubbed The Trembling Lady because of the vibrations set up by troops marching across it, going to and from Chelsea Barracks.  Previously, at least two other suspension bridges in England had fallen down because of the ‘harmonic resonance’ set up by the regular marching so authorities decided the solution was to allow soldiers to wander across at their own pace.  Even though, the Barracks closed down years ago, being England, the signs remain in place. 

 

It was Enrolment Day on Friday for this term's School for Seniors.  For some reason, they insist we re-enrol three times a year, at $50 a pop.  The website opens at 11am on the designated day and there is a limit on the number enrolled in each class: in my classes, it's 8.  For those who can't cope with the internet, there are a few reserved places and the phones open on Tuesday for them.  It seems unnecessarily complex and why not allow us to enrol for the whole year?

I managed to get in early but one of my classes was full by 11.10.  Madness.

I now have the first round of topics so spent most of yesterday writing stories on 'Faces in the Street' and 'The Time Machine'.  I might post one of them on '1000 Words or Less'.

Sunday, February 27

 

I was reading an article about Armando Iannucci who made the TV show, The Thick of It and movies like The Death of Stalin.  I hadn’t realised he was born in Scotland but I shouldn’t be surprised: since World War 2, people have been very mobile and you can’t tell, any more, where they come from by their name or the colour of their face.

 

It reminded me that, as a child in Blantyre in the 1940’s, for a special treat my mum used to take us to an ice cream shop in the main street.  She called it ‘the Tali’s’, short for ‘the Italian’s’ – casual racism but with no malice.  Even then, I thought it was odd but, at some point, I was told that lots of Italian POWs who had been interned in Scotland decided not to go back to Italy when the war ended.

 

I checked Wikipedia and found that Italian influence in Scotland goes back further than that.  Even Bonnie Prince Charlie was born in Italy.  Hordes came in the 1890’s when there was a famine in their homeland, others settled after the two world wars, and I suppose, if one Italian person settles in an area, they will attract family members or even people from the same village to join them.  Whatever the reality of the situation, Scottish-Italians have made their mark.  Apart from Iannucci, names like Peter Capaldi, Tom Conti and Lewis Capaldi are well-known around the world and good luck to them.

Saturday, February 26

 

I’ve woken early this morning.  When I opened my eyes, the bedside clock informed me that it was 4.57am.  I know why I’ve woken; my bladder is becoming more insistent as I get older. I’ve had to cut out my evening coffee in recent months; otherwise, I’d be making toilet visits much earlier than this.  This morning, I resist getting up as long as I can.  The toilet light switch is connected to the exhaust fan and the noise is likely to wake Marilyn which would not be fair.  I could, of course, go through to the other toilet but that’s a bit too much trouble and I’d have to put lights on to help me find my way.

 

It's not light yet.  No street lights reach our little corner of the world, but I can see the faint glow of the night light in the hallway.  There’s very little noise.  I did hear the noise of one car in the distance; probably someone with an early start or coming home from a late shift.  If I strain my ears I can just make out the faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.  Maybe there’s also the faint sound of birds chirping somewhere close by.

 

The word ‘susurration’ pops into my head: something to do with the sound of birds or the wind or something.  I’ll have to look it up. There’s no sound of wind, though but maybe it could be raining gently.

 

Another thought impinges: a little bit of poetry.  ‘Night, and the something, something of candlelight.’  I’ll have to look that up too.

 

I can’t put this off much longer.  It’s still early so, if I make my toilet trip soon, I’ll be able to get back to bed and maybe sleep for another hour or so. Marilyn will probably be getting ready for her own first toilet visit soon, anyway.  I’m glad it’s not winter and the house is not cold.

Friday, February 25

 

We’re great fans of quiz shows but sometimes struggle to find interesting ones on Youtube.  For the past few days, we’ve been watching episodes of the UK edition of The Weakest Link.  In the original version, years ago, the host played the part of a nasty school mistress pretending that everyone was scared of her.  I suppose that’s showbiz. The current host is a comedian, called Ramesh, who is more likely to insult the contestant than frighten them.

 

The other night, by mistake, I opened an episode from the US edition: same format, same style of host but heaps more money on offer.  Eventually, the final two contestants went head to head.  One was a young man who had not had a question wrong throughout the show, the other was a dimwit called, I think, Spencer.  I don’t know how he got to the final; in my eyes, he was the weakest link in every round. They were each asked eight questions and, somehow, against all the odds, Spencer was getting questions right.   

 

Question 6 was, “Who was the Greek god who gave fire to man?”  Spencer thought deeply, and said “Prometheus!”  Marilyn and I spoke as one: ”No way! There is no way Spencer knew the answer to that question.”

 

Our thought is that the producers knew that Spencer would be an embarrassment in the final so fed him some of the answers to make it look less one-sided.  He was never going to win but, at least, he didn’t lose by 8-nil.  In fact, I think he lost 8 to 7.

 

I remember seeing the movie Quiz Show, made in the 90’s which exposed dodgy US TV shows in the 1950s where, to improve ratings, producers gave more popular contestants a bit of a hand. There was also a scandal in the UK on Who Wants to be a Millionaire but that involved coughing from someone in the audience?  It’s clear that nothing has changed. Ratings are all; integrity is just a meaningless four-syllable word.

 

I also discovered there is a new Australian version of the show with Magda Szubanski as the host and we can’t wait to see it.

Thursday, February 24

 

Last week we picked about a kilogram of blackberries at the local berry farm and I had put aside the last of them for my cereal yesterday morning.  While they are available, we want to take advantage so it was clear another visit was necessary.  The skies were grey and rain seemed imminent but, if we were quick, we might beat the bad weather.  You can’t pick blackberries in the rain; wet fruit doesn’t keep.  Marilyn’s happy to leave the picking to me so Jamie offered to come with me.

 

We got an early start but everything at the farm was in place ready to go.  We collected our boxes and I think I had mine filled in about 15 minutes.  We concentrate on blackberries, I think for sentimental reasons.  We always picked blackberries when we were young and, in fact, Marilyn and I picked blackberries on Mt Keira in the days before we were married.  Mum was annoyed that Marilyn came in with stained fingers and worried that she wouldn’t get them back into shape before the big day. 

 

We had blackberries at Bluegate Farm in Hobart, near our flat in Deloraine and at Dilston.  Of course, picking blackberries in those situations is nothing like what we have at Longford Berries.   In those days, if I managed to fill half a jug after an hour’s work I would be delighted.  We couldn’t avoid thorns either and our arms and hands would be slashed and bleeding.

 

At Longford Berries, the blackberries are the thornless variety; they are espaliered across a tall trellis so no berries are inaccessible.  There are several long rows of them so it’s easy to find a spot which is relatively untouched.  On this visit we picked about a kilogram each; I think they charge $13 per Kg.  There’s a caravan on the site where they serve pancakes or shortcake with berries and icecream so there’s a lot to like about Longford Berries.  I don’t know how long their growing season is but we’re looking forward to going back.

Wednesday, February 23

 

I’ve replaced the incorrect post I made on Monday with the correct one and apologise for my confusion.

 

Watching the Back Roads episode on Monday evening, featuring Longford, brought home to us that we will never be true Longford natives.  We have our home here and we enjoy what the town has to offer but we have no shared history with the area.  If we lived to be 100 years old, we would never be more than johnny-come-latelies to a town with a rich heritage we can only observe as outsiders.

 

Back Roads, of course, highlights the differences between this area and others they have visited over the years.  They’re not interested in the world we occupy: the grocery store and the café and the Chinese restaurant we frequent.  They want to talk to the family who have farmed here since the 1820s, the family who can’t wait for the hunting season to begin so they can shoot unsuspecting stags, and the hotel publican who yearns for the days when Longford was one of the premier car-racing circuits in Australia, noted for having killed more drivers than any other. 

 

They winkle out the heart-breaking story of Rob Wilson who was born a hermaphrodite in the days when this condition was little understood.  The story, of course, was treated with dignity but I still felt like a voyeur intruding on his privacy.  Rob is clearly a person of real strength who has become a world leader in breeding rare chickens.  It’s a remarkable achievement for someone who started life with the cards stacked against him.

 

At the end of the program, Marilyn commented, ‘It’s not the Longford we know,’ and she’s right.  Our Longford is limited to the main street, the doctor’s surgery and Stickybeaks Café where we might go for an occasional meal.  We still find our social life in Launceston and Deloraine.  That’s the problem with a life spent moving from city to city where work takes you.  You never really belong anywhere. It’s hard to put down roots in a new town and you can only look at the lives of long-term residents with some envy.

 

We’ve become adept at identifying people who’ve lived here all their lives.  They have a stamp on them which is easy to read and a confidence in their environment.  I like to think you can tell by their accent too. They may never have seen the sun rise over Magnetic island, or canoed down the Kangaroo River, but they’re comfortable in their skin and in their surroundings.  I can’t help thinking there’s something to be said for having limited horizons.

 

Tuesday, February 22

 

I had a call from the local medical centre that Dr Joske wanted me to have some blood tests.  It was interesting because I’ve never met Dr Joske who it seems is the doctor at the practice responsible for my on-going health program.  I might have had three or four appointments at the practice since we moved to Longford and each time I’ve seen a different doctor.  Even though she would not recognise me in the street, Dr Joske still has some way of knowing when I need to be bled.  I think there’s probably an alarm on her computer which alerts her to when her next patient needs his regular check-up.

 

The pathology nurse is available at the practice from 8 o’clock each morning.  I needed to fast so I postponed my breakfast, filled my wee bottle and was on the step when the doors opened.  The nurse hadn’t turned up so I waited patiently.  By 8.15, there were 10 people in the queue.  Eventually, the practice nurse was delegated to start dealing with the crowd , otherwise there would be no room for people waiting to see a doctor.  The delinquent nurse wandered in at 8.50.  I never heard what her excuse was, and it may have been a good one, but I was pleased that she wasn’t carrying a cup of coffee.  It would have been adding insult to injury if she had stopped to buy a coffee while we were all waiting for her, having missed our breakfasts.

 

The long wait gave me a chance to observe the other people in the surgery.  They were a typical cross-section of people you might meet in a country town. Most were over 60 years of age, as you would expect.  They ranged from the well-dressed to the shabby, from the well-fed to the scrawny, from the cheerful to the miserable.  It was the voices which gave them away as country people.  Nowhere did I hear the soft accents of the townie.  Instead, there were the flattened vowels and tortured accents of the person for whom school was just an interruption to their real lives.  The receptionist behind the counter was one of the worst: she had a voice that would have shattered glass. 

 

I’m afraid I’m becoming a snob in my old age.  I don’t mean to denigrate these salt-of-the-earth men and women who’ve, no doubt, made a great contribution to society but I wish they would take a little more care with their speech.  Surely, it’s not that hard.  Are they frightened their friends might regard them as pretentious?

 

If you missed Back Roads on ABC this week, you missed hearing some of those voices.  It’s worth watching the show just to meet Rob Wilson, a breeder of rare chickens, who has the most extraordinary personal story.  It’s on iView.

Monday, February 21

 

Something went wrong and I repeated a comment I had used previously.  I've deleted that and here is what I should have said.

 

I thought I would re-read Centennial which made such an impression on me when I first read it.  It was published in 1974 and I remember reading it one week when I was working at Chakola.  We moved to Hobart in January, 1975 so that pins it down fairly accurately.

 

It’s a huge book outlining the history of the settlement of Colorado, covering the life and demise of the Native Americans, the trappers for beaver and the searchers for gold, the settlers who arrived in their covered wagons, and the cattle barons who exploited the land.

 

I think I was impressed on my first read with the breadth of the story and the authoritative way in which it was written.  Details have stuck with me: the discovery of dinosaurs in the area, and a comment that Lapsang Souchong is the tea that whisky-drinkers prefer.

 

I had forgotten, though, the callous way in which the Native Americans were treated: deliberately poisoned and infected with smallpox to hasten their dying-out.  I had pushed to the back of my mind the reverential way in which the settlers thought of their guns, and that feeling still permeates US society today.  The accepted brutality and the cheapness of life were also features of that era.

 

James Michener was highly thought of for his historical novels and he was known for the meticulousness of his research.  You can’t read this book without its leaving a nasty taste in your mouth.  I like a book where the baddies get their just desserts; it’s often the other way round in this book.  I’m glad I re-read it anyway.

 

Sunday, February 20

 

When Marilyn and I were doing the census, we were amazed at how many empty houses we came across, especially in Marilyn’s rural area.  These were usually smaller houses on farm properties, seemingly built for farm workers in the days when most properties had a team of workers on hand.  However, there were at least half a dozen much larger houses which might have once been used by the estate owner’s family and several modern constructions in very good liveable condition.  One two-story mansion we visited twice before we accepted that nobody lived there.

 

We commented, then, what a shame it was that there were all these attractive dwellings lying idle and, just up the road in Launceston, there were hundreds of homeless people living in shop doorways and sleeping under bridges.  Of course, these empty houses we found were miles from the nearest shop and, probably, the nearest available work, which might be an issue.

 

Finding a house to rent in Hobart or Launceston is a dire business. The vacancy rate in Hobart is 0.9% and in Launceston it’s 0.8%.  What chance do potential renters have when there are twenty candidates for every available dwelling?  Taswater, the local water provider, has conducted a very clever survey.  They, of course, measure the water consumption of all the properties they service but they decided to identify the houses which used 10% or less of the average water consumption of a house over a 3-year period, and assumed that these were empty.  They came up with 2000 properties in Hobart and 256 in Launceston.

 

Wouldn’t it be nice if a way could be found for these houses to be brought back into circulation.

 

Saturday, February 19

 

We had a little interruption to our power yesterday: only for a few minutes but long enough to knock out the settings on the TV.  However, it didn’t take long to re-establish them and we can now get Prime and Youtube and all the others again.  Because our neighbours had lost power too, I put it down to builders who are working in the area.  Longford is a hot spot for building at the moment and you can’t drive down any street without seeing a builder’s sign or two.

 

There are two sites close to us. One is separated from us by just one back yard so we can hear their machinery and radios when they’re working.  They’re the ones I blame for interrupting the power supply. On my constitutional yesterday, I wandered in that direction to see what was happening.  It’s only a tiny sliver of land, bounded by an established house on one side and the flood levee bank on the other.  Longford was always flood-prone in the early days of settlement so banks were built to keep the excess water under control.  There’s a track over the levee to a farm on the other side with two large sandstone gate posts.  The imposing gate, which would have hung there once, is long gone.

 

The river which would have caused so much trouble a century ago is just a gentle creek now but I haven’t seen it after a rainstorm; it might be quite different.

 

There are six units in the subdivision, much like ours but with a bit less land around them.  They looked to be almost finished and I suspect the power has now been connected to at least some of them.  They’ll need a few weeks for basic landscaping and tidying up and then they’ll hit the market.  If you can believe the scuttlebutt about housing in Tasmania, they’ll be snapped up.  And, I’ll be very interested in seeing the asking price.

 

 Don't forget to watch Back Roads on ABC at 8 o'clock on Monday.  They're doing a story on Longford.

Friday, February 18

 

One of the jobs I had to do at the Probus meeting on Tuesday was to talk to one of our members who is being given a Life Membership at our AGM next month.  We like to say a few pertinent words at that sort of occasion so it pays to have a chat beforehand.  The member’s name is Alison Christie and some bright spark thought that, because we share a surname, I was the right man for the job.  Of course, I don’t know Alison any better than I know anyone else in the club.

 

I did discover that she was born in Scotland and was brought up in East Lothian.  I had to confess I had no knowledge of that area and had to look at a map.  There are no major cities there but I did recognise some of the towns: Peebles, Musselburgh, Coldstream, for example.  She told me she came to Australia in 1962 to visit her uncle who was working here, on the construction of the Clark Dam.  She must have liked it as she stayed, working for a local solicitor for twenty years.

 

She married her husband, George, in 1992.  He was a farmer and would have been quite a bit older than she was, and he has since passed away.  It was George’s daughter, Deirdre who was instrumental in starting Giant Steps School.  She and her husband, Kim, had a son with autism and, with the financial support of their church, scoured the world looking for the best program to help him.  They discovered Giant Steps in Canada.

 

All the local Christies are tall so, when I arrived in Deloraine to take over Giant Steps, it was assumed I was another member of the family.  People didn’t believe me when I said the name was just a coincidence. 

 

Alison has been a long-term member of the Club, taking her turn as President and several years as Secretary.  It will be a pleasure to present her with her award, which is quite a handsome medal.

Thursday, February 17

 

My brief love affair with audiobooks has come to an end.  It wasn’t a sudden thing; it was more like a gentle and mutual realisation that we were not compatible.  I don’t know what I expected from this relationship but, whatever it was, it was not what I got.

 

Like many relationships, it began with optimism: this is good, this will fulfil me, why didn’t I know about this sooner?  But the ending is slower, a petering-out until there is nothing left but the sweet memories of what might have been.

 

If I am honest, my lasting memory is of frustration: the frustration of listening to the beginning of innumerable books until I found a reader who satisfied me, then the slow awakening to the fact that listening to a book is not at all like reading it. Perhaps I felt like a voyeur, intruding on someone else’s pleasure.  Reading is an intensely personal experience and I didn’t feel comfortable listening-in. Maybe I felt like a guilty lover, who had committed himself to one love for his whole life and now finds himself tempted by a bright, new pretty face.  But the new love is strangely unsatisfying.

 

Enjoying my old love, reading words on a page, is like wearing a pair of comfortable slippers.  This is how it’s been for almost 75 years and it just feels right.

Wednesday, February 16

 

It was our regular Probus meeting yesterday and neither of us was very keen to go.  I had a couple of things to do there so felt obliged to turn up but Marilyn made her excuses and had the morning off.  When we first joined Probus, we enjoyed it and it’s fair to say we were part of the group which saved the Deloraine club from closing.  Now, though, we don’t look forward to the 50Km trip to Deloraine and the same old faces and same old whinges.

 

A small handful of members arrive early to set up the room.  I look after the PA, others put out the tables and chairs, one couple arranges the mugs and urn for morning tea.  At about 1 minute to 10, everyone else arrives, sit down and wait to be entertained.  At the end of the meeting, they shoot off to other important engagements while the same old team clears everything away.  It’s the way clubs like this operate.

 

At this meeting there was a letter from Probus HQ, saying they were looking for a person from Tasmania to take a senior role in the organisation, someone who could visit clubs, help out with training and generally represent the state at a national level.  One year, I remember, the woman who is retiring from the job, was not able to attend the national meeting in Parramatta and asked me if I would go in her place.  As it happened, Marilyn and I were going to the Gold Coast for a holiday that same weekend so I was happy to stop off in Sydney on the way.  It was, in fact, a very interesting experience, meeting other Probus members from all over Australia.

 

If the opportunity to take on this job full-time had come up three or four years ago, I would have been keen to take it on, but it’s too late now. One of our members offered to nominate me for the job but I declined; I’m enjoying my little rut and don’t want the hassle that this job would bring.  I can’t be bothered with the selfishness of some people and older people often become more stupid and more self-centred as they age. I’m glad Marilyn and I haven’t fallen into that trap.

Tuesday, February 15

 

Everywhere you look around Northern Tasmania at this time of the year, there are farmers of one kind or another bringing in their harvest.  Multiple hectares of grass was sown in the spring and most of it has now been cut and formed into huge round bales, most of it destined to be cattle feed through the winter months.  One farmer on Illawarra Road plants a different kind of grass and it is harvested later.  His bales are square and litter his paddocks; a new sign has appeared at his gate ‘Pea Straw’ with a telephone number.

 

On our last trip to the north-west we passed through the area where the prime vegetables are grown. McCain’s have a factory here for processing the peas and beans and cauliflowers into plastic bags for the freezer.  It’s great potato country and every other imaginable vegetable grows there too. Successful farmers only plant their crop when they have a contracted buyer.  One season they might plant carrots, the next might be onions.  Last season we had a crop of broccoli on Illawarra Road and the same paddock has another crop in it this year.  We’re not sure, yet, what it is but it’s dark green and low to the ground: cabbages, perhaps or broccoli again.  When we drove past yestarday a heap of large orange boxes had been delivered and the white bus which transports the pickers was parked at the side of the paddock.  Work might start there today.

 

In the paddock next to that is a planting of poppies.  Soon we’ll see the machines arrive which lop the tops off and transfers them to trucks for transport to the mill in Westbury.  The variety grown here produces codeine bound for markets all over the world.

 

Every now and then, as you drive around, there will be a small paddock of wheat.  We don’t have the climate to grow vast acres like they do in South Australia but we can cultivate an ancient species of wheat called Spelt.  Apparently, small quantities are still added to the flour we buy from the supermarkets, and there is still a working flour mill in Oatlands powered by wind.  Closer to Deloraine there are more exotic crops like hazelnuts and truffles and not far away, they grow wasabi in beds of gravel.

 

The berry season started in January.  This is highly labour-intensive with teams of pickers travelling here from all over the world.  Some pickers might go home after the berries finish or they might stay on for the vegetables or other fruit.  Most of the cherries grown here are in high demand in China and Japan but they have finished now.  Apples come on in March and, even though we don’t export the quantities we once did, Tasmanian apples are still in demand locally.  Much of the crop now goes into cider, alcoholic and otherwise.  Grapes, too, need to be picked.  Most of our grapes end up as wine and this region has developed a very good reputation for its cool climate varieties.  In recent years Brown Brothers moved a lot of its operation to the Tamar Valley.

 

It's good to be reminded that we live in an area where generations of farmers have been generating income for their families on their little plots of land.  Large multi-nationals now have a toehold in the market but the family-owned farm is still the backbone of the industry in this area. Long may it continue.

Monday, February 14

 

Having finished watching Back to the Rafters on Prime, we figuratively stuck a pin in the list of other Amazon programs and found ourselves watching a series called 1883.  It’s a story about a group of settlers who form a wagon train and travel north-west from Texas to set up home in Oregon.  It’s a current program with 7 episodes available and 3 still to come.

 

I struggled with the first 30 minutes; I couldn’t cope with the accents and had no idea what was going on.  Many of the characters refused to open their mouths so their words were swallowed; the guide of the expedition had a bushy white moustache so it was impossible to see his lips move, even if they did.  Others in the group had accents so outlandish, they might as well have been talking German.  After a while, I realised that one group of prospective settlers was, in fact, German and their accent was not just an affectation.  Marilyn, though, seemed to be enthralled so I didn’t complain.  Gradually, I’m pleased to say, my ears adjusted to the words and I began to make sense of what was going on.

 

The story reminded me of a favourite book from the 1970s.  James Michener wrote vast historical novels, like Hawaii, Texas and Alaska but I particularly enjoyed Centennial about Colorado which included stories of settlers travelling west in covered wagons.  The journey must have been horrendous and included dealing with bandits, cattle rustlers and other predatory creatures.  Various travellers were buried along the way and the party became smaller as the months went on.  I’ve no doubt the program does not exaggerate the description of the privations suffered.

 

It's well worth a look.

Sunday, February 13

 

With the warm weather we’ve been having, we’re having trouble keeping up with the TV shows we like to watch.  The problem is that one or other, or both, of us drop off to sleep in the middle of the program we’re trying to watch.  Marilyn is worse than I am.  If I see her eyes closing, I’ll ask whether she’s still awake but she won’t admit that she’s nodded off.  After a while, I give up and let the program run to the end.  The next day, she’ll say that she missed the ending and we’ll have to watch it again.  That’s OK but, if I’ve seen that bit twice already, and she says she’s still not sure what’s happening, I put my foot down.

 

We don’t watch much free to air TV and usually dip into Acorn, or Netflix or Amazon Prime for what they offer.  That way, if we miss something, we can always come back and see it again.  And, of course, we can watch it when it suits us.  Currently, we’ve taken to turning on the TV in the middle of the afternoon which gives us the best chance of staying awake long enough to understand what’s going on.  Marilyn still watches with her eyes closed but, somehow, manages to get the gist of the program.

 

It's probably not much different to how I watch.  I’m uncomfortable just watching the screen and like to have a puzzle book on the go at the same time. My brain accepts that there are two things happening simultaneously and copes reasonably well. I’ve tried reading a book at the same time as watching a show, but I can’t dissociate one set of inputs from the other and become very confused.

 

Of course, nobody had this problem before the invention of TV so I blame John Logie Baird.  He has a lot to answer for.

 

It’s overcast today and a bit cooler.  Marilyn decided to check out the local Anglican church so has gone to the 9 o’clock service.  I’ve just been to collect Archie, as Jamie and Nera will be involved in their church all day.  It’s just as well for Archie’s sake that there’s one heathen in the family.

Saturday, February 12

 

We harnessed a little energy yesterday and set about putting together our hanging gardens for the side of the house.  We had spent an hour at Bunnings on Thursday and bought a selection of brightly-coloured plants, even though Nera had advised us that Bunnings’ plants are not the best option.  The most important factor is that Archie loves a trip to Bunnings. He rides in a trolley, talking to the shop assistants and growling at other dogs. If a kid comes by, he is delighted, wagging his tail and looking for attention.

 

I’m always up for a trip to Bunnings and plants are disposable anyway.  We filled the boot of the car with what we thought might be enough to get started and took them home.

 

On Friday morning, I started putting together the rest of the shelves we had bought while Marilyn re-planted the flowers into some planter boxes.  It didn’t take long and we’re delighted with the result

 

 

We have three sets of windows in the lounge-/dining room and I’ve bought four sets of shelves.  I will probably need to order a couple more but it’s a good start.  The shelves draw the eyes away from the fence and that’s what we’e trying to achieve.  I imagine they’ll eventually look like the Hanging Gardens of Babylon as we buy more and more plants to cover them.  Apparently, there’s a market in town here today so, no doubt, I’ll be dragged along to check it out.

CHAIRLIFT

 

I had thought that my report on our interesting lunch yesterday was the end of the matter.  The big problem for me was the access but Marilyn has been tossing it around in her mind and has come up with a solution for when we go next time, whenever that might be.

 

We had been aware, while we were eating, that there was a chairlift crossing the roof of the restaurant just outside our window.  We laughed about the shoes we could see dangling from the seats and were giving each couple points for how trendy they were or how daggy they looked.

 

The chairlift, we know, runs from the other side of the Gorge and claims to be the longest single-span chairlift in the world.  Who knows whether that is true, but the fact that it arrives at a platform just a few meters from the back door of the restaurant is interesting.  At the other end of the span is the main carpark for Gorge visitors.  We can park there easily, walk the short distance to the chairlift station and travel in style to the restaurant on the other side.  Having wined and dined, we can travel back to our car.

 

It's a clever idea and, with Marilyn’s birthday in less than three weeks, I would not be surprised if we try it out.

Friday, February 11

It turned out to be a pretty good birthday lunch.  The restaurant we had booked was not easy to get to.    We couldn’t drive up to the door and had to park several hundred metres away and much higher up the hill.  There was a rough track connecting the car park with the restaurant and there were about 70 steps.  The restaurant has pretensions to be a bit special: white tablecloths, posh food and prices to match.  The same complex has a café  attached where you can get pies and coffee and most of the customers were athletic types who had hiked from distant carparks.

 

The waitress who looked after us was out of her depth.  She was on her own but, luckily, there were only three of four tables occupied: most of the customers had opted for the outside tables where they could be entertained by passing peacocks.  The menu prices were a bit rich: $39.90 for a main meal, when the going price in Launceston is more like $25.00.  Of course, having a white tablecloth adds to the prices.  There were a couple of lunch specials which attracted me, including Seafood Chowder with a cob for about $25 and I thought I might have that.  There was also Chowder as an entrée for $15 but I assumed the Luncheon Special would be a bigger serve.

 

When it came, it looked fine; not a big serve but it was only lunch, after all.  The cob didn’t arrive and I eventually had to remind the waitress.  I think, in fact, I had been given the entrée serve and would be charged extra for the bread.   The bill was paid and Jamie walked up the hill to get his car.  We had discovered that Marilyn and I could be spared the hill-climb; Jamie could drive down a narrow service road to a turning circle where his elderly parents would be waiting. 

We waited in the shade of a Giant Sequoia tree which had been planted in 1892 and, while we were standing there, Marilyn glanced at the bill she was still holding. “It’s the wrong bill,” she said.  “We didn’t have a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc.”  Off she went to sort it out.

 

The waitress, it seemed, had mixed up the bills and we had been overcharged $114.  Quite an eventful birthday, as it turned out.

 

 

 

Thursday, February 10

 

It’s my birthday and I’m not sure what I think about it.  I saw a kid in the supermarket the other day wearing a colourful badge saying “I’m 4” and I could feel his excitement.  I certainly don’t have that excitement about turning 79 and I don’t think even a colourful badge could change my mind.  I suppose I just have to get on with it.

 

Even though it was another hot day, we still managed to get some chores done yesterday.  Jamie came over and mowed the lawn, such as it is, but he also swept and raked up the grass.  He had a go at building the first of our pot plant shelves as well and it seems they will do the job very well.

 

I was having some trouble with my desktop computer; it’s getting slower and slower and I’m getting fed up with it.  Jamie had a look at it but he eventually declared that ‘It’s stuffed.’  He’s lost patience with the computer, and with me, because it’s clearly time to retire it.  But, I can’t help thinking that it’s the wrong time to be making a long-term decision.  Nera has lent me her Macbook and I’ll persevere with that for the time being.

 

We’ll go out for lunch today. My favourite restaurant is at the Launceston Gorge so I looked up the number yesterday to make a booking. The fellow on the ‘phone asked Marilyn if we would like to sit outside which confused her a bit; there’s no outside area that we know of.  The penny dropped.  We had rung the Gorge Restaurant when we should have rung the Basin Café.  They’re on different sides of the Gorge.

 

It would have been easy to change but we decided to leave it as it was.  It seems like a metaphor for life.  It could be argued that life is a series of missteps and mistakes.  The best way to deal with it is to make the best of the hand you are dealt and look for the positives in what you have to face.

 

Even at 79, life continues to surprise me.

Wednesday, February 9

 

You can’t travel far in northern Tasmania without coming across evidence of the influential Archer family.  Two brothers named Archer arrived here around 1820 and set up in Longford in two properties: Brickendon and Woolmers.  These are now World Heritage sites and are well worth a visit.

 

A younger member of the family came later and practised as an architect, building many of the great homes in the area.  One of these is Cheshunt at Meander, now owned by good friends of ours.  The house is National Trust and featured on a stamp a few years ago.

 

If Tasmania has an aristocracy, the Archers are part of that.  There has always been money available so the various generations have attended the best schools and have always seen themselves as leaders of the community.  Tasmanian parliaments often have an Archer among their number.

 

Bridget Archer, who is causing such discomfort to Mr Morrison at the moment, by questioning the so-called Religious Discrimnation Bill, is upholding that expectation of serving the community.  Although she is not an Archer by birth, and married into the family. she is upholding the family’s long tradition with distinction.

Tuesday, February 8

 

I hadn’t made the connection when I commented last week about Mr Morrison being under pressure that a real-life, and what seems like a much more serious, political assassination is taking place in Britain. Of course, I have been reading the articles and the very vitriolic attacks even by Boris’s own side but it’s playing out like a TV drama and I haven’t grasped the reality of it yet.

 

Of course, it is a farce.  When I see the pictures of the overcrowded House of Commons with people standing about waving their hands and shouting, and the Speaker in his dignified robes intoning the age-old words, I can’t take it seriously.  And Boris, with what the UK journalists call his ‘toddler haircut’, drawing on all the dignity he can muster is having no success in convincing people that he is the man for the job.

 

Like our Prime Minister, Bojo (or is it Bozo?) was asked the age-old question whether he knew the price of a loaf of bread and he came back with the tone-deaf retort, “No, but I can tell you the price of a bottle of champagne.”  You have to get your priorities right.

 

With all that, the Mother of Parliaments is in a sorry state, and Australia’s is not much better.

Monday, February 7

 

I like to think that I’m a discriminating reader.  On average, I read a novel every three or four days so I’m a voracious seeker of stuff to read.  I like novels about crime but, when I can, I focus on the more respected authors like Val McDermid, Elizabeth George and James Oswald. Most American authors leave me cold.  Perhaps it’s an inbuilt prejudice against the upstart US, but their heroes tend to depend too much on guns and excessive force to solve their problems.  Revenge is a recurring theme.

 

However, I must confess to a guilty secret.  I’m a covert fan of Jack Reacher.  He’s all I despise in a hero.  Ex-army, hobo, muscle-bound, vigilante, ruthless, etc, but I am delighted whenever a new issue appears.  I excuse myself, in part, because Reacher’s mother was French and the author, Lee Child is a Brit. 

 

I was delighted some years ago, when flying to some exotic location, to find a Jack Reacher movie on the in-flight entertainment.  However, the star was Tom Cruise.  Reacher is described as 6ft 5in tall (196cm) and somewhere between 95 and 113 Kg. In technical terms he’s a big bloke.  Tom Cruise is 170cm tall and weights 77kg.  There seems to be a mismatch.  It seems Mr Cruise bought the movie rights for the books and cast himself as the hero.  I haven’t bothered looking for the second movie in the series.

 

Imagine my delight when I discovered Amazon have recently commissioned a TV series based on the books.  The first series is The Killing Floor and the star is a big bloke.  We watched a couple of episodes the other night and it is as true to the books as I could wish.  There’s the gratuitous violence, the sentimental approach to women, the vigilante justice, and the happy ending.  Ah, bliss!