Saturday, October 1

 I started to read a new book this morning: a crime novel(of course) by Irvine Welsh, famous for Trainspotting.  It started well but mentioned that one of the characters was wearing  Dead Writers perfume. Could there be such a thing?  And there is!  It's allegedly inspired by novelists like Hemingway and Poe and marketed as offering 'the scent of old libraries and the ghosts of world past', with notes of black tea, vanilla and heliotrope. Suitable for either sex, (it) makes you want to curl up with your favourite book.

Caroline P. comments: 'Cozy and broody.  A great evening and winter scent.  My husband loves wearing it too.'  It's only $US5 for a sample size,

The company, Immortal Perfumes, also sells one called Funeral Homes Perfume which is 'a unisex floral fragrance'. Could be something different for Marilyn's Christmas stocking.

Friday, September 30

Jamie's Council has just introduced a third bin to their garbage system: it has a green lid and is for stuff that is compostable.  I know it's common across Australia to have such a thing but out local Council in Longford is still a bit rural in this regard.  If you can't burn it, bury it!

Marilyn has jumped at the opportunity of getting into this new initiative.  She saves every scrap of vegetable matter, egg shell and so on and delivers it to Jamie's bin on a regular basis.  My grass clippings go the same way so we're doing our bit.

I read this morning that Victoria is now introducing a FOURTH bin: pink lid and for soft plastics and pizza boxes.  Where will it end?  If this nonsense ever came to Longford, there would be twenty-four bins lined up outside our units on a Tuesday morning, and there's just not enough room.  It's hard enough now with a dozen bins and it would need a whole re-education plan for my neighbours to get them to do the right thing if we had twice the numbers of bins to deal with.

Thursday, September 29

I seem to be running late this morning and can't get my mind on to what I might write.  Jamie has just arrived so I'll postpone any sharing of my thoughts until this afternoon.  Jamie had come to deliver a hall table which we needed to replace one which was designated for another purpose. This one is quite posh: heavy plate glass with solid brass connectors.  It holds ups come of planes and a bowl where we throw our house keys and other junk. No home should be without one.

We had to drive up to Launceston this afternoon for a podiatrist appointment at Mowbray and by the time we stop for coffee somewhere and pick up some essentials at the supermarket, we can wipe out half a day. We took the chance to fill up the car on the way home in case someone decides to increase the price when we're not looking

Wednesday, September 28

Spring is certainly here.  I've been watching a couple of starlings collecting twigs for their nest which they are building in the gutter of our unit.  I don't suppose that's a good thing but I haven't got a ladder long enough to get up that high to check.  In any case, they probably built one there last year and the one before and there didn't seem to be any fallout from those.

I don't know how long it takes from building the nest, laying the eggs, the chicks hatching out, and then growing big enough to leave the nest.  Yesterday, I saw what I thought was a young starling on our fence but he must have been hatched a while ago.  I'm afraid I don't know enough about it.

The better weather is also having an effect at the gym where more skin is being revealed as the track suits are removed.  There seems to have been some new tattoos acquired during the winter break and people can't wait for the opportunity to show them off.  Sadly, all I have to show are a few more wrinkles and nobody is interested in them.

Tuesday, September 27

I think it was January when I complained that my desktop computer had given up the ghost.  Since then I've been using a lovely little MacBook Air that Nera has given me on long-term loan and the old HP all-in-one still sits on its pedestal, looking at me accusingly as if demanding that I do something about it.  I nearly said 'gathering dust' but Marilyn would never allow that to happen.

Still, after 8 months I need to get my act together. "Get rid of it," I said to Jamie.  "Maybe you could cannibalise it for parts.  Whatever you decide, I want it off my desk."  

He thought for a moment and wondered whether we might, in fact, be able to upgrade it enough to make it useful for some basic writing or something. "Have a look on Youtube and see whether anyone has ever put in any extra RAM to one of these things."

Youtube, of course, has videos on everything and I found one explaining how to fit some extra RAM using only a Philips Head screwdriver.  The cheerful fellow on the video said that what we really needed was a new hard drive: get rid of the old optical drive and fit a new solid-state one instead. It turned out that Jamie had a solid-state drive left over from some other job.

He came over yesterday and we laid the computer out on the dining room table.  Two screws held the back in place and it was soon opened up.  There were a few bits of loose plastic rattling around inside and the RAM stick wasn't sitting well which might have meant that had been a problem but that was soon fixed.  A new SS drive was fitted and held in place by a couple of strips of black gaffer tape and the back was replaced.

It works just like a new one.  I've been warned not to clog up the hard drive by saving everything but it's great.  Of course, I don't want to give up the MacBook so I'm not going to be too enthusiastic.

Monday, September 26

I woke up this morning with a touch off the 'What's it all about?' in my head.  I thought of the last few days and tried to identify exactly what I did and the list was pretty short: a couple of trips to the supermarket, change the linen on the bed, mow the lawn, write some inconsequential words and read quite a lot.

I realised that I have been retired for longer than my last job: I was 10 years at Giant Steps and I've been retired now for 12 years and 9 months.  I heard on the news that the Federal Government's budget is better than anticipated but will still be hard to balance.  It's no wonder when old buggers live so long and are a drain on society for much longer than should be expected.

I discovered on my search of the internet that the first Old Age Pension scheme started in Germany in 1889 and Britain followed in 1908.  Some American states tried to follow suit but, as in normal in that benighted country, the courts put obstacles in their way.  Ben Chifley kicked it off in Australia in 1945 although some Trade Unions had individual schemes before that.

I need to keep reminding myself that it's not welfare.  Over my working life I've contributed through my taxation and, unlike many, I've never paid a tax accountant to fiddle the amount that I'm expected to pay. Realising that makes me feel better and I can go about my day without any reservations.

My online calendar tells me it's the Kings Birthday in Western Australia.  It's going to be hard to get used to that nomenclature.  (Love the big word!)

Sunday, September 25

 I'm deeply engrossed in Cold Grave and might have it finished by the end of the day.  It's a fairly standard whodunit with the only twist being that it's partly set in Dundee.  We recently saw a TV show set in Dundee and it looked like an interesting city: a good university and some tall ships as a tourist attraction.  There's one character in the book called Campbell Baxter, nicknamed Two Soups.  It rang a bell and I thought I had read it somewhere before, so I looked it up. 

It seems to have become a common meme in Scotland and has appeared in more than one book, and elsewhere.  I suppose when something interesting catches an author's or screenwriter's attention it's hard to resist claiming it as your own.  Of course, I would never do anything like that.

Saturday, September 24

I'm reading a book I downloaded from the library; it's an author I've not seen before called Craig Robertson who seems to be Scottish.  This book is called The Last Refuge and is set in the Faroe Islands which are in the North Sea somewhere north of Scotland.  They're a part of Denmark and have a  population of around 50000 people.

I hadn't really ever given any thought to the Faroe Islands but, if pressed, I would have thought they were like the Shetlands: cold and bleak where the men go out fishing and the women knit jumpers with elaborate patterns.  That's not far from the truth and there are other similarities too.  On Shetland, there is a  traditional hunt each year for gannet chicks, on the Faroes it is puffins.  It would be a hard life existing close to the Arctic Circle and that certainly comes through in the book.

I'm now on another of this author's books called Cold Grave and there are a few more after that.

Friday, September 23

With the death of the Queen there's a lot of talk about whether now is the time for Australia to become a republic.  When this came up years ago and we had a referendum, I was enthusiastic but now I'm not so sure.  The way the referendum was nobbled then shows that nothing is as clear cut as it might seem.

Some of my concerns are: how would our Head of State be identified?  Who would be eligible? Would he/she be appointed or elected? If so, who would come up with the final list for consideration?  Would we have to live with another retired Chief Justice or Army General?  I hope we haven't forgotten the infamous John Kerr, who was a lawyer and there are still some questions about the current GG's involvement in Mr Morrison's recent power grab.  Why didn't he advise against what was clearly outside the normal procedures?  If all he thought he was able to do was sign whatever the PM put in front of him, what use was he?

I would only be interested in the notion of a republic if all politicians were banned from all aspects of the process. The position mustn't become a retirement option for someone the Government owes a favour.

And why would we think we'd be any better at choosing a President than the US, or Brazil, or the Philippines, or any body else for that matter.  I don't think there's any doubt that most of the settled, successful countries in the world are constitutional monarchies: the Netherlands, Japan, Canada, the Scandinavian countries and so on.

Maybe there's something to be said for having a figurehead from a family on the other side of the world.

I

Thursday, September 21

I had to get a haircut yesterday afternoon; its was supposed to be last week but I forgot and had to postpone it.  I used to go to Spike's Barber Shop in Launceston which suited me fine; it was old-fashioned with rounded chrome chairs and the smell of Bay Rum, no appointments, just turn up and wait your turn. I got fed up, though, with trying to find a parking spot in the city and there were no parking stations in the vicinity.

Marilyn had opted for a salon in Longford and seemed reasonably happy so I gave them a go too, and I'm now a regular.  It's more your ladies' salon but they're happy to take blokes as well. I have a regular hairdresser who knows her stuff and happily deals with my moustache and eyebrows.

When I turned up today, the salon was full of school kids.  The waiting room only has three chairs and they were all occupied by rough-looking primary school kids with their mothers standing around with folded arms.  I wanted to tell the kids to let the adults sit down but that wasn't going to go down well.  One of the hairdressers took me through to the back of the shop and sat me down at one of the tables to wait for Brittany which gave me a chance to have a good look around.  The building is a maze of small rooms, all with three or four workstations.  I think it was the original Policee Station of the town so the rooms might have been the cells.

A hairdressing salon could be one of the nine Circles of Hell in Dante's Inferno.  This particular salon is tiny so it's crowded, the noise is appalling with hairdressers and their clients and, in today's case, the mums of the hordes of kids all yelling at each other, innumerable hairdryers all going full blast and, somewhere in the background, there is a radio tuned to some afternoon chat program.  The air is perfumed with all the noxious fluids which are part of the hairdressing ritual. There's no room to move around and the poor hairdressers have to sweep the floor after every clip to keep some semblance of order. And this particular salon has a Beverage Menu so the hairdressers have also to find time to make coffees and, worse, cocktails.  Who, in their right mind would enjoy a cocktail while the air around them is filled with flying hair particles?

Dante, of course, never experienced such a thing but I'm sure if he had he would have found room to have a tenth circle in his famous poem.

I survived and asked for my next appointment for a time when all the kids will be at school.

Wednesday, September 21

One of our members at the Probus meeting yesterday received an effusive congratulations from our President.  It's not unusual for someone to be singled out for one thing or another but it's usually on the birth of a new great-granchild or a birthday milestone.  At our age, we don't have many personal achievements of note.

Yesterday's was no exception.  Kevin was warmly congratulated on something his son had done - a son who doesn't even live in Tasmania. His son is Adam Eggins, winemaker with Taylors Wine in South Australia.  Apparently, Taylors has just won a big international award.  Our President, breathlessly, said it was for producing the BEST red wine IN THE WORLD.  I don't know the details and haven't bothered looking it up but Kevin was tickled pink and the acknowledgement made his day.  His comment was that some good things have come out of Deloraine High School.  The wine is a Shiraz and Australia has the reputation of making consistently good wines with this grape.

Kevin said the French and the Italians were not pleased with Taylors' success.  It fact, it might be said they were 'miffed' which is slightly more than 'annoyed' but less than 'furious'.

Tuesday, September 20

 It's our Probus meeting today so I'll give the gym a miss.  My plan was a leisurely breakfast, shower and dress, scribble a few words to keep my multitude of readers quiet and leave at about 8.45.  Then I scanned the news to see if there was anything worth reading and couldn't believe my luck: there's a story about the Big Potato at Robertson, filled with snide remarks, puns and references to poo. Fantastic!

Apparently, it's been sold and the previous owner, Melanie Tait, is celebrating.  She says, 'Thank Godfordshire  I won't have to talk to any more commercial radio hosts and pretend that their jokes comparing the Big Potato to a poo are funny."  Thank Godfordshire?  I've never hear that expression before.  What a wonderful euphemism to avoid upsetting the religious lobby.

Ms Tait mentioned some of the messages she received when her friends heard the news.  "This news has mashed me up. I'm wedged between joy and sadness.  Is there no way we could hash this out?  Perhaps if we all chip in?"

There's one sliver of good news.  It seems Melanie has written a play called The Appleton Ladies Potato Race and a movie about it is being shot in Robertson later this year - with a strong supporting role for the Big Potato.

Monday, September 19

I haven't lived in Wollongong for over fifty years but I still react when a newspaper headline alerts me to a story about The Gong.  Today, it was about magpies, my favourite bird.  I love their songs and their attitude.  Poets have written poems about them and they have a special place in the Australia psyche.

But what if you're an elite cyclist taking part in the UCI Road World Championships, which is being held this year in Wollongong?  What do you do if you're faced with a sign that says "Birds swooping!  Dismount and walk your bike through this area.  Birds are nesting in this area."

The finishing line for the race is right near the sign and, as the report said, "magpies have been causing chaos for the world's best cyclists."

What is this doing for Australia's image as a sporting nation?  Can we afford for our status to be diminished by a handful of black and white saboteurs?  Of course, any mug could have told the organisers that magpies are known to swoop on passers-by in nesting season.  Every year, the tabloid newspapers indulge in stories about terrorised school-children and bicycle messengers.  There are images of the creative ways that kids find to deal with the menace: elaborate hats, umbrellas with eyes on them and so on.

Somebody might have warned the organisers of the race that Lang Park is almost enemy territory in September.  The Council wouldn't have expended money on a sign if it wasn't a problem.  We're a laughing stock!  I can just see sports organisers around the world sniggering into their morning coffee about the ineptitude of Australia Cycle Event organisers. It will take years to live down this disgrace.

Sunday, September 18

Sunday, but no day of rest for us.  We're off to a party this evening and we have to take a plate so Marilyn has opted for a plate of sandwiches.  I've already dismantled the chicken, chopped the white meat and set aside the legs for later.

I made it to the gym by 8 o'clock and set about my normal program.  There were the usual familiar faces: the reluctant middle-aged man who goes through his routine without much energy, the older fellow trying to gain his youth by hammering away at the weights and the tiny woman who is like a demon on the treadmill.  She often signs in just before me and her signature contains two of the letter g and, the way she writes it encroaches on the space below, where I'm trying to write my name in a legible fashion. It offends my sense of what's right.

There were two newbies this morning: two tall dark women, I imagine African, dressed in some sort of sports uniform.  One was taller than me and the shorter one was about my height.  I assumed they were basketball or netball players but they might have been surgeons at the hospital or new drivers for the local buses.  In any case, it waa good to have a touch of the exotic to brighten up the morning.

I looked out the window while I was rowing and noticed a couple of cars at the oval opposite.  I assumed there is a game on today and the ground staff is here early to set up.  As I watched, a head appeared above the rim of a large wheelie bin and a fellow climbed out.  Had he been sleeping there, or was he a groundsman looking for a lost handbag? I suppose I'll never know.

Saturday, September 17

It's miserable here this morning: low-lying clouds and persistent rain.  I didn't want to go to the gym but I missed it yesterday and I don't want to fall into bad habits.  Marilyn warns me that we need to go into Launceston this afternoon to buy a wedding gift for a friend.  He's been living in the Philippines for many years, in a long-term relationship, but he's back in Australia now, living in Deloraine. 

The long-term relationship came to an end and he brought a new partner home with him; they married a couple of weeks ago in Albury and there is to be a party to celebrate the wedding tomorrow evening. 

Over breakfast, Marilyn suggests that, the weather being what it is, we won't bother about the trip to town; instead, we'll buy a nice plant and we can do that locally.  I'm keen to do that.  Geoff is over 80, he's been married at least twice before and probably has more 'stuff' than he needs. Another two-tiered cake stand is probably not necessary.

I suggest we write on the card - 'We hope your marriage thrives and flourishes like this plant' - but Marilyn's not keen.  "What happens if it dies?" she says.  Always the practical one.

Friday, September 16

There will be no gym this morning as I have to head to Hadspen to supervise an electrician.  He said he would be there at 9 o'clock but I'm not putting too much reliance on that.  Jamie and Nera are in Hobart as she winds down her program so dear told dad is called upon to fill the breach.  

If I can get internet access I might write some more but I'm not sure how successful I'll be.

Later - he was only there an hour so I hardly had time to get bored.  I almost missed him though.  There's on-going roadworks on the road between Longford and Hadspen and the delay this morning was particularly long so, a combination of my lateness and the electrician being a bit eager meant he turned into the driveway before I did.

I found him ringing the doorbell and looking puzzled but it was alright in the end.

Jamie and Nera have a security system and Nera's phone is alerted if it catches movement in the lounge room.  This morning, she looked at the screen and realised the electrician was putting up the new light fitting in the wrong room.  My fault, as I hadn't listened carefully enough to my instructions.  I like things to be written down and a diagram often helps.

Anyway, it was soon sorted out and everything is as it should be.

Thursday, September 15

We forgot that the cleaning lady was coming so when the doorbell rang I was still sitting around in my gym clothes and Marilyn was in the shower.  We got ourselves organised and headed to our little shopping centre for coffee.  There’s a Banjos there with a few tables so I set myself up while Marilyn wandered into the supermarket for a couple of things we couldn’t do without.

 

While I was sitting there, a tall gentleman appeared in my line of sight.  He was dressed like the landed gentry; country shirt with a padded jacket, flat tweed cap, corduroy trousers and riding boots.  He looked at me and said something, came closer and said, accusingly, “You’re not Frank!”

 

‘No, I’m not,” I said, smothering a smart remark.

 

He started to explain that he thought I was Frank Nott and was clearly keen to have a conversation.  He told me he had a property somewhere around Conara Junction but now lived at Westbury.  He was in town to see a doctor, had attended Launceston Grammar but transferred to Scotch College because he was bullied.  He wanted to know how old I was and seemed pleased that he was a year younger.

 

Marilyn appeared then and was astounded to see me in conversation.  She must have given out some friendlier vibes because he sat down at our table.  He showed us his scar where he had had an operation on his carotid artery and happily swapped health stories until Marilyn said we really had to go.

 

When we got back home, Leah had finished so Marilyn started lunch while I hung out the washing.  Just another day ….

Wednesday, September 14

I woke at about 5 this morning and wandered through to relieve my bladder.  It's not unusual but I find it hard to get back to sleep when it happens and I don't want to read and disturb Marilyn.  My mind is reasonably active, and I find myself thinking about what might happen during the day: not much, usually, so I fall back on what I might write in the blog.

I became aware that I was thinking of a list: like a shopping list or a list of things to do.  In my mind it was typed but, as I concentrated on it, it faded away leaving just one item.  

The numeral 6, followed by a full stop, two spaces and The Rivers of Ada full stop.

6.  The Rivers of Ada.

I knew I had to get up before that too faded from my brain.  It might be important and have some significance that I haven't considered.  My first thought is that it might be a book by someone like H. Rider Haggard or Edgar Rice Burroughs.  African, maybe, with Tarzan in it.

As usual, when I'm puzzled, I turn to the internet.  I type it in and there's no match for that phrase but, intriguingly, I discover that there is an Ada River in East Gippsland Victoria.  It's noted as 'perennial' and has a boutique winery there, a campground and is the site of the Ada River Car Rally.

Now what do I do with that information?  Maybe I'll just let it go and put it down to my fevered imagination.

Tuesday, September 13

I headed off to the gym this morning, not having had breakfast.  I slept in until 7.30 but I was still keen to get to the gym before 8 o'clock when the 'rush' starts.  By 'rush' I mean more than 4 people and especially one particular husband and wife combo who use the same machines as I do.  They're particularly keen on the rowing machines and, as there are only two, I am likely to miss out unless I'm careful.

I was there by 8.10 and started my routine: 7 minutes on the bike, then on to the various machines, keeping an eye on the door in case the twosome arrived.  I don't like to row straight after the bike as it seems to upset my flow.  It works better if I do something else in between.  Sadly, my focus was interrupted and I didn't notice them arriving.

Too late!  They've commandeered the two machines and I'm faced with a ten- or fifteen- minute wait until one or both are finished.  I choose to go home for breakfast instead.

Monday, September 12

We watched a program on TV last night which talked about the late Queen's visits to Australia and I was delighted when they focused on Wollongong on her first visit in 1954.  It was February 12, two days after my eleventh birthday and I was in 6th class at Gwynneville Primary School.  We were bused to Wollongong Showgrounds with thousands of other kids.  Schools in outlying areas had come in by train and we all waited for hours for her to arrive.

She arrived in Wollongong by train and her car drove down Crown Street, past Waters Department Store, past Herbie Herds, Men's Tailor, past the Spot Cafe, famous for its Ice Cream Spiders, past Walter Lance and Company and Maloufs the Haberdasher and into the Showgrounds. The car was open and the Queen and Prince Philip stood in the back waving to the crowds.  The newspapers reported that the school students there were so excited, we broke ranks and rushed forward to get a better look.

The Head Girl of Wollongong High School, Margaret Somebody, made a speech of welcome while trying to control her hat which was trying to escape into the strong wind.

After a few words, the royal couple left and were driven to Slacky Flat where another crowd of kids, including Marilyn, were waiting in anticipation.

Sixty-eight years ago and it seems like yesterday (I've always wanted to say that).

Sunday, September 11

I woke early this morning, made myself a cup of coffee and turned on the ABC News to see what is happening in the world.  I might as well have not bothered.  According to the ABC, the whole world has come to a halt while preparations are under way for the funeral of QE2.  Not a word about Trump, the war in Ukraine, Melbourne's loss to Brisbane or the sky-rocketing price of groceries.  

At the moment there's a woman on explaining in great detail abut the UK Bill of Rights which allows Catholics to do something they couldn't have done before.  Is that appropriate at 7.27 on a sunny Tasmanian morning?  Nope!  I'll turn over to Youtube and see what Steve Marsh is getting up to.

Friday, September 9

It's sad news that the Queen has died.  She's been on the throne for 70 years which is more than most people's lifetimes but I'm old enough to remember her coronation and, typically, I also have a recollection of one of the unfortunate occurrences which haunt my memory.

I think she was crowned in June, 1953.  Soon after, there was an event at Gwynneville Primary School which involved all the classes and their parents.  It might have been an end-of-year prize-giving or plays or something.  We used the verandah of the Years 3/4 classes with all the parents sitting on chairs in the playground facing the makeshift stage.

My job (maybe the only one!) was to announce the singing of the National Anthem which at that time was God Save the Queen.  I must have had a mental blank because I totally forgot that we now had a queen and announced, in my nervous voice, God Save the King.

Apparently the Queen died at 3.30 am AEST.  Marilyn tells me that something woke her at 3.30 and she couldn't get back to sleep so had to read for half an hour or so until her mind relaxed again.  Spooky!  The story is spoiled a little bit because she says she went to the toilet  before she picked up her book.  I'm cynical enough to think that that's what work her.

Thursday, September 8

One of the reasons that I try to get to the gym quite early in the morning is that I might have the place to myself and I don't have to put up with the dreadful music that assaults my ear.  I'm not always successful in being alone and almost everyone else puts the music on as a matter of course.  I started to notice that several people had those little white plastic sticks in their ears and were clearly listening to their own stuff and ignoring the onslaught from the big speakers.

Maybe it would work for me.  It was worth a try so I headed to eBay to check out the options.  Hmm! $319 for Genuine Apple AirPods sounds a bit steep so I opt for a generic brand for $12.99 with free postage.  I tried them yesterday for the first time and they are great: I can still hear the raucous rock in the background but it's easy to focus on my preferred podcasts playing in my ears.  Funnily enough, the one I was listening to yesterday was an interview with Sean Kelly about his book on Scott Morrison.

Even if they don't work, I would have continued to wear them, if only as a fashion statement.

Wednesday, September 7

I've started reading The Game, a political book by Sean Kelly, describing how Scott Morrison worked his way to becoming Prime Minister.  With Kelly's past associations with the ALP, you'd expect it to be a bit of a hatchet job but it's not like that, although it's particularly unflattering.  And recent revelations about Morrison's behaviour have over-shadowed anything a political commentator might suggest. Mr Kelly suggests that Morrison has developed a 'flat' character for himself: the daggy dad who follows the Sharks and cooks curry once a week.  Many Australians can relate to that and don't necessarily look any deeper.  Other voters, like me, are turned off by the shallowness of his persona, but we're in the minority.

It's worth a read if only to show how easily politics in Australia can be manipulated by determined individuals with the wrong motives.

Tuesday, September 6

I came home from the gym this morning to find that Marilyn had decided that we would have breakfast al fresco.  The sun was shining, the air was warm and it seemed that Spring had come at last.  We have a little table and a couple of chairs near the front door; it faces east so we get the best of the morning sun.

Archie had already claimed my chair so I had to fetch another one from the back.  I put a cushion on it and Archie moved over happily.  He will always choose the chair with the cushion; he might be a dog but he's not daft.  Once he was settled, we collected a couple more cushions for ourselves.  We're not daft either.

Marilyn had a call from Jamie and Nera to say that they're having breakfast at a cafe on the beachfront at Penguin.  Life's good all round.

Monday, September 5

 It was a very enjoyable lunch yesterday for Fathers' Day. The local nursing homes had clearly been emptied of their old fellows as the families made their obligatory gesture on this special day.  One old boy was sitting in our restaurant wearing a huge bib around his neck. It was good to see his family making an effort but it saddened me to see his lack of dignity.

Nera took a picture to mark the occasion.  Behind me you might see that the boats are sitting on a sea of mud.  It's been an ongoing problem for years and, funnily enough, there was a story about it on this morning's ABC News.  Every time it rains, several rivers bring mud down from the local farmland and it gathers in the quiet corners of the river until someone takes the trouble to move it.  It's a very difficult operation and hugely expensive and the mud comes back every time it rains.

The Seaport area is lined with very good restaurants and expensive apartments so there's a lot of pressure for the government to FIX THE MUD, as the many signs say, but that's easier said than done.

Sunday, September 4

It's FATHERS DAY in Australia and we'll follow our usual pattern and go out for lunch with Jamie and Nera.  Today, it's a fish restaurant at Seaport on the Tamar River.

I've been thinking back to previous Fathers Days and I can't really remember any specific occasions in the years I was growing up. Both my grandfathers died in their fifties, when I was still very young but I don't really remember celebrating Fathers Day with my own Dad.  I turned to Google to see when it became 'a thing' in Australia.  Mothers Day began in 1911 but Fathers Day didn't start until 1935.  Google commented that fathers seemed reluctant to be involved and I can understand that, knowing what my own father would have said.  It was not until the 1960's that it became part of our calendar.  

I looked for a cartoon or a cynical little poem to illustrate this post but couldn't find anything I liked, except this quote from a newspaper article of May 1911.

A cynical lady correspondent suggests we should have the choice of three flowers emblematic of father—the scarlet geranium, because it resembles the bloom of his nose; the cornflower, to match the hue of his language when his liver is bad; or the mignonette, in sweet remembrance of his Saturday night breath.

Saturday, September 3

Life has fallen back into the usual routine after our trip to Sydney.  The weather is certainly better now that Spring is here.  I'd been neglecting the 'garden' because of our trip and persistent wet weather but I couldn't ignore the long grass any more.  It seemed to be responding to the onset of warmer weather by having a growth spurt so it was lush and green, desperately calling for a bit of attention.

I ran my hand through it on Thursday and concluded it was too wet to cut, putting off the inevitable.  Friday morning was warm again and I thought the lawn would benefit from a few more hours of drying out but, by 3 o'clock, I couldn't procrastinate any longer and set about it.

It wasn't much fun and it seemed to be getting wetter by the minute.  I ended up with a bag of saturated grass clippings, a mower which needed a wash, a motley patch of lawn which looked as if it had had a bad haircut and moist grass residue all over the concrete.  Looking out at it this morning, it will need a bit more attention to bring it back to its normal tidy state.  The sun is shining so I'm in a positive mood that everything will be alright in the end.

Friday, September 2

We don't normally watch bogan shows on TV but we make an exception for The Masked Singer.  What a ratbag of a show: so-called celebrities dress up in outlandish costumes and perform songs.  The show is sprinkled with 'clues' which are supposed to lead the panellists to work out 'who's behind the mask'.

The MC is a loudmouth called Osher who shouts all the time and the panellists on this series included Mel B (or C?) from the Spice Girls whom you would have thought had more to do with her life.  The audience screamed and sobbed at the appropriate times and a good time was had by all.

This world of celebrity is foreign to me but, for many people, it's their reality, There are people, I know, who spend their own lives reading magazines devoted to the lives of others who have attained some kind of notoriety.  Apparently, once you're a celebrity, you are always a celebrity.  One of this year's 'special guests' was Tori Spelling who hasn't worked much since starring in Beverley Hills 90210 twenty years ago.  However, the panellists this year were starry-eyed when seeing her unmasked.  

Can't wait for it to come around next year.