Sunday, September 1

There's an old Scottish expression 'Blawin' a hooley' which I've heard a couple of times recently on the Youtube channels I watch.  It means, of course ,'blowing a gale'.  And it was blawin' a hooley in Longford last night.  The Weather Bureau issued warnings and advised battening down hatches and so on but Marilyn and I slept through it undisturbed.  This morning, there were a few plants dislodged from the shelves at the side of the house but nothing that couldn't be fixed.

It's Fathers' Day today but, thankfully, nobody has suggested that we go out for lunch.  I've never been particularly sociable and I'm not getting any better as I get older.  Jamie says he will drop over later and bring in some treats from the local bakery.  That's the sort of celebration I can cope with.

First, though, he has to pick up a young lady from the airport and deliver her to Nera's Nursing Home in Deloraine.  In a couple of days, he will take her back to the airport to fly back to Melbourne.  It's compulsory now for nursing homes to have a registered nurse on duty for every shift and there is such a shortage they have to bring them in from interstate.  So, one shift might cost the centre the nurse's wags, the airfare and Jamie's expenses for picking her up and delivering her.  And that's why we need to have more immigration.

Saturday, August 31

We've had breakfast, Marilyn is making her regular morning call to her sister so I'm grabbing a few moments to scribble down the daily blog.  It's so quiet!  We could be on a desert island here.  Because we're, essentially, at the end of a cul de sac, surrounded by 5 foot high fences and our nearest neighbour, Jen, has moved on we are isolated from the rest of the world.  If we listen carefully, we can hear the traffic going by on Burghley Street but that's our only contact with the world out there.  I might go for a walk later to check whether there's been a Martian invasion overnight and we've missed it.

Friday, August 30

Wednesday is the day that our garbage men arrive: once a fortnight, they take the green-topped FOGO bin and, on the alternate Wednesdays, they take the garbage and the recycling (yellow- and red- topped).  I've always been pretty proud of the fact that we don't produce much garbage but the recycling bin is always full to overflowing.  It's mostly cardboard, I note, from the packaging around many of the grocery items we buy, but also the boxes from the 'nust-have' items from Amazon, Kogan and so on.  Temu use plastic bags which go straight to landfill.

We try not to buy stuff that produces rubbish.  For a time, we bought our instant coffee in large glass jars which we thought would be useful for something else after they were emptied.  When we had half a dozen taking up room in the pantry without any foreseeable future use, we decided it was time to make other arrangements and the jars went into the recycling.

And now we're experiencing deja vu all over again. We've taken to buying very nice biscuits from a local Korean shop.  In fact, it's Nera who goes to the shop because they sell some of the exotic stuff which she likes.  The biscuits, unfortunately, come in very attractive tins which are too nice just to throw out.  Surely someone would like to have them, we say.  It doesn't take long to eat a tin full of biscuits but then we have to harden our hearts and chuck out the tins.  I put them straight into the rubbish but, maybe, the recycling bin would be a better option.  Who knows?

As you can see, today's 'story' goes back four years.  It was a strange exercise, we thought.

POEM FOR AN AUGUST AFTERNOON                                                    AUGUST 14, 2020

It’s Wednesday already and I think I had better make a start on doing my homework for the Friday morning Writing Group.  As usual, the topics don’t immediately grab me and I let them sit in my sub-consciousness while I have a cup of coffee.  Not yet inspired, I make the tentative choice of Poem for an August Afternoon but there’s no verb in the title so I’m not sure whether I should ‘find’ a poem or ‘write’ a poem but it’s a writing group so probably the latter. Anyway, I’ve no idea what to write so I’ll check Google to see whether someone else’s writing might be the spur I need.

I quite like the poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne:

In the mute August afternoon
They trembled to some undertune
Of music in the silver air;
Great pleasure was it to be there.

… but it’s not what I’m looking for.  Maybe it’s too English so I turn to the New World and find this little ditty by Paul Laurence Dunbar:

When August days are hot an’ dry,
I won’t sit by an’ sigh or die,
I’ll get my bottle (on the sly)
And go ahead, and fish, and lie …

Then, of course, I realise, they’re both writing for the Northern Hemisphere where the weather is warm.  Those poems certainly don’t reflect a Tasmanian August.  Here, in Australia, and especially in Tasmania, August is generally one of the colder months and I certainly won’t forget that just last week we had the worst snowstorm in my memory. 

I go straight to my old favourites, Banjo Paterson and Henry Lawson, and there’s stuff there about Winter, but not specifically mentioning August.  Roderick J Flanagan, an ex-patriate Irishman, in his poem Australian Winter, tries hard but his language is a bit flowery for my taste:

The hoar-frost marks the grassy lawn at morn,
⁠But fades when the first matin beam appears,
Till earth grows bright, as those erewhile forlorn,
⁠Joy when their hope a sunlit aspect wears.

In some ways, August seems to be the forgotten month for poets in the Southern Hemisphere – not quite Winter but not yet Spring.  We imagine we’ve put the worst of Winter behind us and are now in some sort of self-induced hibernation until the first daffodil and wattle blooms tell us that Spring is here.  It’s disappointing that poets seem to ignore the special flavour of a Tasmanian August- that never-ending dullness and dampness -so I have marked this month in Tasmania with an attempt at a haiku:

Grey skies overhead

Spreading their gloom on the world

A slough of despond.

Thursday, August 29

 I have an appointment this morning to have a scan on my leg.  The podiatist I saw last month didn't like the colour of my right leg and said I might need it looked at. There's a bloke in the next village, Perth, who does that sort of thing so I'm off to see him.  The Council has told us that the water might be cut off at 9 o'clock so Marilyn's having her shower before I leave.   It's all go here.

I think Jamie and Nera are flying to Melbourne this weekend to buy a car.  Jamie's Murano is playing up and Nera is itching to pass on her Jeep to him so she can have something better.  She spoke to a broker and he's found a Tesla for her.  They have to be in Melbourne to seal the deal and hope they can get a space on the Spirit of Tasmania to get it home.  Otherwise, they'll leave it in storage and go back another time.

I don't fancy Jamie's job of driving it through Melbourne traffic to the port.  I checked it on Youtube and it doesn't drive like an ordinary car at all.  But, maybe it's the future.

Wednesday, August 28

We're having shocking weather here today: rain and strong, gusty winds.  We have debris from a eucalyptus tree scattered around our back deck and the nearest tree is 50m away.  I have some plant stands at the side of the house, with plastic covers and I had to retrieve one which had been ripped off by the wind.  Marilyn has an appointment this afternoon for some kind of scan but the forecast says the weather will get worse before it gets better so we've postponed the appointment to another day.  When you get older, it's harder to deal with things which never used to be an issue.  

Tuesday. August 27

 Longford is a typical country town which has grown up around a section of the Midlands Highway.  The Main Street exit at the north end of town is just one lane in each direction and ends at a roundabout which will take you East or West.  Just before the roundabout is an empty block of land and some company has applied to build a truck fuel stop on it, operating 24 hours a day, 365 days a year.   

The town is in uproar trying to stop it: the road is too narrow and big trucks trying to turn into the depot will hold up the traffic, and so on.  It was approved by Council a couple of weeks ago and it's now going to the State Government for their rubber stamp.  "Over our dead bodies", say the locals.

There are three service stations in town already, all of whom provide for the trucks, is the cry.  Why do we need another one which will inevitably take business from the existing outlets?  So, there is to be a public meeting on Saturday in the Memorial Hall to talk about it and, I presume, work out a battle plan.  It could be interesting so I'll have to be there.  Jamie's offered to come with me in case it gets ugly.

Monday. August 25

I'm not sure what's happening today.  We have no plans to go out, which is disappointing as we're having beautiful weather, I'm not expecting any parcels (the next one from Temu won't come until Thursday), Jamie hasn't said he will drop by and there's nothing on TV we want to see.  Perhaps someone will drop by to look at the next-door unit, although there hasn't been much interest shown to date, or there might be an alien invasion.  Ho hum!

I'm posting the second story entitled The Way We Were. I used the lyrics of the famous song as a focus.

THE WAY WE WERE                                                                              March 6, 2020

 As the song says, Memories light the corners of my mind.  I can’t express it better and the truth of it becomes more evident every year.  My generation is living longer than any previous one and we are working for fewer hours each week and for fewer years, so we have the luxury of more time to think, and to reflect on the memories we have accumulated  - those Misty water-coloured memories, softened by the passing of time.

 The poet, Roger Robinson, talks about each of us having a ‘portable paradise’ which we carry around with us, concealed, so that no one can steal it.  When life puts us under pressure, he tells us, we should find a quiet place, spread the elements of our paradise out under a lamp and look at them again.

 I think of my paradise, my memories, as being like a collection of interesting stones, carefully gathered over time, and lovingly saved.  Every now and again, I take them out, polish them and think of the way we were.

Scattered pictures, in albums, in drawers, in boxes, in photo-frames, sepia-tinted on the wall, in mobile phones and i-pads … in yellow Kodak envelopes and envelopes covered with foreign stamps, precious slides from our honeymoon, carefully stored in a grey box.

 It’s good to look again at the smiles we left behind, and relish, once again, the smiles we gave to one another for the way we were.

 Can it be that it was all so simple then?  It’s reassuring to think that life was simpler back then, but life is always more complex than we remember.  Our memories prefer to dwell on the better times.  They set aside the worries we had about paying the electricity bill in Winter, 1972, and focus on the pleasures of that summer weekend on the East Coast.  And, isn’t that a good thing?

 Or has time rewritten every line?  Yes, some of the lines have been re-written.  We re-write our lives constantly, consciously and unconsciously.  But maybe the most significant lines are the ones which have been etched on our faces and on the backs of our hands, every line representing a memory.

If we had the chance to do it all again
Tell me, would we?                                                                      Oh, yes, in a heartbeat.

Could we?                                                   But that’s a much more difficult question.

Sunday. August 24

There's not much happening in our little corner of the state.  Jamie and Nera have taken Brendan to Hobart for the weekend and we're looking after Archie. He spends as much time here as he does at home and seems comfortable enough with the arrangement.  Jamie has sent a message to say that they are staying in a tower room at Wrest Point and have wonderful views of the Derwent River and Salamanca Place.  The famous market is in full swing and there are little boats sailing around on the river.  I think he is a bit nostalgic for the days of his childhood here.  Clearly. he has great memories.

The weather is a bit odd.  W always change our sheets on Friday when the cleaning lady comes and hope to wash them on the weekend.  It's a bit cloudy but Marilyn went ahead anyway.  They're both now out on the line and we're watching the clouds anxiously in case I have to make a dash.  There's nothing worse than having to bring them in when you've gone to all the trouble to put them out.

I've following a fellow on Quora called Ian Lang who writes from somewhere in the north of England.  His stuff is quirky and he always signs off with, 'I blame the EU.  Ursula ....'.

I'd follow his lead but I don't know who to blame.

Saturday, August 24

 It was a very interesting ceremony yesterday where Brendan was presented with his scholarship.  There were about 10 recipients and, because they were all overseas students, there were not very many supporters in the audience.  However, Brendan had quite a support group: Jamie and Nera. Marilyn and me, and another 5 or 6 from the local filipino community. On a table were framed certificates for the recipients, the speeches were upbeat and congratulatory and the students were all made to feel special and welcome in Tasmania.

Afternoon Tea was served: pizza slices, sausage rolls, cheese and biscuits which would have satisfied five times the number but, at the end, the caterers brought out plastic boxes and told the students to take away whatever they wanted.

It was impressive and left us all feeling good

Friday, August 23

The sun is splitting the trees, as my mother used to say.  I haven't been out so I don't know how cold it is; I'll just stay in my warm cocoon until the cleaning lady arrives.  She comes every Friday morning for a couple of hours and I try to keep out of her way.  We picked Friday morning for this activity because I was usually at my Writing group but, since I've aborted that I find myself hanging about getting in the way.

This afternoon, Brendan is being presented with his 'scholarship' cheque at a posh ceremony at one of the better reception centres in Launceston.  Apparently, each department at the TAFE has a similar scholarship and they're all presented this afternoon.  We're his de facto family so will sit there beaming proudly while he collects the cheque.   It's all part of the process.

Sorting out my stories, I find that I have two with the same name.  I'll post one today and the other on Monday.  This one is from 2020.

THE WAY WE WERE 1                                                                                                                     2020

It’s an embarrassment, to look back and think about the way we were in those days long ago ...d in fact, not so long ago.  Perhaps we can be excused for how we behaved in the Sixties: we were young and surely youth is a reasonable explanation of all kinds of bizarre behaviour.  With the threat of the ‘Bomb’ ever hanging over our heads, life seemed unreliable, and our mantra could have been ‘Eat, Drink and be Merry’.

The Seventies, too, brought its own pressures and we’re often told that, in those years, we were trying to develop an identity different to our parents by reacting against all the values we had been taught.  Some people say that if you can remember the Seventies, you weren’t there.  Others say there was something in the air which made us behave the way we did; I thought it was tobacco smoke but maybe it wasn’t.  Trying to be avant-garde in the Seventies we wore our hair too long and chose clothes which made a statement.  Looking back, I think that my clothes were making the statement that I had no taste.

By the Eighties, many of us had acquired some semblance of respectability.  Some of us had mortgages and were on the treadmill of seeking promotion in our careers.  Yet, we still rebelled by growing beards and drinking exotic cocktails.  Not content with the 3-bedroom weatherboard and iron cottages of our parents’ generations, we strove for brick veneer with 2-car garages and rumpus rooms.  Strangely, to this day, I have never been invited to a rumpus in a purpose-built room.

The Nineties was a time of Hope.  We were optimistic that the good times would continue.  We acquired the habit of eating out more regularly, even driving long distances to experience a new restaurant.  Influenced by the power of advertising, we filled our houses with gadgets.  How did our mothers ever make an appetising meal without the kitchen whizzes we now had displayed proudly on the walls and would I ever get around to using all the tools in my garage?

Some of us made our first overseas trip in the Nineties and learned that there was a vast and different world out there.   Airfares had come within reach of all and we took advantage while we could.

In the Noughties, we were Respectability Personified.  We were the ones being asked to be the secretary of the Bowls Club or get involved in the Show Society.  We all had a library card and only watched worthy shows on TV.  We had opinions on politics and what movies were worth watching.  Our grand-children, secretly, thought we were boring

In the Tens, our lives have slowed down.  An exciting day out can only occur if we are not too far from a reasonably clean toilet.  We avoid spicy food on the advice of our doctor and always make sure our spectacles are not too far from our reach.  We spend a lot of time reading and the lucky ones of us enjoy contact with younger members of our family.

In 2020, we look back on lives enriched by constant change.  We are the lucky generation, born into a world reeling from the aftermath of two World Wars, but still a world filled with confidence that the future would be better than the past, that the purpose of our lives was to make the world a better place for those who would follow us.  The question is, though, have we failed in our duty to build on the sacrifices of our grand-parents and parents?  Are we the generation which has squandered the legacy which was gifted to us when we took the baton from the generation before us? If so, is it too late to change our ways?

It's probably not too late but do we have the will?  My parents took a deep breath in the 1940’s and knuckled down to deal with the very definite threat of Herr Hitler.  I’m old enough to have experienced rationing which wasn’t lifted until the 1950s in the UK but that’s a distant memory even to us oldies.  I think today we have the idea that hardship is what happens when the electricity is cut off for an hour or two or the supermarket runs out of our favourite ice-cream.  And maybe it’s not such a bad thing that our life is easier.  Who needs hardship? 

In fact, life is good so let’s enjoy it.

Thursday, August 22

 We tell ourselves that there is no need to get up so early in the morning.  The days are long enough and, when you get to our age you need to look after yourself better.  But, it makes no difference, My eyes open just before 7 each morning, Summer or Winter, and I have to be up and about.  Marilyn enjoys staying in bed a bit longer and it's my job to bring her a cup of coffee. Marilyn tells me that my coffee is always better but I think that's just flim-flam to keep me happy (and to keep me making it!).

It's a long day, though. We'll punctuate it with a bit of a walk, reading a few pages of our books and maybe a Youtube video or two. We're enjoying watching videos of places we never got to, like Santorino or Valpairaso and we try to keep up with some of the professional You-tubers like Scott or Steve or Brogan.  

I suppose it's not a bad life.

Wednesday, August 21

I mentioned a few weeks ago that Nera's nephew, Brendan, had arrived from the Philippines to study here.  The course is quite expensive, several thousand dollars per semester, so he has had to find work and, happily, that hasn't been too hard.  He's getting regular shifts at a Nursing Home as a cleaner and was even co-opted to work in the kitchen at one point.  He's much happier cleaning because he can chat to all the old dears and that is his nature.

However, he heard the other day that the Tasmanian Government has awarded him a scholarship which is worth $30 000 which will just about cover his fees for the two years.  Fantastic!

The unbelievable thing is that a young woman who boarded with Jamie and Nera for the last couple of years while she was studying also won the same scholarship.  She had the same bedroom where Brendan is now installed.  Spooky!

Tuesday, August 20

I dropped Marilyn off to her Craft group and went to an appointment with the doctor: nothing is wrong but she wanted me to have my regular check-up.  At my advanced age, they like to make sure I'm having my fair share of medications and that I'm not too noticeably gaga.   Apparently, I fulfilled the requirements and I'm safe to live in the community.

Marilyn and I often say how lucky we are to live in Australia where the social services are so accessible.

Nobody has moved into the unit next door which is empty since Jen moved to co-habit with her boyfriend.  I thought the asking price for the rent ($460) might be a bit steep but what do I know.  There have been a couple of cars nosing around but the people in one oversized monster took one look at the rather narrow driveway and left without getting out of the car.  A nice, recently retired couple with a sensible 4-cylinder car and impeccable habits is what we're looking for.

Monday, August 19

 It's another gloomy day.  I can understand how they say that there are more sufferers from depression in areas like ours than in the tropics. A little bit of sunshine makes all the difference.

I'm typing this on my old HP desktop computer.  I finally bit the bullet and asked Jamie to remove the wonderful Mac laptop.  Common sense told me that two computers on one desk was over-kill and the second one took up too much room.  Now I'm regretting it.

The problem with the H-P is that it has a compact keyboard.  Somewhere along the line I decided that a basic keyboard was what I needed.  It's only 285mm wide (that's 11 inches) and the two lugs on the back which are intended to give it a bit of a lean have been lost.  My clumsy fingers don't cope with the tiny keys and I've got it propped up on an old iPod. Jamie, of course, says it's time I bought a new computer (which will come with a better keyboard) and JB HiFi has a beauty on sale but I'm not ready to splash out another $1000 at the moment (or ever).  Instead I've ordered a new keyboard and mouse and it should arrive in the next day or so.  In case you're wondering, I didn't order it from Temu.  I'm trying to wean myself off that site at the moment.

Jamie says I'm avoiding the inevitable and he has bet me I'll have bought a new computer before Christmas.  The problem is, he's probably right.

BONNIE LASS                                                                                   OCTOBER 8, 2021

 Some mornings, when there was frost on the ground and her breath crackled in the icy air, Fiona questioned whether her choice of career was a wise one.  Some people know, from a young age, what they are destined to become and, for Fiona, deep in her soul, she knew she would, one day, be a famous jockey.  Before reaching those dizzy heights, though, she had years of apprenticeship to complete, and more years of building up a reputation, before she might be trusted to saddle up one of the favourites in a major race. 

 Most mornings were like this: get up at the crack of dawn, splash some cold water on her face, make a cursory brush of her teeth, grab a roll from the kitchen and report to the stables to see what horse-in-training she would be responsible for. Today might be different: the boss had told the staff that a new horse would be joining their string: a filly with great potential.  It had impeccable breeding and pundits were already saying she was one to watch out for. Fiona hoped that she might get the nod to take her on her first training run.

 A noise behind her made her turn around. It was another apprentice, Jake, last to arrive as usual.  If appearances counted for anything, Jake was in the wrong occupation.  Dishevelled and prone to lateness, Jake always struggled with his weight.  But he seemed to have no ambition to find anything else to do with his life. 

 Jake was forgotten as the stable door opened and one of the hands came out leading the most beautiful animal Fiona had ever seen: this was Bonnie Lass, the new arrival. Fiona’s Scottish grandmother had always called her Bonnie Lass so Fiona felt she had a personal stake in this horse. The stable hand had found a tartan saddlecloth for her and Fiona took this as a good omen, too.

She could hardly believe her luck when the trainer called out, “Up you get, Fiona.  Look after her and we’ll talk later about her program.”  Fiona hurried forward and accepted the cupped hands of the strapper to help her into the saddle.

Bonnie Lass was a delight to ride, well-mannered and compliant but Fiona sensed there was a spirit there waiting to be unleashed.  As they approached the paddocks, Fiona could see Jake struggling to get his mount under control.  Max was a notoriously  difficult horse, hard-mouthed and cantankerous.  Fiona pushed Bonnie Lass forward, knowing that, if Max saw another horse galloping past him, his natural racing instinct would take over and he would give up his bad behaviour in the excitement of the chase.  Fiona knew she should have spent more time in warming up Bonnie Lass before asking her to stretch out but Max was now under control and Jake could handle him from there.  The odd thing was that Max had been at full stretch but did not make up any ground on his stable mate.  Bonnie Lass maintained her lead with no apparent difficulty while Max had clearly strained every sinew to catch up with her.

 I think we’re on to a winner here, thought Fiona.

 The training session passed without further incident and the string returned to the stables for the horses to be rubbed down, checked for injury and given their first feed of the day. The grooms and jockeys gathered in the dining room as was the pattern in their rigidly controlled program.  There was plenty of food available and the hubbub of noise abated as people’s attention focused on their breakfast.

 The head trainer strode into the room and the noise of eating and conversation died down.  This was not a normal occurrence.  His eyes traversed the room and settled on Fiona.  A finger crooked and Fiona rose to her feet and shame-facedly crept out of the dining room towards the stern face of the boss.

 “I saw what you did there, Fiona, and I don’t want you to feel pleased with yourself.  Your first responsibility is to your mount and nothing – and I mean nothing – should ever get in the way of your responsibility.  Take this as a first warning.  If it happens again, you are out.  I had thought of letting you be the regular rider of Bonnie Lass but I can’t entrust her to anyone who doesn’t put her welfare above everything else.  Someone else will take her tomorrow and you can stick with the also-rans.

Stunned, Fiona could only mutter ‘I’m sorry’ and return to her seat.  Her appetite for breakfast had gone and she sat there, her precious happy mood in ruins.  She knew it would take her a long time to make amends for her stupidity.

 

Sunday, August 18

We're always on the lookout for ways to make our lives easier.  Jamie is a big help but he can't be here every day.  Marilyn has help with the housework once a week and we can get a gardener from time to time if the yard needs a tidy-up.  One big issue is meals.  It's a big job providing three meals a day for two people and the bulk of this falls on Marilyn.  For the past few months we've had Meals on Wheels delivered.  They're not free but they relieve the challenge of kitchen drudgery.  Mid-morning on five days per week a car arrived with our evening meals for the day. On the other days, we look after ourselves. The meals have been good but they're not very exciting, so we're looking around for an alternative.

Frozen meals don't quite fill the bill, packaged meals like Hello Fresh still need quite a bit of preparation, you can only eat so many takeaway pizzas and we can't afford to go to Stickybeaks every night.  There's a company in Hobart which provide home-cooked meals but Longford might be a bit out of their delivery area.  There must be something similar in the north of the state so the search continues.

Saturday, August 17

 I was looking for something to read this morning and I stumbled across a book by Billy Connolly, Tall Tales and Wee Stories.  I've probably read it before but it'll do at a pinch.  I suppose I've always been a fan.  On one memorable occasion, he was visiting Tasmania and Marilyn and I went to see him perform at the Granada Tavern.  We laughed and laughed, like everyone else there but the highlight of the evening was as we were leaving.  On the way to the carpark was a lighted window and, behind the glass, in all his naked glory was Billy getting changed.  Was it all part of the act, I wonder?

I must be getting old because I can't tolerate his gratuitous foul language any more but there was one chapter in the book which brought back memories - a chapter entitled A Swim in the North Sea. In 1950, before we came to Australia, Mum took my brother and me to visit my father's family at a fishing village called Johnshaven  in North-East Scotland.  My memory insists that we had fine weather all the time we were there and, apparently, I decided I wanted to have a swim in the North Sea.  In front of Uncle Alec's House was a tiny rocky beach where we would take the plunge.  My swimming costume, like Billy's in the book, was navy blue, knitted wool with a belt and a pocket.  My tender feet struggled over the rocks as I took the plunge ... and retreated swiftly back to the shore.  I couldn't have imagined how cold it would be.  There were probably icebergs floating just over the horizon.

I still have a pebble from that beach sitting on my desk, brought back by my brother from a trip many years later.

Friday, August 16

We're waiting for the cleaning lady to arrive and Jamie's just driven up  to take me out for coffee while Marilyn stays home to supervise.  I'm posting a story I wrote about my visit to Cambridge in 2013.  Yesterday, we were watching a Youtube video about Cambridge. and I mentioned to Marilyn that I had good memories of a shop called the Haunted Bookshop ... and there it was on the screen, painted red as I remembered.  So, here is the story:

THE BOOKSHOP

I was feeling footsore and weary after a day exploring the backstreets and alleyways of Cambridge, guided by a friend who had made this beautiful city his adopted home.  I looked forward to a comfortable chair and a cup of good coffee but Brian insisted on one more stop before we headed for home. 

We turned off one narrow laneway into an even narrower St Edmunds Passage and there was our destination: The Haunted Bookshop.  This gem of a bookshop specialises in children’s books and the window is cluttered with ancient leather-bound and cracked volumes with faded gold lettering.  Inside, in the cramped, musty space, books are both on shelves and stacked in teetering piles on the floor.  A friendly lady sits quietly behind a till.  It is very quiet.

There seems to be no order to the chaos but, on investigation, I see that an attempt has been made to alphabetise those on the shelves, and the piles of clutter appear to be organised in some sort of thematic way: fairy stories together, boys’ own adventures in another pile.  My eye is drawn to a vintage copy of Enid Blyton’s Rubbalong Tales, a favourite from my childhood and I wonder whether I am enchanted enough to part with the 60 pounds asking price.  There is so much more to see and I drag my eyes away to editions of Biggles books by the yard.  I remember parting with the last of my Biggles books just a few years ago.  Charles Kingsley’s The Water Babies seems to be in mint condition, certainly not like the copy I pored over as a child.

I hear a man and his young child enter when the floorboards behind me creak.  They are directed upstairs, via a tiny staircase in the corner I hadn’t even noticed.  Following them, we make our way up the narrow stairs, with more piles of books on every step, and where more delights await.  My friend and I play the game of throwing out a remembered name and seeking it out among the cluttered shelves: Robert Louis Stevenson, Jules Verne, Lewis Carroll: they are all there in various editions and of varying qualities.

I would have liked to have found an illustrated Oliver Twist like the one I received for my 7^th birthday and which disappeared in one of my moves, but it never occurred to me at the time.  Perhaps I was so enthralled with the variety that I couldn’t think of what I might take as a reminder of my visit.

I did remember my childhood comic books: the Dandy and the Beano, and The Eagle, each new edition awaited eagerly and read avidly from cover to cover.  There they were, some tattered editions going back to the 1940s and 50s.  Of course, comics such as these were strictly rationed when I was young and If I had had more access to such treasures would they have been so appreciated?

My friend introduced me to the lady behind the till who was the proprietor.  I congratulated her on her initiative in providing such a business and asked why she had chosen the name The Haunted Bookshop.  She said that, in her mind, all bookshops were haunted: by the voices of the living and the dead, voices that are trapped until we release them.  These voices can be smiling, laughing, whispering and screaming.  They live in the dry remains of dead trees, and only we can animate them.  And each spirit, when it is released into our mind becomes inseparable from our own – no two persons can be haunted in precisely the same way.

I wondered what it would be like to live in a town where such treasures were there for me to delve into whenever the itch came upon me.  Picking up one comic from the year I turned 8, I found that I was disappointed with the clumsiness of the prose and the banality of the story. I put the volume back on the shelf, unwilling to spoil the warm memories of childhood by a dose of reality.

I left the Haunted Bookshop empty-handed.  I suppose I imagined I would return there another day and could buy a book then, but I don’t need a tangible reminder of my visit.  The memories of the unruly piles of books, the faint, musty aroma and the olde-world ambience stay with me always.

Thursday, August 15

 It was our Probus meeting yesterday and I had been tagged to be Guest Speaker.  I offered to talk about our various trips to the Philippines.  Normally, this would just be 'another day ay the office'. I'm comfortable with Powerpoint and I've made dozens of presentations like this one, often to more difficult groups than this Longford Mens Probus.

I had about thirty slides and a mixture of facts and anecdotes and I expected there would be one or two light-hearted moments and some questions at the end.

However, I found it difficult to sleep the night before, going over and over the presentation in my mind and, when it came to the time to talk to the group, I stumbled from the beginning.  I know that I mumbled, didn't hold the microphone up and, generally, made a botch of it.  The members were polite but I think we were all glad when it was over.

Time to take stock.

Tuesday, August 13

The house is quiet; Marilyn is going off to a Craft Morning followed by Bingo.  She has never been a 'crafty' person but I think her gambling instinct makes her a natural for Bingo.  She's waiting for Jamie to arrive to drop her off.  He's still having trouble with his car and is using mine in the meantime.  I have a bit to do on the computer, tidying up a presentation I've promised to make for my Probus Club tomorrow.  My topic is 'The Philippines', talking about the various trips we've made there and the project we worked on with the Rotary Club.  I've misplaced a lot of the photographs I took but I'll just have to waffle a bit more to cover the gaps.

We made our first trip in 2006 but I'm not sure about the last one.  I'll have to ask Jamie because we stayed at Balatan in the house he and Nera own.  I checked my passport but the last trip it shows is 2015 (9 years ago?) and that seems a bit early.  I have a new passport but it is completely unused.  It's all a mystery.

Monday, August 12

 The Los Angeles Olympics look like being a lot more up-beat and way-out than the Paris effort.  We couldn't take our eyes off the pizzaz this morning as the torch was handed on to the city which will host the 2028 event.  And it took Tom Cruise and Dr Dre and any number of 'important' artists to make sure it was handed over with the maximum amount of ... something.  We're getting too old for all of this.

I wrote The Return Journey in 2021 having been challenged to write a love story.

THE RETURN JOURNEY                                                                                 OCTOBER 1, 2021

Barbara often looked back on her life and, on this morning of her 67^th birthday, as she contemplated retirement, she wondered about the circumstances which had brought her to this point.  She felt that she had been drifting all this time, at the mercy of the vagaries of fate, accepting whatever happened to her with resignation.  A line from Tennyson occurred to her: ‘like petals from blown roses on the grass’.  Is that what she was, a petal from a blown rose, carried by the wind from one corner of the yard to another, until the time came that she would be absorbed back into the soil of the garden and forgotten?

She lived alone, not by choice but, again, by circumstance.  She told her workmates and family that she didn’t have time for a husband but, in reality, she had never been asked, and rarely been kissed, if the truth be known.  She must have been reasonably attractive as a teenager because one or two boys had asked her out on a date but she was seldom asked twice by the same boy.  Somehow, she found herself in her thirties, single with no prospects.  “You’ve missed the boat, love,” said her mother, still as English as the day she left the old country for the new world.

That was a great event in Barbara’s memory, that ship’s voyage with her family, from Liverpool, through the Mediterranean, and the Suez Canal, across the Indian Ocean to opportunities in Australia.  Had she made the most of those opportunities, she wondered?  Brought up to believe that her purpose in life was to support a husband who would be the provider and protector of the family, she didn’t work hard at school.  In her imagination, she assumed she would leave school at fifteen, work for a few years before marrying and devote the rest of her life to supporting her husband and two or three children.  That’s where her destiny lay.

But the years passed, and marriage eluded her. The dead-end job she took when she left school - as a clerk-typist in a government office – had to become much more than a fill-in until marriage rescued her.  She studied hard, gained qualifications and rose in the hierarchy of the public service.  She was now on the cusp of retirement with a generous pension and enough put aside to indulge any fantasy she might envisage.

But Barbara was not one for fantasies.  She had but one ambition: to make a return journey to England, to relive some of the memories she had of that exciting voyage more than half a century before.  Her travel agent assured her that it was possible, that several cruise lines made round-the-world journeys and she could choose one which might revisit some of the ports she remembered.  She would make the trip alone, even though there were acquaintances, single and widowed, who would have been happy to accompany her.  

Short-term tenants were found for her house and Barbara joined the ship at Circular Quay in Sydney Harbour where she remembered arriving all those years ago.  Barbara had indulged herself and booked a comfortable cabin on an upper deck.  She had a balcony but was determined not to isolate herself by sitting there too often.  Every day, she made a point of checking the daily schedule and booking in to every event possible. In between organised events, she sat in one or other of the many bars and meeting areas, chatting with other passengers. She told herself she was just being sociable but, deep down, she wondered whether she might, by chance, meet someone who could become more than a passing acquaintance.  What would he be like, she thought: tall, of course, and well-dressed.  In her imagination, he was a retired seaman, somewhat weather-beaten, with a devil-may-care attitude, ready to sweep her off her feet.

Barbara did meet a man on that voyage.  It happened on the fourth day when she was starting to wonder whether every man on the ship was married or gay.  She was sitting on the Promenade Deck watching a lone albatross circling the ship’s funnel, when a quiet voice murmured, “Is this seat taken?”  He was a small man, balding and diffident in his manner.  He wore shorts and sandals with socks, and his accent was definitely English.  Barbara politely invited him to sit, and went back to reading her book.  

She saw him again at the next table during dinner and, walking around the deck the following morning.  Was he stalking her, she wondered?  That thought gave her a little frisson of excitement.

They were soon meeting up for coffee and they arranged to attend the captain’s Cocktail Party together.  They agreed to meet up on the shore excursion in Rome and, by the time they arrived in London, Barbara was looking forward to visiting his family home in Hampshire.

They say that romance can come to anyone at any time.  Barbara didn’t know if what she was experiencing was romance but was enjoying it nevertheless.  The rest of Barbara’s story remains to be written but the later chapters look like being a lot more interesting than the earlier ones.

Sunday, August 11

So, this is the last day of the Olympics. I must be getting old and cynical because I haven't really enjoyed much of it.  I can still get excited when I see a good 1500m race, or a close finish in a kayak race but a lot of it just leaves me cold.  The inclusion of stuff like skateboarding and break-dancing is ludicrous and I imagine will turn off a lot more people than it will attract.  The other thing is the second-rate commentators we had to put up with this year.  Most of them seem to have little idea about what they are talking about.  So many have harsh, nasal voices which don't suit a microphone. And who wants to listen to the competitors' Mums and Dads being interviewed.? "How did you feel when Natasha won the race?" Duh!

Saturday, August 10

There has been a bit of activity next door as Jen gets her unit in shape for renting.  A boyfriend came with a truck to cart stuff away, her father arrived to sort out some issues.  Then a team of cleaners descended on the place followed by someone to shampoo the carpet.  That last crowd left the air conditioner on, I suppose to help dry out the dampness.  Then quietness descended.

Yesterday, a small white car drove up with a strange notice painted on the side - @home.  It was a realestate person, who spent an hour or so in the unit before driving away.  Perhaps they were doing a survey or waiting for a prospective client who didn't turn up.  I'm not nosy but ...

I looked at their website and found the unit listed for rent, for a weekly cost of $460!  What?   This is a 2-bedroom unit in a country town in Tasmania, for goodness sake.  Who would pay that sort of money?  I suppose we should be pleased because the prospective renters will likely be a couple who both work, rather than a single-income family with a couple of kids and a stay-at-home mum.  Anyway, the main worry is that Jamie might want to move Marilyn and me into a caravan and rent out our place.  $460 .. it's madness.

Friday, August 9

Marilyn asked me yesterday bow long we have been in this unit.  I had no idea but, in cases like that, I can look back over this blog to find out whether I had recorded it.  In fact, it was August 2020 so we have been here four years.  While I was back there, looking at what I had written, I noticed that I had up-loaded some of the stories I had been writing.  I had forgotten.  Some of those same stories have been uploaded again, in the past few weeks.  People will think I'm getting dotty. if I'm not careful.

I've chosen a very tasteful story this morning, called Public Toilet Graffiti.

PUBLIC TOILET GRAFFITI                                                                                 JUNE 30, 2023

 

Geordie sank back on the seat with a sigh.  What sort of life is this, he thought?  Spending my days avoiding the police, hiding in back alleys and public toilets, trying to make a quid. Whatever happened to my mum’s hope that I’d become a teacher like her or a bank manager like my dad?  He slowly got to his feet, listening for any noise, opening the toilet door carefully just in case someone was watching.

 

Nothing happened.  There was no sudden rush of feet as the police hurried to grab him, no creak of an outside door to signify there were still people nearby.  Maybe it was alright and he had survived to live another day – another day of pushing drugs, passing on stolen property from one pair of grubby hands to another, and another day of, perhaps, snatching a handbag from an unsuspecting elderly woman.  The elderly were the easiest marks, of course, so focused on their aches and pains, they couldn’t keep proper watch on their property.

 

He walked over to the sink to wash his hands; his mother’s patient teaching still remembered. Idly, his gaze wandered across the graffiti which sullied the walls.  Even the best efforts of the council cleaning staff could not keep abreast of the constant renewal of foul messages and lewd suggestions.  The cleaners had obviously been here recently because there were several bare patches and, in one of those patches, someone had written a new message.  It must have been done very recently as the black ink was still shining.

 

The message said, simply ‘Don’t make dreams your master’. Geordie’s heart seemed to miss a beat.  Those words!  How is it that those words could have been written on the wall of the very toilet that Geordie had used in his running from the police?  His mind grappled with memories: his grandfather, dead now, the dingy flat he lived in during his final years, the smelly tartan rug which covered the shabby lounge chair and the elderly dog who seemed to spend his life snoring at grandfather’s feet.  But most of all Geordie thought of the poster which hung on the wall of his grandfather’s bedroom.  It was a poem: ‘If’ by Rudyard Kipling which ended with the lines “You’ll be a man, my son”.  The words recently written on the wall came from that poem.

 

Standing here, in this squalid toilet, Geordie realised that he hadn’t thought about his grandfather, or the poem, for years, yet those few words scribbled on the filthy toilet wall had brought back memories of sitting with his grandfather talking about life and the struggles that people experience, and absorbing lessons about what it meant to be a man.  Grandfather had been born into that generation who had memories of World War II and who understood the meaning of sacrifice and how men found within themselves strength to achieve more than they could have imagined.  Grandfather often talked about manhood: the privileges, the responsibilities, the opportunities wrapped up in the idea of being a man.  What would his grandfather think if he knew about what Geordie had become?  Geordie imagined he could hear the old man’s words, wracked with sadness.

 

‘Oh, Geordie, what has happened to you?’

 

Geordie felt that someone had pressed a Pause button and his life had come to a stop.  For the first time in years, he believed that he had reached a point where he was faced with the need to make a decision about what the rest of his life would be like.  He realised that he had just been coasting along for the past couple of years, living from one day to the next, not thinking at all of the future.  He was almost embarrassed as the next thought entered his brain, “Is what I am doing now a manly thing to do?  Will it help me become a better man?”

 

The answer, thought Geordie is No! It is decidedly not.  The manly thing to do, Geordie decided, was for him to change his life. Be strong, he thought to himself, make your Mum and Dad and, especially, your Grand-dad, looking down from heaven, proud of you.  Do it now, flush the drugs down the toilet, make a fresh start!

 

The door behind him opened.  “Hey, Geordie!  What’ve you got?  I’m desperate.”

 

Geordie sighed deeply.  “How’re you going, Chas?  Do you want your usual?”  He sighed again.  Definitely, tomorrow, he thought, I’ll give all this up and make that fresh start.

Thursday, August 8

I sat down at the computer this morning planning to scribble down this blog but Jamie arrived and wanted to do some more work on our planning for when we get old.  It seems to take forever.  However, he's gone now and the next item on our calendar is getting our hair cut at 4.30 - plenty of time for me to have my say.

Marilyn and I have been married for 58 years and I've bought her a lot of presents in that time.  Some may have been cheap and forgettable, others more expensive and memorable but, over the past few days, she has said more than once."This is the best present I have ever received."

Is she talking about something gold which lives on her finger, or  her iPhone, or the electronic device which stores the books she is reading?  No, she is referring to the electric toothbrush I bought her recently from Temu.  I only bought it to make up the amount I needed to be able to get free delivery of my order and it has turned out to be 'the best present I have ever had.'  I would hate to tell you how little it cost but I've worked out that when I need replacement heads, it will be cheaper to buy a whole new unit.

In the meantime, I'm well on the way to putting together the next order.  I think I need to get up to $50 before I send it but I have my eye on a particularly smart polo shirt.

Wednesday, August 7

 During a particularly cold snap a few weeks ago, our bird bath froze over, large flakes of the orange ceramic material started to break away and, eventually a large crack appeared in the bottom.  A bird bath that leaks is not much use so I asked Jamie to get rid of it.  The base was still intact but, as it was a statue depicting a naked cherub, I decided that it needed to go too.  We haven't got around to replacing it yet but 'it's on the list'.

This morning is bright and sunny.  Marilyn was looking out of the window and commented that there was a string of birds sitting on the fence, looking forlornly at the place where the bird bath used to be.  I'm sure it was just a coincidence that they were sitting there but Marilyn was sure they were bemoaning the fact that they couldn't have their morning splash. I could get a new bath, I suppose, from Bunnings or I could order one from Temu but that doesn't solve this morning's dilemma.  

Marilyn pointed out that we have a large flat bowl taking up space in our lounge room.  We had it made by a bloke called Len Cook who had a studio at a place called Paluma near Townsville.  Marilyn always called it Heloise's Bowl because our cat (Heloise) loved to sleep in it.  All Len's pottery was large and fired in a wood kiln, using wood from old timber fences.  He had a deal with the local farmers to build new fences for them and he would take away the old stuff.  The old stuff fired his kiln providing more heat than he might get otherwise.

I wonder what Len would think of his very artistic piece being relegated to the job of bathing dirty sparrows and starlings.

Tuesday, August 6

Maybe it's today's weather which is contributing to my mood this morning.  It's raining, the skies are grey and there is not a sound from anywhere: no traffic, no kids squealing, no TV.  We might as well be on a desert island.  I'm not exactly glum but I'm not full of the joys of Spring either.

Sometimes you wake up with a determination to have a rain check: to evaluate your life and decide which direction you will follow in the future. I'm not sure what I could change to make me more cheerful but I can't help thinking of the old song, 'What's it all about, Alfie?'

Marilyn had planned to go to her usual Craft Morning today but is not showing any enthusiasm for getting ready.  Maybe we're sharing a fit of the blues. Perhaps another cup of coffee will help.

Monday, August 5

We're up early this morning.  We both woke at about 6 and it seemed a good idea to have a cup of coffee, so here we are. I have an appointment in Launceston just after 9.  We've become used to having our meetings with doctors and so on here in Longford. but today I have to have my annual assessment by the Podiatrist.  Apparently, she needs a particular machine which is too big to fit in the back of her car.

Marilyn says she'll come with me for a drive.  When you're retired and people make every effort to bring their services to your door, it's a pleasure to get out into the wider world from time to time.  We might even pop into Coles on the way home.  We haven't been in a supermarket for months.  Oh, the joy!

I don't know what inspired today's story but here it is.

THE WAY AHEAD                                                              NOVEMBER 27, 2020

 

Murray had done very well at school and his teachers all noted that he could have chosen any career for himself and been successful.  He was quite keen to stay in education, perhaps at a University level, but everyone sniggered at that idea.  “You have a gift, son.  Don’t throw it away on trying to teach some ungrateful spotty adolescents,” said his father. 

There was encouragement for him to look at something in finance; an assured way of earning some serious money was to keep it close to you, but everything changed on the night of his High School Graduation where the Guest Speaker was Professor Fiona Stanley.  One sentence in her address caught his attention:  "In my dreams I would sail out to all the undiscovered islands and inoculate the inhabitants in a whirlwind race to conquer disease and pestilence."

It was as if a switch had been thrown in his brain and Murray knew, without any doubt, that his life’s work would be in the field of Medical Research.  He often thought about that ‘lightbulb moment’, many years later, as he struggled in his laboratory with the routine and mundane tasks which took up so much of his time. In his youthful innocence he had seen himself finding a cure for childhood leukemia or an elixir to slow down the aging process but, after all these years he had not worked on anything more significant than a treatment for male impotence.

He tried hard not to show his excitement when, in 2020, a virulent strain of an acute respiratory disease started to make its presence felt.  As the seriousness of this new COVID-19 became apparent, the resources of the medical world were galvanised into seeking a cure.  “Forget what you’re doing,” said his boss. “Covid-19 is the only game in town and the laboratory which develops the first vaccine will have their future assured.”

Murray knew that the tiny laboratory where he worked didn’t have access to the same resources as the big players in the US and Europe but great discoveries of the past had often occurred in very simple settings.  Murray thought of the mould on Alexander Fleming’s windowsill at St Mary’s Hospital in Paddington; the genius, he thought, is in recognising the significance of the discovery, rather than the discovery itself.  There is no reason, he told himself, that I can’t be the one to discover the next penicillin.

He threw himself into his work with his typical passion and each night, after a day in the laboratory, he spent hours on the internet, chatting with fellow-researchers across the world.  The big pharmaceutical companies were very reluctant to talk about their progress, of course.  After all, there will be an enormous profit to be made by the first company to get their vaccine on to the market but there were enough individual researchers out there with an altruistic belief in the common good to make Murray’s evenings worthwhile.

Each night, he would fall into bed for a few hours’ sleep and not once did he lose heart.  Every little step forward excited him and gradually the way ahead started to become clear in his mind.  He started to wonder whether the answer would really be found in focusing on the vascular and respiratory aspects of the illness.  The virus certainly attacked those areas but was it just too obvious that these were the areas which deserved most attention?

Over time, a new approach started to develop in his imagination.  It was as if his thoughts were being controlled by other intelligences.  He shared his ideas with close confidants across the globe and many of them offered their support and gradually an international team was established.

From the beginning, Murray was determined that, if the vaccine were to be worthwhile it had to be administered orally or through a nasal spray so that it could be available to the most remote areas of the world. His passion was infectious and things happened quickly: the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation heard about the project and have promised funding, the World Health Organisation has agreed to conduct the testing regime and Rotary International will coordinate the roll-out in third world countries as they did in the program to eradicate Polio.  Yes, the poor of the world will get the new vaccine first and the US and European billionaires who thought that, as usual, they would have priority will have to wait their turn.

Sunday, August 4

 It's 2.16 in the afternoon, very late to wrote a blog but I will try nevertheless.  I woke this morning at the usual time, had my morning coffee and breakfast, and sat at the computer intending to scribble down a few words about something or other.  Then Marilyn came through and reminded me that I had promised to make a pot of soup this morning. Yes, dear!

Since I sent half of my first batch of soup for this season to Jamie and Nera, there has been a persistent demand for more.  They've even taken to rating each different batch; the first was good, the second 'not bad' but the last was a triumph.  It was a Cream of Cauliflower and my favourite too.  Today's creation is a Beef and Barley.  I did have a recipe but I'm not good at following directions.  It's a lot thicker than is recommended but I'm sure it will be better.  It's not ready yet so we'll know later if it's OK.

Saturday, August 3

 At last, an articulate medal-winner at the 2024 Olympics.  In saying that, I might be being unfair to competitors from other countries, but I can’t imagine what the international community is thinking about the Australian education system.  First, warm congratulations to Jemima Montag for her third place in the 20 km walk and for her precise, correct, articulate interview following it.  I mean Jemima was articulate, not the over-gushy, pushy, tongue-tied interviewer.

 

In an attempt to help where I can, I’ve prepared a list of things for interviewers to avoid when talking on air.  Train yourselves to avoid the dreadful ‘um’.  ‘So’ should be used sparingly and never to introduce a new thought.  ‘Yeah’ is taboo. ‘Yeah, nah’ is worse. ‘So, yeah’ and ‘Yeah, um’ or, even, ‘So, um,’ should lead to immediate shutdown of the interview.  

 

It doesn’t have to be like it is.

Friday, August 2

The cleaning lady has arrived and I've escaped to my desk to avoid getting in the way.  I have a couple of ideas for stories so will take this chance to start getting them down.  Before that, though, I have to start going through some paperwork Jamie dropped off last night. When you get to our age, you need to start planning for the future. There are things like Advanced Care Directives, Living Wills, and so on which have to be filled in and discussed with the doctor.  It's all  a bit of a bore.  

Today's story is Automatic Writing, from 2021, and is a bit more didactic than other stuff I''ve written.  Is didactic the word I'm looking for?  Explanatory? Expository? 

Sometimes when I’m writing a story I experience something like a ghostly presence guiding my hand so, when I re-read what I have written, I see that my narrative has gone in an unexpected direction.  There are names I hardly remember and occurences whose origins are a mystery.  I’ve embraced the phenomenon and, in many ways, come to depend on it, to the point that I am now in the habit of setting out on a story project like an unprepared sailor putting his life in the hands of the vagaries of the weather and trusting that good fortune will see me through.

 

Recently, I started to write a story about Queen Elizabeth’s visit to Australia in 1954 and was surprised that it became a polemic on the machinations of a Prime Minister intent on cementing a win in a forthcoming election.  That’s just one example.

 

Having done some research, I suspected that it might be a phenomenon called psychography or automatic writing.  The Chinese called it Fuji writing or Spirit Writing and it was used by Zen monks who were said to communicate with an ancient Taoist sage credited with the creation of the kung fu system.

 

In the west, early examples of automatic writing date back to the 16^th century. A famous spiritualist called John Dee convinced followers that he communicated with angels and introduced a new language which became known as Enochian because it was believed the prophet Enoch was the last person to know the language.

 

Through the centuries, different methods of communication with the spirits have evolved.  Practitioners typically employed techniques like the writer passively holding a pencil on a sheet of paper or by using the planchette, a small heart-shaped device on casters and fitted with a vertical pencil.  A variation of the planchette is the Ouija board which has letters and various symbols around the edge; the planchette moves, seemingly of its own volition, pausing briefly on individual symbols to spell out a message.

 

Automatic writing was a favourite ploy of spiritualists operating in Britain after World War 1.  So many people had died in the conflict and grieving relatives were desperate to make contact with their spirits.  The spiritualist, often a woman, would say that a loved one who had passed over wanted to send a message.  The spiritualist would act as a conduit or medium through whom the message would pass and would go into a trance, holding the pen or planchete and enabling writing to appear. Gullible clients, desperate for news of their departed loved ones were happy to give the medium a generous donation.

 

The author, Arthur Conan Doyle suggested automatic writing occurs either by the writer’s subconscious or by external spirits and, with his wife, led an automatic writing séance with Harry Houdini.  Of course, Conan Doyle famously believed in fairies so his opinion might be discounted.

 

I’ve read what noted psychologists have said and I’ve become convinced that my automatic writing is the result of the ideo-motor effect, when I enter a mild dissociative state.  I then become a victim of auto-suggestion produced by auto-hypnotism leading to the emergence of a secondary self.  That secondary self takes over the story leaving my normal self in the dark.  I wonder if that’s what they used to call ‘split personality’.

 

On the other hand, it might just be a result of my undisciplined mind.  Because I’m too disorganised or lazy to properly plan my writing, I tend to start with one or two characters and a general premise and see how it develops.  It’s not surprising that some of my stories are wayward and take an occasional unexpected turn.

 

I hope that’s what makes them interesting.