Friday, April 1

We had the sad news yesterday that a friend from Canberra had passed away.  We first met her on our trip to Nepal in 2010 and have kept up the friendship with her and the other participants ever since.

The death of a contemporary is always a terrible loss and we will have to accept the reality that it might become more frequent as the years roll on.

My School for Senior classes were held again this morning.  Nancy the Poetry tutor always manages to find interesting poems for us to discuss and I really enjoy the stories produced by the Writing Group.  Although most of the writers produce their work on computers and print them out, I suspect there might be one person who still uses a typewriter, and there are at least two whose work is always hand-written.  One woman has a large notebook containing her hand-written work but the other just uses recycled paper; circular letters, pamphlets, even old electricity bills.  They look a bit scrappy but are often interesting

I like to treat my stories with respect so I set them out properly, with left- and right-hand justification, bold-printed heading and a date.  Perhaps I'm giving them more importance than they're worth.

Thursday, March 31

 Illawarra Road connects Longford with the Bass Highway which runs from Launceston to the North-West Coast and is the quickest way for us to travel to Hadspen where Jamie and Nera live.  It's also the shortcut for traffic travelling from the ferry terminal at Devonport to join up with the Midlands Highway heading for Hobart.  It's busy at all times of the day but, especially early morning after the ferry has arrived and early-afternoons as trucks and caravans hurry to get in line for the trip to Melbourne.

It's only a B-road and all the heavy vehicles knock it about so there is always a gang doing some running repairs and we get used to seeing the signs telling us to slow down for workers.  However, it seems that someone is taking seriously the need to upgrade the road.  A sign has appeared informing us that roadworks will take place between March 2022 and March 2023.  That's twelve or thirteen months so they could make a real difference in that time.

We've been watching the calendar ticking over with no sign of work starting, and we assumed the worst until Monday, when a demountable building was dumped in a nearby paddock and yesterday afternoon when a man with a chain-saw starting cutting down trees between the building and the road.  Serious intent at last.

Wednesday, March 30

There's not much happening today. Leah comes mid-morning to tidy up the house so Marilyn and I will have to get out of the way for an hour or two.  Looking around, it doesn't seem that we need a cleaner; we keep things under control and modern houses don't need the on-going attention that the older places did.

The only really untidy part of our place is my desk and Leah is warned it is not to be touched.  She must grit her teeth every time she sees it.  She always makes it clear that she has been: there are vacuum cleaner marks on the carpet, a smell of air freshener and, the dead giveaway - she folds the ends of the toilet rolls into little v-shapes. 

Marilyn and I will probably head into town for a coffee, I have a book to return to the library and we'll then end up at the gym for a half-hearted workout.

Tuesday, March 29

 It seems the election campaign is in full swing and it saddens me that it all comes down to who can offer the most enticing bribes.  I wish the electorate was sophisticated enough to ignore the naked bribes and vote for the party that could better run the country for the benefit of everyone.  I heard on the news a 'whisper' that the government is going to offer cash handouts to pensioners and other people supposedly 'doing it tough'.  It may be as much as $250 for someone on the aged pension.  Is that what my vote is worth and does my government think that I am so venal that I'll ignore all the rorts and waste and shady behaviour for just $250?

I'll happily forego the $250 if whatever party wins the election will follow through with the promise to set up a Federal ICAC, with proper powers to deal with all the shenanigans the honourable members get up to. 

Monday, March 28

 We've been watching a series on Netflix called Bridgerton.  On the face of it, it looked a but like Downton Abbey, with grand houses and conspicuous consumption and hordes of underpaid servants.  However, it's something else again.

 It's  set in the early 1800s in England.  George III is on the throne but he suffers from mental illness so his wife, Queen Charlotte covers for him.  The Bridgerton family is well-to-do and is trying to find suitable husbands for the daughters of the house.  The gist of the series is experiencing the convolutions of this process.

A somewhat jarring note is that the casting has been done on the 'colour-blind' principle in that the colour of an actor's skin is not a factor in whether he/she gets a part or not.  So there are Indian and African faces, and even Asian, among the English nobility.  After a while it doesn't matter and I'm definitely in favour of the practice.  After all, it's entertainment not history.

What I'm not in favour of is dropping American English usage into supposed English conversation.  It grates on my ear when a supposed-English duchess says, "Tell her I'll be with her momentarily."  Aaagh! Nobody in Great Britain has ever used 'momentarily' in that context.

Or, "Today is different than yesterday."  No, 'today is different from yesterday.'   Can't they get it right?

On a happier note, Julie Andrews has a part - she plays what we could call a gossip columnist and we only hear her voice.  She's 86 now, but still sounds like Maria in Sound of Music.

Sunday, March 27

 I've finally opened the book The Narrow Road to the Deep North by Richard Flanagan.  I suppose I'm intimidated by books that win international prizes, expecting them to be erudite, unapproachable, full of deep meaning and worthy.  But this book is not like that.  It starts off in a little town called Cleveland in Tasmania in about 1915 or 16.  We know Cleveland and drive through it on our trips to Hobart. Dorrigo Evans is the focus of the story and we read about his life as the son of a railway fettler and how he wins a scholarship to attend Launceston High School and how his prowess with a football builds his esteem with the kids from the city.

In the 1940s, like so many others, he is sent off to war and finds himself in Singapore where he is captured by the victorious Japanese army.  Soon he is one of the prisoners-of-war involved in the building of what became known as the Death Railway.  Early in the book, the author mentions the locomotive that will make the first journey on that railway built by the POWs.  That locomotive, C5631, is now in a museum in Tokyo.

Richard Flanagan's brother, Martin has written an article condemning what he sees as a Japanese glorification of what happened on that railway in Thailand.  He suggests that, considering the appalling atrocities carried out by the advancing Japanese armies, particularly in Nanking and Thailand, they should be a little more circumspect.  Where, for example, on the display of the locomotive does it mention the POWs who died constructing the line, not to mention the Tamils, Chinese, Malayans, Thais and Burmese.  Were there 50,000, 60,000, even 200,000?  No one knows.

I'm sure he has a point but I suspect we shouldn't just accept that the victorious armies are blameless in the way we wage war.   Currently, we are witnessing a trial where all sorts of allegations are being made about a recipient of the Victoria Cross.  Whether he's guilty or not, I suspect it's just the tip of the iceberg.

Saturday, March 26

We've woken up to fog this morning but the forecast is for a sunny day and 23 degrees.  We've nothing particular planned although there's sure to be something going on in the town that we haven't heard about: a garden show or an art exhibition, perhaps.  Marilyn is keen to visit the gym; it's not open today but we have a key.  I hope this doesn't become an obsession.

Jamie and Nera are back home for a couple of days so they might bring Archie around to see us.  When they go to Hobart, they're in the habit of visiting a particular shop where they make special pastries and they often bring something back for us to enjoy.  I like to encourage the idea that the oldies need special attention.

Otherwise, I find myself thinking of that old song: Life Gets Tedious, Don't It.  Walter Brennan did a version but I think the famous one was Hank Williams.  I suppose it will be on Youtube and it might be worth a look.  At least it will fill in a few minutes.

Friday, March 25

 It was the usual Poetry and Writing Groups this morning.  I get very involved in these sessions and look forward to them enormously.  The tutor of the Poetry group is a Canadian woman who is a recognised poet. She always finds something interesting to share with us; today it was WH Auden, Raymond Carver, Carol Anne Duffy and Liesle Mueller. The poems are not always to my taste but I enjoy the discussions about them.  The session finished with a little poem by Ogden Nash:

        Consider the auk 

        Becoming extinct because he forgot how to fly,

        and could only walk.

        Consider man, who may well become extinct

        Because he forgot how to walk and learned to fly

        before he thinked.

Thursday, March 24

 

Marilyn was determined that we would start our Gym classes as soon as possible.  When starting something new, my inclination is always to take things slowly to make sure that everything has been thought of and there will be no nasty surprises.  “Putting it off!”, Marilyn calls it.  She, on the other hand prefers to strike while the iron is hot and sort out the details as we go along.  She agreed that we would take a casual membership for a couple of weeks to make sure it suited us before handing over our bank details.

 

The first class was in the basketball court and we were almost the first to turn up.  Others dribbled in (note the basketball reference!) and, eventually the numbers grew to 18.  It was all about movement; stretching and bending and moving our feet and so on.  I lack flexibility and my balance is off since having the knee operation but I was pleased that I coped and have come out of it feeling a whole lot better.  Marilyn is a bit stiff this morning but she worked harder than I did, which is our normal pattern.

 

We do it all again this morning but I’ll miss it tomorrow because of my writing class.  What a shame!

Wednesday, March 23

 

It’s just up the road from us and we drive past it every day so it was inevitable that we would wander in one day to have a look. I’m talking about the Health Revival Gym in Longford.  I’ve always been suspicious of places like this and this one is even attached to the local football field so I suspected it would be frequented by muscular, athletic types who would show me up.

 

However, the last physiotherapist I spoke to strongly recommended I did some regular exercise and Marilyn was keen to get her fitness back so we went in to see them the other day.  It’s run by the local council and has a number of staff to support people taking part.  It’s very well-equipped with various rooms including a stadium.  We met a young woman called Crystal who got us on various machines and made a rough assessment of our fitness.  She’ll draw up a fitness plan for us and keep an eye on our progress.

 

We’ve signed up for a couple of supervised classes which are held on three days a week but, depending on our enthusiasm, we can access the machines at any time

 

There’s a fee, of course, but it’s subsidised by the Council and is very reasonable.  We even get a key to the front door so we can do our workout at times to suit us.  The problem now is sticking to it. Good intentions can only go so far.

Tuesday, March 22

 

I had a whinge the other day about the rising cost of filling up the car.  $86, I complained, as just too much for someone on a fixed income.  Of course, I was brought back to earth when I happened to be with Jamie at his service station.  He has a bigger car, with a bigger engine; he uses 98 octane petrol rather than the basic stuff that I use, I’m sure he has a bigger petrol tank but, nevertheless, I was shocked when he told me he had handed over $173 for his fill-up.

 

However, no matter what is happening over in Europe to inflate the price of a basic necessity of life, we are still being ripped off, by our own Government!  Who would have thought?

 

The ABC News website has a story about the Fuel Excise, the 42c which is levied on every litre of petrol we buy.  This is touted as being a levy to improve the quality of our roads and to enhance public transport but, when the figures are analysed, just 53% over the long term goes to that purpose.  Worse, the Grattan Institute says that the funds are ‘frequently used to buy political favour’.  As an example, they cite the $4 billion Urban Congestion Fund where $83 million went to fund carparks in marginal seats, $64 million to safe Coalition seats and only $34 million to safe Labor seats. 

 

I really object to being lied to: if this money is ear-marked to pay for safer roads and better public transport, it’s not unreasonable to expect all of it to be expended for that purpose, not to fund questionable subsidies for the government’s mates or in trying to ensure that Scott Morrison can have another term as Prime Minister.  We desperately need a Federal ICAC in Australia to put some limits on these crooks.

Monday, March 21

 

Jamie and Nera have been in Wynyard this week as part of Nera’s role in the COVID immunisation program.  It’s not a big town and they found themselves staying at the local hotel.  Normally, Nera’s company finds slightly better accommodation for them but she now realises how the average Aussie has to cope.  They bumped into some of their friends who were in town with their kids for a basketball tournament and that probably explains why accommodation was limited.  Jamie says he really enjoyed watching the matches, reminding him of the time he played with the Perkunas club in Hobart.

 

They drove up from Wynyard, collected some fresh clothes at home and called in to us to pick up Archie on their way to Hobart.  Accommodation must be a problem there too; they’re booked into a cabin at the Risdon Vale Caravan Park, directly opposite the Risdon Prison where Martin Bryant and other notorious criminals spend their days.  Of course, that means they can have Archie with them and that’s a plus.

 

It suits us to be a backup for them when they’re so busy.  The fish still have to be fed, Archie looked after and Marilyn is also helping with washing and ironing. 

Sunday, March 20

 

One of the overlooked stories of the Sydney Harbour Bridge is regarding the granite supports at each end: they don’t get a mention when birthdays come around, and they don’t get cleaned during the regular maintenance program.  It’s a shame because the history of how the supports came about is interesting.

 

In fact, the granite structures are purely decorative, they support nothing.  It’s the steel that does the heavy lifting.  However, John Bradfield, who built the bridge wanted the bridge to reflect strength and reliability so designed the granite ends to be massive.  He needed skilled stone masons used to working with granite and found them in Aberdeen which is known as the ‘Granite City’.  Many families were brought to Australia from Aberdeen and settled in a custom-built village near Moruya in Southern NSW, where the granite was to be quarried.  As well, a handful of Italian masons were employed.

 

When the bridge was finished, most of the families returned to their homeland although several would have stayed.  The Guardian published a great school photo from the time – not a smile!  It wouldn’t surprise me if there were members of my family there.  Unfortunately, I haven't yet worked out how to paste the photo here.  I'll take advice and try later.

In the meantime, try this link: https://images.app.goo.gl/6ECg4AhFjtfTzQFK7

 Highlight it and right-click.  The studious fellow with the tie, in the middle of the second-back row looks familiar.

 

Saturday, March 19

 

It had almost passed me by but, apparently, Thursday was St Patrick’s Day.  It might have continued to be unnoticed if Peter, the tutor at our Writing Group hadn’t decided to make a fuss about it.  He turned up to the group on Friday with an Irish flag and his guitar.  He re-named us all with our equivalent Irish name (I’m Sean, of course) and proceeded to sing a couple of Irish songs to get us in the mood.  It certainly helped in encouraging good writing and I think we produced better stories than we have for a long time.  It’s easy to fall into a pattern of writing and we all need a kick in the pants from time to time to lift our game.

 

I had written a story on the topic, The Town I Loved So Well.  I could have written about a real town, I suppose, but I chose to describe a fictional country town I called Claymore.  I described the main street and some of the shops, talked about the primary school which I attended and made some comments about what it felt like to move back to the city.  I managed to fool everyone who thought I was talking about a real experience.

 

I’ve just finished reading Born or Bred, about Martin Bryant who killed 35 people in a shooting spree at Port Arthur in 1996.  It’s a chilling story and answers a lot of questions about how this tragedy came about. Martin Bryant had great difficulty in making and keeping friends but he desperately wanted social interaction.  His father was a stabilising influence on Martin but, unfortunately, committed suicide when Martin was in his middle-twenties.  Without his father’s steadying hand, Martin’s behaviour became more out of control.

 

 He had inherited a fortune from a woman he befriended and used the money, for example, to take long-distance flights where he would be in the company of some poor soul for 20 or more hours and could force a conversation.  He might only stay a day or two at his destination and then take another long flight where he would enjoy the company of another passenger. He was also able to afford to buy firearms and so on, without proper checks being carried out.

 

The psychiatrist who studied Martin Bryant commented , “(Martin) is rather dim, rather silly, rather resentful and feels he was mistreated, and despairs on life.  You combine that with a fascination for guns, and you’ve got a tragedy.

 

Take the (father’s) suicide out and it wouldn’t have happened.  Without the money, it wouldn’t have happened.  Take the guns out, and it wouldn’t have happened.  Provide a little more effective care, and it probably wouldn’t have happened.”

I don’t know whether our society is better now at identifying people who might pose problems in the future, and dealing with them more effectively, but I certainly hope so.

Friday, March 18

 The news this morning is full of the usual doom and gloom.  If it's not the increasing numbers of people coming down with Covid or the incessant bombing of civilians in Ukraine, it's self-serving politicians making promises they have no intention of keeping.

Nera, of course, is on the front line of our response to the Covid pandemic and she's exhausted.  Making sure that people receive the best care possible in this situation is a huge task but our medical and nursing staff are doing a remarkable job. Workers in aged care, among the lowest paid in our society are dealing with the most vulnerable of our citizens, with very little acknowledgement.   And these people are going above and beyond, because it needs to be done.

Over in Ukraine, we have an extraordinary situation where indiscriminate bombing of children, for goodness sake, gets worse every day, and the Ukrainian people, untrained, are standing against a modern army, with little but their bare hands or a bottle filled with petrol.  What's the civilian death toll up to?  I can't remember.

But the morning show on TV has reminded us of what is really important.  A string of letter has been running across the bottom of the screen:  PAPENHUYZEN HERO AGAINST RABBITOHS.  Do you think anyone in the Newsroom wondered about the irony of tagging a footballer a hero when there are real heroes out there?  Yes, it's good to be an Aussie.

Thursday, March 17

 

After the Probus meeting on Tuesday, Marilyn and I took a friend to lunch. Lois is a widow whose husband died about 14 months ago.  They were both doctors who had made lots of money working in Public Health, securing contracts with various governments around the world, and had retired to Golden Valley in the hills near Deloraine.  They joined the Rotary Club but Peter was a prickly person and alienated many of the members.  Lois was full of energy, wanting to get things done and found the local club too ponderous for her.  She eventually resigned and joined an on-line club based in Melbourne.

 

Now that Peter has gone, Lois has thrown herself wholeheartedly into philanthropy.  When a workman said that she must have a lot of money to do what’s she’s doing, she told him that she was spending her husband’s inheritance.  She has a particular interest in Nepal and runs various programs there but her latest venture is setting up accommodation for people, mainly students from Asia, who have come to Tasmania and are having trouble finding a place to live.

 

She has bought some houses in Deloraine and is renovating them, putting up the collateral for loans, navigating the local regulations and soothing the resistance of the petty bureaucracy you find in country councils.  She has a million stories to tell about how she struggles to get things done and we had a very lively lunch at the Raspberry Farm.

 

Lois is a woman in a hurry.  She has significant health problems of her own but is not content to sit back and let the world go by.  While politicians strut the stage, people like Lois work, unrecognised, behind the scenes.  Will she receive the accolades she deserves for her work?  Unlikely, but civilisation only progresses through the work of people like her. 

Wednesday, March 16

One of the fellows at yesterday's Probus meeting asked whether Marilyn and I had gone to the Truck Run on Sunday and seemed surprised when I said we had avoided it.  He had driven in from Deloraine to attend and told me that 4000 people had paid their money to go through the gates of the Showground to gawk at the big trucks.  Each to his own, I suppose.  It's good that the Flying Doctor will benefit.

This fellow is a retired farmer and is reputed to have one of the best collections of vintage tractors in the Southern Hemisphere.  He keeps them all in sheds on his farm at Elizabeth Town and only brings them out for special events.  He'll travel anywhere in Australia to buy a special tractor and then has great fun in planning how he will get it home.  I know he has often driven a tractor for hundreds of kilometres rather than put it on the back of a truck.  It seems there are just as many tractor nuts as there are people who like vintage cars and they get together and discuss the intricacies of their hobby whenever they get the chance.  I asked him once whether he might invite the Probus members to view his special collection and he was a bit reluctant to agree.  Apparently, he has to bring them out of their sheds into the daylight for people to really appreciate their beauty and it's a bit of a process.  However, he has agreed to make an effort and we can have a look at some of the more special ones at some stage.  I can't wait!

The weather's changing at bit and we've had to move the air-conditioner at home to heat mode.  Our cleaning lady is coming this morning and we'll have to clear out for a couple of hours. Morning tea at the local cafe seems to be on the cards.

Tuesday, March 15

 

It was Probus AGM this morning and we had to leave the house by 9am.  I’m always up by 7 but it’s still a rush.  We had a good roll-up and the business was completed without fuss.  Marilyn is once again Vice-President and that comes with the expectation that she will be President next year.  Of course, a lot of water will flow under the bridge in that time and no-one can predict what will happen.

 

We’ve been watching a show on Prime TV called Jo.  It seems it was shown the first time around on the Fox Crime network on mainland Europe which is surprising because most of the cast is British and the language used in it is English. It’s about a veteran detective in Paris, played by a Frenchman speaking English.  There’s a revolving, supporting cast of familiar and mostly British faces with the occasional yank.  We had a treat last night in the episode we were watching when Leslie Caron appeared in a small part.

 

I remember her when I was a spotty youth seeing her in Gigi, released in 1958.  That’s when  I first heard the term ‘gamine’ to describe a slim, mischievous young woman.  I think a lot of young women in those days tried hard to achieve that look.  Then we got the blonde surfer chick (Gidget), the busty Jayne Mansfield , vampy Shirley MacLaine and I’m not sure what came next.  By the way, Leslie Caron is 90 years old this year and still exudes a feeling of glamour.

Monday, March 14

 

I’ve struggled over the past few weeks to find something to read.  I tried a new murder mystery series without success and went back to an old favourite to re-read but, for some reason, I couldn’t settle into it.  I’ve borrowed Born or Bred from the library; it’s the story of Martin Bryant who was responsible for the Port Arthur Massacre in 1996 but I don’t think I’m in the mood for something harrowing.

 

In desperation, I turned to the Outlander series.  I tend to avoid anything described as a phenomenon because I’ve found they’re often written to appeal to the prurient interests of middle-aged female readers who have some disposable income for buying future books.

 

Marilyn and I had started to watch the TV series years ago but lost interest after a while: maybe too many gratuitous sex scenes or, perhaps, I couldn’t tolerate the tortured Scottish accents a minute longer.  In any case, we dropped it and haven’t thought about it since … until this week, when I turned to the first book to see whether it might hold my attention.  I’m really enjoying it.  I had to force myself to put it down and turn off the light in bed last night and was looking forward to reading some more with my coffee this morning.  Maybe, I’ve turned the corner.

 

The author, Diana Gabaldon, was born in Arizona and was inspired by a character in Dr Who to set her books in 18^th century Scotland.  She expects the series to run to 10 books and I think she has just published number 9. I don’t know that I’ll last that long but I’ll be happy if I can remain engrossed until the end of Volume 1.

Sunday, March 13

 

Yesterday evening, Marilyn had a couple of things to get at the local supermarket so we strapped Archie into the car; he gets very excited if he knows he’s going for a trip and loves to sit on the parcel shelf at the back so he can see what’s going on.  On the way home, we popped into the bottle shop to replenish Marilyn’s supply of bubbles.  It’s generally very quiet around 6 o’clock so it’s a good time to go.

 

When the young man from the shop carried Marilyn’s carton to the car, he was very impressed with Archie and, before we drove away, he came back with a bone for him: not a real bone but one of those cereal ones you give your pooch between meals.  The bone was obviously designed for a much larger dog and was bigger than Archie’s head.

 

He had a good nibble at it during the evening but the remains are now ‘buried’ under the blanket of his bed, having been set aside for some future occasion.

 

A sign in the bottleshop informed me that there’s a Truck Run coming through Longford tomorrow.  This is an annual event, apparently, and raises money for the Royal Flying Doctor Service.  The trucks leave Launceston in the morning, travel down the highway, arriving at Longford Showgrounds where interested people can admire them.  A couple of marquees have been set up in the park as well and that might have something to do with it.

 

Not being particularly interested in trucks, we’ll probably stay out of the way.  We’ll have to find another way to help the RFDS but there will be no shortage of opportunities.

Saturday, March 12

 The weather is a bit cooler this morning.  Jamie and Nera are in Smithton so we have Archie for the weekend.  He's a very resilient dog and seems to accept the fact that he lives in two homes.  We have nothing planned but, no doubt, we'll find something to keep us busy.

I had my Poetry and Writing Groups yesterday.  There's a little bonus for us at this time of the year when keen gardeners bring their excess produce to palm off on us.  We had cucumbers last week, which is hardly inspiring but, this week, one of the fellows brought along a bag of Russian Black tomatoes.  I wondered whether we should be boycotting anything Russian but Marilyn was delighted to accept our share.

I read an enhanced version of my  story on Whistling and it was received very well.  Everybody had some story to tell about whistling and I've found that it helps if I can be a little quirky in my choice of topics.  The list we have to work with is fairly bland and it needs a bit of imagination to turn them into an interesting story.

Next week, my choice is The Town I Loved so Well (I remember writing on this before), The Old Bush School, and The Child Prodigy.  Nothing grabs me at the moment but I'll let them bounce around in my brain for a few days and something might pop up.

Friday, March 11

 

When I saw the doctor the other day, I was settling in to chat with him about all my ailments but he rushed me out the door, saying, “I’ll send you a letter”. A bit abrupt, I thought but I imagine Medicare allows for a consultation to take only 12 minutes, allowing another 3 minutes to scribble down some notes before the next hypochondriac is at the door.

 

To my surprise the letter arrived yesterday.  I read it carefully, then again.  After the usual pleasantries, it got down to business.

 

‘I think, for someone in their 80^th year,” (Thanks for the reminder!)

 

“you are doing well, but ..”  (there’s always a but, isn’t there?)

 

“there are four things I thought we would be worth dwelling on.”

 

And he went on to enumerate and describe what these four things were.  I must say I was very impressed.  He had clearly gone back through my file because he mentioned specialists I had seen in the 2000’s and procedures even I had forgotten.

 

He mentioned another specialist I should see and he had made an appointment for that to happen, and he signed it ‘Tim’.

 

This is the first doctor I’ve encountered who has been so pro-active about my health.  I think I might be on to a good thing here.  Unfortunately, I'm told he's on the verge of retiring.

Thursday, March 10

 

At one of our poetry groups earlier this year, the tutor played a song for us.  No doubt it was to open the conversation to something other than the printed words on a page we were used to.  The music she chose was ‘Sailing to Philadelphia’ by Mark Knopfler.  I used to play the album constantly and, since hearing it again at the poetry group, I can’t get it out of my head.  I looked for it on Youtube today and it is just as compelling as I remember.  Some of his other songs are great too: Money for Nothing, Sultans of Swing and so on but I do like Sailing …

 

Mark Knopfler first came to my attention when I heard his music in the movie Local Hero.  We’ve watched the movie several times since it was released in 1983 and it has some great names in it, starting with Burt Lancaster, Peter Capaldi and the legendary, Fulton Mackay.

 

Some movies stick in your head and this is one of them.  I was bemused when I first saw that the village was regularly visited by a Russian fishing boat whose captain was playing the stock market with the help of the villagers.  This, of course, was at the height of the Cold War. There was also the incongruity of seeing a Visa sticker on the door of the pub which was in such an out-of-the-way place.  Nowadays, it wouldn’t even raise an eyebrow.

 

I can’t believe that nearly 40 years have passed since I first saw the movie.

Wednesday, March 9

 

I realised this week that I needed to replace my jeans.  It’s not a big deal; they’re over-the-counter consumables, reasonably cheap and I generally buy them at the same place.  In fact, I’ve been wearing the same size for years so I could, conceivably, buy them on-line.  However, Marilyn’s always keen for a wander through Harris Scarfe, giving her a chance to check out what they have on sale.

 

I knew what brand and what style I wanted and was delighted to see they had a special offer of 3 for $70.  I had only planned to buy two pairs but another pair can only be a good thing.  They came in three colours, too, which seemed to be serendipitous.  I took a pair to try on and was surprised to find I was no longer the svelte 36 that I had been for years so had to settle for 38.  Still, it’s only 2 inches and that’s nothing.  The 36’s I had been wearing had obviously stretched with use and led me into a false sense of what I believed to be true.

 

When we got home, I started to take off all the labels and Marilyn suggested I try on each of the colours to be sure they were all the same before I de-labelled them.  To my surprise, one pair didn’t fit.  I checked and they all had a 38 label but, when I measured them, no two pairs were the same.  Two pairs were close enough but one was clearly a 36.  I was surprised.  We hear a lot about the evils of the Chinese clothes manufacturing industry but, in all the years I’ve been buying clothes made there, I can’t recall ever encountering a problem like this.  In any case, it was easily resolved.

 

By chance, a question on a quiz show we watched in the evening was ‘how many litres of water does it take to grow enough cotton to make a pair of jeans?’  The answer is 180.  I don’t know what to make of this information but it seems clear that we shouldn’t be trying to grow cotton in Australia, the driest continent on Earth.  And, maybe I shouldn’t have bought three pairs of jeans.

Tuesday, March 8

 

Even though I will publicly deny it, I have some bad habits.  One of them is that I whistle, constantly and in the wrong places.  And I admit that it’s a particularly unattractive and tuneless whistle.

 

My Dad was a whistler and I think whistling was particularly prevalent in his generation and the one before.  They even had professional whistlers performing in Music Hall and, when TV was introduced to the world it became just another medium for whistlers to show off.  Australian bushmen used to whistle with the help of a gumleaf but I was never able to master that.  For me, nothing beats the slightly-moistened pursed lips with the carefully-placed tongue behind.

 

There’s a lot of psychology around the art of whistling and there are researchers making a living studying it.  To give it a touch of respectabilty, it’s classified as ‘momentary musical performing’ like singing in the shower or humming while you do the housework.  More men whistle than women and younger men whistle more than older ones.  There’s a verse in the bible that says: "A whistling woman and a crowing hen is an abomination to the Lord" but I’m not sure that is the reason that women don’t whistle; it’s probably more to do with their better developed sense of what’s attractive.  However, there is, on Youtube, a video of the Laurelpark Ladies Whistling Choir, performing Bohemian Rhapsody.  Is nothing sacred?

 

There’s a lot of superstition about whistling.  It's said to be unlucky to whistle at night and that might have something to do with a belief in evil spirits stalking in the darkness or it might be a throwback from experiences in war when a careless whistle in the dark might give your position away. Sailors whistle to increase the wind, and it’s said that whistling indoors will bring on poverty

 

My whistling repertoire is very limited and I tend to whistle the same tune whatever the situation I’m in.  Marilyn tells me I whistled ‘The hills are alive with the sound of music’ for years but, lately, I’m stuck on Abba: ‘Take a chance on me.’ 

 

A YouGov survey found that 47% of people found whistling irritating but I just put that down to misophonia or ‘selective sound sensitivity syndrome’.   And it might be jealousy; 67% of people claim they can’t whistle at all.  And I celebrate, every day, that I can.

Monday, March 7

 

They say you learn something new every day but sometimes I wish I could have more input to what that something is.  Most often, in my experience, the something new that I learn is just a bit of nonsense, of no consequence and, certainly, of no value in my quest to live to 100.  Like yesterday: I came across the expression ‘Smoky Dawson’ chair.  I had never heard that expression before so, the fact that I now know what it is means that it was the ‘new thing’ that I learned for Sunday, March 6, 2022.  I wish I had learned something different.

 

Of course, I remember Smoky Dawson, and I can still drag up memories of some of his songs, like My Wonderful Four-Legged Friend, but I had never thought of him in connection with a chair, unless it was a rocking chair on the cover of one of his albums.

 

When I looked it up on the internet, I was first taken to a site extolling the virtues of someone called Dawson who was a member of Cabramatta Rotary Club and who was receiving an award for something.  I switched off before I could learn any more.  I can’t afford to fill my brain with any more rubbish.  Eventually, I found the right site and the chair turned out to be one of those mechanical things which help you to stand up.  Apparently, a fellow, maybe called Dawson, invented it and someone, years ago, had the brainwave of using Smoky and his wife, Dot to advertise it. 

 

And, maybe the fact of knowing about Smoky Dawson chairs is a good thing.  It’s likely my lounge chair will need replacing soon and a Smoky Dawson chair could be just what I’m looking for.

 

By the way, Smoky died in 2008 at the age of 93, Dot held on for another couple of years and died when she was 104.

Sunday, March 6

 

I watched the regional news at 6.30 this morning and saw the heart-breaking scenes of the devastation in Queensland and Northern NSW.  The PM calls it a ‘natural disaster’ but there’s nothing natural about this.  It’s an enormous and growing threat to the future of this country.

 

I remember one day in about 1954, sitting in my classroom at Gwynneville Primary School, watching the teacher, probably Mr Fuller, drawing a diagram on the blackboard. On the left hand side was a blue line, representing the sea, above was a bright yellow sun; on the right was a green representation of fields with a brown mountain looming over them.  Mr Fuller used white chalk to draw arrows showing how the sun draws water from the sea to form clouds, how the wind pushes the clouds across the land and how the water from the clouds drops as rain on the fields below and eventually makes its way back to the sea.  A very simple representation of the water cycle. I used a similar diagram many times when I was teaching.

 

I remember Mr Fuller also telling us that floods are more prevalent in tropical areas because the sun is hotter and draws up more water.  I’m not sure the interaction is as simple as he made out but, of course, he was talking to naïve 10 year-olds.  There are scientists around Australia now trying to make sense of this extraordinary event.  How can so much moisture be carried like a river through the atmosphere between 8 and 10 km above the ground?  One description said that ‘between 26 and 27 February, enough water flowed through the atmospheric river above Brisbane to fill Sydney Harbour 16 times’.  Sydney Harbour holds about 500bn litres. No doubt those climate scientists are trying to get the reality of the new, enhanced water cycle into the heads of decision makers in every country in the world. 

 

Each degree of temperature rise increases the capacity of the atmosphere to hold water vapour by 7% so, as the climate gets hotter, more water will be drawn from the oceans and more will fall on the land.  If more water falls on the land, there will be more ‘flood events’ (as modern nomenclature has it).  It’s not rocket science: it’s much more important than that.

Saturday, March 5

 

It’s got to the stage that I don’t want to see or hear the news in the morning.  I’m reluctant to turn on the TV or look at the internet because there is so much doom and gloom around.  If we’re not talking about floods, we’re watching the war unfold in Europe, another cricketer has gone this morning and there is more dire news about the demise of the Barrier Reef, and the prospects for more climate change catastrophes in the future.  And Clive Palmer is claiming that 80000 people have signed up to join his party!

 

I just want to go back to bed and pull the pillow over my head.

 

I have a bit of sympathy for Shane Stone, the emergency relief boss who is being criticised for bemoaning the fact that people want to re-build their destroyed homes in the same place.  How many times in the past 200 years have we rallied to support people who have been wiped out by floods or fires?  You’d think we might have learned something from that experience.   Some areas are more flood-prone or fire-prone than others.  Maybe we should live somewhere else.  Or, if you choose to take your chances, don’t expect the taxpayer to bail you out if something goes wrong.

 

And on climate change – how much more proof do our leaders want that climate change is real?   It’s not going to fix itself and if the solution affects the profits of companies which donate to political parties, or causes some temporary hardship to the man in the street, we still have to deal with it.  What’s the phrase – ‘kicking the can down the street’.  I can’t believe the Australian government has spent months debating  such trivialities as the Religious Discrimination Bill while we are faced with more than one existential crisis.  It’s fiddling while Rome burns.

 

You have to have some sympathy for the world leaders who are struggling to work out how to deal with the mad Russian who has invaded his neighbour.  Clearly some people, like the hapless senator from America who is promoting assassination, would like Mr Putin to be removed but we have to maintain some semblance of civilisation.  And we don’t want World War 3.  I’m glad I’m not in the position of having to deal with this but I wonder whether the various governments of the so-called free world are any better qualified than I am.

Friday, March 4

 

I had the follow-up appointment for my health assessment on Wednesday.  First the nurse took my vital statistics: blood pressure, weight, eyesight, etc.  She asked me what day it was and the date.  It was Marilyn’s birthday so I knew the answer but the information was on the screen of the nurse’s computer if I needed another clue.  Finally, she asked me to write a sentence on a piece of paper.  All being well, I went off to see the doctor.

 

His name is Flanagan and he’s a nice, affable old gentleman on the verge of retirement.  In the process of checking me out, he scrabbled among the paperwork to find the sentence I had written and said, “I always like to look at these and I’m going to put the best of them in my next book.”

 

Next book?  Flanagan?  I couldn’t wait to get home and check the internet.  It turns out he is a rather famous Tasmanian author who has made his name writing books, for young readers and on medical matters.  His name is Tim, but his more famous brother is Richard, also an author, who recently won the Man Booker Prize for The Narrow Road to the Deep North.  There are, in fact three brothers who are authors; the third, Martin is a journalist who writes mostly about sport.  All three brothers were born in Longford and Richard is regarded as the best Australian writer of his generation.

 

For the record, my sentence was ‘Why did I ever agree to this test?’ which I hope is interesting enough to be selected for the book.

Thursday, March 3

Archie has a vinyl dog coat, quite colourful and with the admonition, ‘Just Chew It’ in big letters on the back.  Some people might think it’s a bit kitsch but I think it’s quite clever, referring as it does to the famous Nike motto, Just Do It.

 

I wonder how many people know that Nike took the inspiration for their motto from the last words of a convicted murderer.  Gary Gilmore was the first man executed in America after the ultimate penalty for murder was restored to the statute books in 1976.  It is said, on the day of his execution, he had some food and something to drink, stood up and said to the guards, “Let’s do it!”  He was shot by firing squad.  Firing Squad is one of the options you can choose; others include hanging, electric chair or lethal injection.That would be a harder decision than choosing which burger to have at Maccas.

 

Since then, there have been 1543 executions carried out in that country, not all by firing squad; the vast majority (1261) were in southern states and 573 in Texas alone.  There have been only 4 executions in the north-eastern states in that period.  The latest US execution was of Gilbert Postelle on 17^th February, 2022, in Oklahoma County.  He was 18 years old at the time of his offence and intellectually impaired.

 

The website where I found this information (The Death Penalty Information Center) also has data on upcoming executions so that people can plan their holidays to be in the right place at the right time. March 8^th will be a special day in Texas when Michael Gonzales meets his maker.  Afficionados know it’s usually a good bet to head south if you’re planning on sitting outside the jail when an execution is taking place and Texas is always worth a visit.

 

I thought at first that this was a fan site where proponents of the death penalty could get their kicks but, apparently, it’s there to alert people to the barbarous way that some American states treat their citizens.  It certainly made me sit up and take notice.

Wednesday, March 2

 Marilyn's birthday today and we've agreed that we won't make a fuss about it.  Who wants to celebrate getting old!  Were planning to have lunch out later in the week.

Yesterday was our regular Probus morning tea. We're tired of the drive up and down the highway to attend Deloraine functions but we're still tied to the town in many ways.  We were meeting at 40 Degrees South, a fish farm just outside the town where we knew we would be well-fed.  Normally, we might get up to 30 people at these events but only 12 had booked in.  I hope it's not a downward trend.

The farm is run by Ziggy, a German fellow who fancies himself a bit of a comedian, although you don't often find German and comedian going together in the same sentence.   Apart from the salmon he grows in large tanks fed from a mountain stream, he grows ginseng.  I'm not sure I see the connection but he markets a spice mix which contains powdered ginseng and it's supposed to be good for you.

His business is doing well, mainly because he's associaated with a Government initiative to steer tourists in his direction.  Tourists can pick up a brochure which gives details of a Tasting Trail, so you can drive from one side of Tasmania to the other, sampling various treats on the way.  A marketing genius dug up the term, 'Forage' which is much more marketable than Tasting so people are encouragd to take part in the Northern Forage Trail.  I assume there is a matching Southern Forage as well.

The Northern Trail has such exotic treats as hazelnuts, truffles, wasabi, cheese, berries, chocolate, icecream, dried fruits, smoked eels and so on.  What's not to like?

As we were driving away from the farm, we noticed a couple of people foraging for blackberries along the side of the road.  I wanted to tell them they'd do better at Longford Berries but Marilyn reminded me that no one likes a know-it-all.