Tuesday, October 1

 A few years ago, we acquired a large TV.  Probably Jamie and Nera were upgrading and offloaded their reject on to us.  We were not unhappy to take it because it was 140cm (55 inches) from corner to corner and had a curved surface.  Our normal, smaller, TV was relegated to the spare room.  The new TV was so large it wouldn't fit on the TV table so I had to buy a length of timber from Bunnings to extend it.

We don't watch much live TV and prefer to download favourite shows and watch them when it suits us.  I keep the downloads on a hard drive which connects via a cable.  It's usually no problem.  Until yesterday, when I discovered the TV would no longer 'read' the hard drive.  The short-term solution was to re-install the old TV and shove the big one into the garage for Jamie to look at when he had time.

We were astounded: going back to the smaller TV was a huge problem.  We've become so used to the big-screen that the smaller one is almost unwatcheable.  When Jamie arrived, he scratched his head and wondered what to do. He suggested that we might have to discard it and buy a new one so I gleefully started looking at Harvey Norman and The Good Guys websites to see how much we would have to spend.  I'd probably need $1000 which wasn't great.

Then Jamie realised there had been a Samsung update overnight when all Samsung devices around the world were fiddled with by Big Brother. The Samsung website suggested a 'soft reboot' would help and it explained how to do it.  Two minutes later, everything is back to normal and, happily, we don't have to put up with a sub-standard 100cm TV nor spend $1000 to maintain the lifestyle we're used to.

Monday, September 30

 It's the end of September already: three-quarters of the year gone!  We woke early so are up, ready for the day.  I've been sitting with a cup of coffee, reading some of the nonsense on Quora, the US website where people with not enough to do write in looking for advice or just to share some of their bizarre life experiences.  Most of the correspondents are from the US and have a naivety which does no credit to the US educational system.

Sometimes a comment catches my attention, like this morning when I read this answer to a question:

Kobolds.  The answer is Kobolds (or Goblins, or any small, innocuous-looking humanoid that everybody kinda writes off after first level!) Why? Action economy.  You throw enough of these little bastards at your group ....

Extraordinary!  Unlike many of the offerings on Quora, this is literate and articulate (apart from 'kinda' which I can excuse as a frivolous usage). It's just that I don't understand a word of it.  The original question asked for advice on playing Dungeons and Dragons so I don't pretend to understand the context; I just think this is a fascinating example of how our language is evolving so fast that it's getting harder to keep up.

I'm so old-fashioned I still think in terms of functional grammatical expression, punctuation, accepted usage, agreed regional spelling concepts and so on.  And the world is passing me by.

Todays' story is from 2021.  There are no kobolds in it (nor goblins!)

HOUSE OF DREAMS

It had probably been built in the early-1900s; a gaunt Federation construction, two-storeys high, sitting firmly on the ground, and just beginning to show signs of the effects of a century of standing in this spot.  The bluestone foundations looked like they could withstand another century or two without any trouble.  The window-frames needed some attention but that was only cosmetic.  The verandah tiles in a Victorian pattern were attractive but needed some sealant, perhaps.  All manageable.

Sandra was the practical one and asked questions of the agent; like : ”When was the last time it had a building inspection?  Can we see the report?  Is there any evidence of white ants? Does it have internet access?”

“Does the bus come along this street?  Do you know if there has been any trouble with neighbours in the past?  Do they have trouble with roaming dogs or Argentine ants in this part of Melbourne?”

Emile was the dreamy one.  He thought of the wealthy merchant who had the house built for him and his bride all those years ago.  He thought of the labourers who toiled in the hot Melbourne sun, in their flannelette shirts and moleskin trousers to build this testament to the master’s success.  He thought of the maids and gardeners who were employed here; working for a pittance to serve the needs of their master.

He thought of the new bride, standing back, looking at the imposing structure, smelling the new paint, wondering whether she would be able to manage the day-to-day decisions she would be called upon to make.  Her husband had assured her the butler was more than capable of running the household but she knew she would have to show a firm hand.  Everyone knew that servants would quickly fall into laziness and dishonesty if they weren’t shown a firm hand early on.

Emile thought of the myriad tradesmen and delivery boys who brought the vast quantity of food and other provisions to keep the house running smoothly.  Did the butler make sure they received a tip for their trouble, or was he one of those snooty upstarts too aware of his own importance to think of the plight of others?

He wondered about the household staff.  What dreams did they have?  Did the young men have ambitions to marry and have families of their own and were they content with their lot?  Did World War 1 bring a sense of relief that here was an opportunity to break away from the mundane day-to-day routine of their lives and sign up to serve their country while, perhaps, seeing a bit of the world out there?

He was sure that the young women all had ambitions to marry but opportunities must have been limited.  Did they all have eyes for the handsome footman and resent his interest in the French au pair who was employed to look after the family’s children?  Perhaps, they sought ways to meet eligible young men, by ensuring they were in the kitchen when the grocer’s boy brought in the daily delivery.  A slightly-tilted cap or a flash of ankle might be enough to catch his attention.

He thought of the disappointment of the young women, getting older every year, wondering how their life would be without a husband.  If they behaved themselves and lived up to the expectations of their employer, they would be looked after but everyone knew that there was nothing more unwelcome than a frail servant. 

Emile’s thoughts were interrupted by Sandra’s voice, “Emile?  What do you think?  Is it too big, or can we make it work?  I love it and I’m itching to move in.  I’ll make that large room at the top of the stairs my sewing room and I’m sure you could make the garage into a great workshop.”

 Emile thought about the dreams that had been born in this house over the years and the many that had been fulfilled, bringing happiness in their wake.  He knew in his heart that this was a special house so he simply replied, “Yes, dear.  Whatever you think.”

Sunday, September 29

 My normal Sunday morning routine includes sorting out my medicines for the week.  I have a little faux leather pouch with seven plastic containers each divided into four sections so I can't take the wrong tablets at the wrong time.  I hadn't checked during the week that I had all the tablets I needed so I've only been able to make up three days until I get to the chemist to collect the rest.  I complain, of course, about all the hassle associated with medication: regular trips to the doctor, making sure all the prescriptions are up to date, going to the chemist and so on.

As I write this I can hear Marilyn in the background discussing this very issue with our friend, Robyn, bemoaning the number of pills they take each day and giving each other recommendations for useful patent medications.

It's all too much ... but, I take a deep breath, pull myself together and think ... all these medications, all this infrastructure is designed to keep me living longer.  And it's working.  Looking at my family tree, there is not one male listed who has lived longer than I have.  That's not bad so, whatever the inconvenience of the pharmaceutical industry, it's worth it.

Saturday, September 28

 It was 20 degrees in our loungeroom this morning when I wandered through.  20 degrees!  And we still have the winter doona on the bed.  Looking out the window and seeing the blue sky and hearing the sound of a multitude of birds, I could almost be convinced that summer is here.  Turning to facebook, I find a post from the local Berry farm, informing us that they have planted hundreds of new strawberry plants and the blackberries look like being the best for years.

Everything seems to be conspiring to lift our spirits and put the gloomy days of winter behind us.

Not much is organised for today.  Marilyn wants me to water some plants we have stacked against the wall of the house to protect them from frost and the windows could do with a wash.

We'll see how we go.  I don't like to rush these things.

Friday, September 27

Marilyn's Air Fryer has done sterling service for years but finally turned up its toes this week.  We don't bother to get things like this repaired.  A technician would have to charge a couple of hours to take it apart and re-fix the broken wire, or whatever, so we will consign it to landfill and buy a new one.  Apparently, they come in two styles: ones where you open a lid on top, and others which have a drawer at the front.  There is another that look like a mini-oven but they're too pretentious.

Marilyn decides we'll have one with a drawer.  I do my research, decide we'll buy it from Harris Scarfe, Jamie offers to pick it up to save us a trip into town and I open Click and Collect to place the order.  Perhaps it was a mistake to order it at 6 o'clock in the morning when I woke early because, when I received the confirmation email, I had ordered two of them. Bugger!

I sent off an email admitting my blunder but, if all else fails, I'll just return one for a refund.  I'm sure they'll understand.  Who needs two air fryers?

Never Mind is the title of today's story:

NEVER MIND                                                                                              NOVEMBER 11, 2022

I’ve been waiting for thirty years to tell this story.  It hasn’t been my story to tell but I heard just last week that the last of the characters involved has died in prison so I figure there’s no one left to criticise or tell me I’m a liar

You’ve all seen the movie The Shawshank Redemption where a basically decent fellow finds himself in prison where his true nature comes to the fore and he becomes a shining example to his fellow inmates, carries out the best-ever prison escape and lives happily ever after.  Well, this story’s not like that.  The hero of this story ended up in prison, certainly, but he deserved to be there and a stint in prison didn’t help rehabilitate him.  His prison experience would only ensure he would, before too long, end up back in the same place.

I can tell you, now that he is dead, and that his name was Brett.  He was born in a small town in the north of Tasmania and got up to all the usual mischief that kids of the 70’s thought of as rites of passage: pinching stuff from shops, ‘borrowing’ other kids’ bikes, breaking windows and running away, even low-level arson: all of which could be written of as juvenile high-jinks except that Brett eventually graduated to stealing cars, breaking and entering and more serious damage to property.

He even had a couple of stints in Ashley Boys’ Home where he honed his skills, learning from more accomplished crooks, and he looked forward to the day when he would be returned to society and he could take advantage of his enhanced abilities.  The day he left, the senior supervisor took him aside and spoke firmly to him, man-to-man.

“You’re at a crossroads in your life, Brett,” he said.  “When you leave here you can go on as you did before or you can make a break from that life.  Never mind what you’ve been in the past; you can be anything you want to be in the future and your life will be much better if you keep to the straight and narrow. I’d hate to see you back in here or, worse, banged up at Risdon.”

He might as well have saved his breath.  Brett had already mapped out his future.  One of his friends had told him about a fellow in Hobart who could help him carve out a career on the wrong side of the law.  He would probably start with low-level stuff: shop-lifting, burglaries and the like, but it wouldn’t be long before he graduated to drug dealing and, when he was a bit older, the sky was the limit.  He had a few dollars saved and the bus fare to Hobart was pretty cheap.  He had the fellow’s ‘phone number in his pocket; he’d go straight there without even calling in to see his Mum.  She’d only try to talk him out of it.  He could hear her, pleading with him to stay.

“Don’t go, Brett.  Stay here and I can look after you while you find a job. You might even go to TAFE and get a qualification”.  Brett laughed to himself at that thought.  None of his family had ever had a qualification.  They’d all worked for peanuts if they worked at all. No, his idea was the better one. His future lay on the wrong side of the law.  He liked the sound of that.  Being an outlaw had an heroic ring to it.

He'd never ridden on the bus to Hobart before and, when it stopped at Ross, he got out to buy a snack at one of the cake shops.  First, though, he visited the toilet in the Main Street.  The only stall was occupied and, when the door finally opened, Brett was surprised to see it was a fellow-inmate of Ashley who had been a notorious bully of the younger boys.

“Well, if it isn’t young Brett!  Can you lend us ten bucks, Brett, for old time’s sake?” the bully asked.

“Get lost, Wayne,” replied Brett and gave him a push.  The bully fell backwards to the floor, hitting his head on the hand basin on the way down.  Brett didn’t wait to see how he was, hurrying back on to the bus, without even stopping to buy his vanilla slice. 

Brett read in the next day’s newspaper that Wayne Smith had died as a result of a fall in the toilet.  Perhaps the police didn’t think there was anything suspicious about the incident, or they didn’t connect it with any of the passengers on the bus which just happened to be parked near the toilet at the time.  Or, perhaps, the police were just relieved that a local trouble-maker was no longer ‘on their patch’. Whatever, the circumstances, Brett was never under suspicion.

So, Brett was free to follow his ambition to take up a life of crime.  He was not a particularly successful criminal, spending more time in prison than out of it.  However, he was never charged with any more serious crime than trafficking drugs 

I don’t need to tell any more of this story.  You’ll know by my introductory words that Brett ended up back in custody and that his life did not turn out well.  He was in and out of prison until the day he died, in the prison hospital aged 63 years.  Not a happy ending but, never mind, happy endings are only for fairy tales.

Thursday, September 26

It's true, you know: you can learn things from watching Quiz shows.  In fact, sometimes the answer to a problem that's been bugging you for years will just pop up as if by magic.  It happened to me yesterday when Marlilyn and I were watching Richard Osman's House of Games, a particularly innocuous pseudo quiz show with a reasonably articulate 'host'.  The question was: In what year was the first operation held under the (UK) National Health Service?  The answer was 1948.

It was like the heavens opened and the answer to a puzzle which has annoyed me for years was revealed.  There was no NHS in 1947 when, still living in Scotland, I needed my tonsils removed. The question was, why was it done at home? It would have been very expensive to pay a doctor privately, so, my two aunts Jenny and Bette, both nurses, turned Aunt Jenny's bedroom into an operating theatre, walls swathed with sheets, kitchen table sterilised, and so on, and the operation took place there.  Was there a doctor, or did my aunts take turns at cutting?  Who knows? 

I only know that it needed to be done again, this time in 1950, when the NHS would pay for it and the doctor was definitely qualified.  I can still remember the ward where I was taken to recover: a long, long room with beds down each wall, quite close together.  And I remember the icecream I had later to make my throat feel better.

Try doing that today!

Wednesday, September 25

 When we arrived in Hobart in January 1975 to start my new job at Friends' School, the Principal took me in to meet the school's accountant to work out my salary details.  In hushed tones, I was told, "His name is Colin Fitzgerald and his brother is the Ambassador to China."  Being not remotely interested in politics nor the current relationships between the countries of the world, I didn't know whether to be impressed or shocked.  I knew that China was communist and mistrusted by many countries but that was about it. 

Later on, I found that there hadn't been an Australian ambassador to China since 1949 but Gough Whitlam, the relatively new Prime Minister was determined to form some sort of relationship with our most powerful neighbour.  Stephen Fitzgerald was chosen for the job.  Clearly, there were some who criticised the move but that's politics.  I think, looking back, Mr Fitzgerald did a remarkable job.

I might find out more because I've just discovered a book at the library called Comrade Ambassador which is all about this time.  It's an autobiography published in 2015 and, of course, I didn't have to physically visit the library to get it; it's an ebook which I downloaded and which will sit on my tablet for 14 days and then disappear.  I better get reading before that happens.

Tuesday, September 24

 One of the first jobs each morning is to check the messages on my phone to see what is happening in the world.  I'm not a fan of social media so it is rare for me to respond but, every now and then, I feel obliged to make a comment .  I suppose it alerts people to the fact that I'm still alive and that can only be a good thing.  Among this morning's collection were messages from friends in the Philippines, which I might or might not answer, earnest pleas from local Longford residents with something to sell, videos of cute dogs and children, exhortations to buy new miraculous cures for almost anything and snippets of history from some group called Old Historical Life.  Maybe they'll be writing about me one day.

In the last few days, I've been idly looking at new beds, the kind which have built in mechanisms to heave you out in the morning.  Since then, I've been swamped with dozens of options, all with easy repayment options.  How can they survive?  Anybody who buys a bed like that will likely be old and decrepit.  They're offering terms like $37.50 per month on a $5000 bed.  You're likely to be dead before you pay it off!

Richard Osman has a new book out and there's a picture of him grinning at the camera while holding up a copy. and there's also a new Indian restaurant opening, somewhere, with a special Family Feast at just $49 per head (minimum of four customers in the group).

You don't have to work hard to know what's going on in the world; the world is brought to your fingertips if you're at all interested.

Monday, September 23

 It's not often you come across a newspaper article about the Hobart Tip but I was lucky enough to find one this morning. I have fond memories of the Hobart Tip and visited it often when we lived in Hobart.  I remember that it was situated in McRobies Gully. One day, when Mum was visiting us, she asked if she could come with me when I was getting rid of some rubbish and for years afterwards she would tell anyone who was interested that it was the highlight of her visit.

The article I found this morning was about a bored Tip employee who was going through some stuff which had been handed in to the Tip Shop.  Among the detritus (is that a word?) he found a cheap exercise book and it turned out to contain notes made by a famous Antarctic explorer, David Johns, on an expedition in 1957.

The best thing I found at the tip was a slightly damaged cheap guitar and I'm not quite sure what happened to it.

THE DAY OF RECKONING                                                                                       NOVEMBER 18, 2022

 There was no doubt in Charles’s mind that he had been poorly treated: by his parents, by his schoolmates and, in fact, by everyone he knew.  Just thinking about all the injustices he had suffered in his relatively short life brought his pent-up rage to the fore. He felt himself drawing in a deep breath through his nose and letting it out slowly.  He had read about the berserkers of Viking times and how, in their ecstasy of rage, they experienced a red mist coming down over their eyes.  Charles was looking forward to reaching that level of anger but it still felt out of his reach.

He had been an only child, sickly and spoiled.  His mother had protected him from interaction with other children, even to the point of walking him to and from school every day.  As she explained to her friends, the other children at the school were rough and her Charles was a sensitive and intelligent individual who might be coarsened by contact with people who were less refined.  When he joined the Cubs, she, again walked him to the Scout Hall each meeting night, waiting patiently until the meeting was finished and she could walk him home,

Of course, he had been teased by the other children and, over the years, he had built up a resentment, blaming first his mother, but also his father who might have intervened to dampen some of his wife’s excesses.  The other children in the town teased Charles unmercifully, the boys especially, but the girls couldn’t resist joining in the fun and invented their own ways of making Charles’ life miserable.

High School brought its own problems.  Charles was unable to make friends among his classmates, even the more studious ones who lacked the overt social skills which were essential in that environment.  He spent most of his time in the School Library but even the librarians were wary of him and left him very much to himself. 

He was sitting in the park one day, plotting murder in his heart, when a voice interrupted his musings.  “Is that you, Charles?”  It was one of the librarians from the High School.   “What are you up to?”

Charles was so pleased to see a friendly face that all his worries spilled out.  He couldn’t bring himself to give details but he did say that he had a big problem that he needed to solve and didn’t know which way to turn.

The librarian said, “Everything you need to know can be found in a book.  Write your problem down in as few words as possible and then go the library and look for the answer.

Charles started to list his problems but there were too many words.  He started to cross bits out until he was left with just one word: Mum.  In a flash of realisation, he just knew that his mother was at the heart of all his problems.  Her over-protective manner had inhibited his ability to make friends and live a normal life. 

It was obvious: he needed to murder his mother.  At the library, when nobody was looking, he typed into Google: How to murder your mother.  This was easier than wading through dozens of books.  After a few seconds, Google responded with links to a TV show called ’50 Ways to Kill Your Mother’,  a book on Amazon called ‘How to Murder Your Mother-in Law’, a  Jack Lemmon movie called ‘How to Murder Your Wife’, suggestions on how to torture your mother, and, I suppose if all else failed, how to kill yourself.

Charles was ecstatic.  He could, at last, see a way forward.

I met Charles recently and asked him how he was getting on.  He still called me Akela even though I hadn’t been a cubmaster for years.  He confided in me that he had been through a rough patch and had even been planning to kill his mother.  However, he had become so engrossed in the planning of it that he had never actually carried it out.  In the meantime, he had met a young woman in the library and they had started going out together.  He told me he was as happy as he had ever been in his life and I was pleased for him.

Sunday, September 22

My plans for today includes finding something to read; something I can get my teeth into and become absorbed with. It shouldn't be a problem. I've been a reader all my life.  Mum used to say that I would spend my Christmas Days absorbed in any book I had been given and ignoring any other presents.  And, as an adult, things didn't change.  I have always been a member of whatever Library we lived near and it would be my pattern to borrow the maximum number of books allowed and read and read until it was time to change them.

One of the great days of my life was when I bought my first ebook reader.  It was called a Bebook and could carry dozens of books on one SD card.  I remember it was made in the Netherlands but it has now been supplanted by the Kindle, part of the vast Amazon empire. I now read mostly on a small electronic Lenovo pad, having worn out several ebook readers over the years.

I have two available pads, the internet is at my fingertips, and our local library is full of books: access to books, though, is not the problem.  I'm finding that I can't become absorbed in a book to the same extent as I used to, and I'm sure it's a function of the aging process.  I might spend an hour or two on a good story, put it aside while I do something else and find, when I return to the story that I can't pick up the thread.

I've tried short stories but they're not satisfying; I've tried magazine articles but they're just trivial so I don't know where to turn.  At the moment, I spend most of my reading time on an online site called Quora, where people submit questions and other subscribers answer them.  It's low-level stuff and the content is inconsequential but I enjoy feeling superior to the poor souls who have nothing better to do than ask and answer questions from other poor souls.

Saturday, September 21

I suppose everybody gets 'earworms': little ditties which run around and around in their head.  Today, for me, it's an inconsequential song from the Dark Ages called Little Kid Sister, sung by Smoky Dawson.  I blame Jamie.  We were talking about furniture and he suggested I might like a 'Smoky Dawson' chair.  It's one with a mechanism which will lift you to your feet if you are too decrepit to do it yourself.  Apparently, it's called after Mr Dawson because he used to advertise them on television.  Marilyn says the correct name is Laz e Boy.

However, Smoky Dawson has worked his way into my brain, especially his song about his kid sister.  The only thing I like about the song is the clever rhyme:

    God decided she was meant for 

    A star, and so He sent for.

Hearing the song as an adolescent, I thought it was clever the way the songwriter (was it Smoky himself?, had managed to rhyme not one but two words and that one part of the rhyme was in the middle of a sentence.  Of course, my knowledge of the world was much more limited then.

Friday, September 20

Since Jen left from next door, it's been very quiet in our corner of Burghley Street. The newspapers say that there is a desperate shortage of rental accommodation but I suspect the asking price is a little high for the average punter.  The agent, who was passing one day, told us that the rather narrow driveway was a bit of turn-off for some people but 'the right person will come by soon,' he said.  Days passed, though, and there has been little interest.

Yesterday, I noticed an unfamiliar car creeping along past our front window.  'Aha!' I thought, 'Another one having a look.  By the time I got to the window, the driver had disappeared into the unit.  The car was a Lexus, though, and that was a good sign.

It turned out he was the new tenant.   Paul is his name and he had a new bed and fridge delivered during the afternoon.  He seems to be on his own but ... who knows?

Today's story was written quite recently:

BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR                             NOVEMBER 17, 2023

 “Oh, Rowan!” Hamish thought. “If only she knew what I think of her.  If only I could find a way to tell her that I am head-over heels in love with her.”

 Even her name gave him goose bumps.  Rowan!  What a beautiful name for a beautiful girl.  It made Hamish think of the plaintive song his Scottish grandmother used to sing when he was a child.  The Rowan Tree it was called, and the first lines stuck in his memory:

 ‘Oh Rowan tree, Oh Rowan tree

Thou’ll aye be dear to me.”

 Hamish had been mooning around the house for weeks and his parents were beginning to think there was something ailing him.

 “Och, he’s just his usual moody self,” said his father but his mother was more sympathetic.

 “It’s his first love, Jock,” she said, “And you might not remember how cow-eyed you were when you first started taking me out.”

 “I was never like that,” his father would say, indignantly, but he did stop criticising Hamish and telling him to ‘pull himself together.”

 Hamish took to hanging around the girls in the school playground hoping to overhear what Rowan was talking about and it wasn’t long before someone noticed this gangly youth spending too much time on the periphery of the girls’ groups rather than kicking a football with the boys.  After that, life wasn’t easy for him and he was pleased when school life came to an end, and he was able to become involved in finding and keeping a job which suited him.  However, Rowan held a special place in his memory, and he always regarded her as his first love.

 One night, he was travelling home from a trip out of town. The road was quiet so, when his car coughed and ground to a halt, he was worried.  Without a torch and with little mechanical knowledge, he could do nothing but lock up the car and stick out his thumb hoping for a lift towards home.

 Car after car drove by, unheeding, but eventually one slowed down and pulled over.

 “Do you need a lift?” a sweet voice said.

 “Oh, yes, please, and thank-you for stopping,” replied Hamish, as he climbed into the car.

 It took him a couple of minutes to realise that the helpful driver who stopped for him was Rowan.  He hadn’t seen her for years, but she was still the very attractive young woman he remembered.  Her perfume was more seductive than the floral scent she used as a schoolgirl and her voice had matured and seemed to have more authority than he recalled.  Rowan was just as surprised as Hamish but seemed delighted to see him again.

 “We have so much to talk about,” she said.  “I’ll pull over here for a few minutes so you can tell me all you have been doing.  I can’t concentrate on driving and listening to you at the same time.”  She pulled into a grassy spot surrounded by trees and turned off the engine.

 Hamish was very happy to have the chance to spend some time alone with Rowan and, before he knew it, he found himself kissing her.  One thing led to another and, at last, all Hamish’s adolescent dreams came true, in the back seat of Rowan’s car.  He must have slept afterwards because the next thing he remembered was her shaking him awake and saying.

 “This is your house, Hamish.  Wake up!”

 Hamish rubbed his eyes. Shyly, he stammered,  “It was wonderful seeing you again, Rowan, and I’ll never forget … you know.”

“Oh, that’s alright,” she said. “My pleasure.  And how would you like to pay for it?  Cash or credit card?”

 

 

 

Thursday, September 19

We were up this morning at the usual time, about 7 o'clock, and we're fiddling around tidying up last night's dishes and having breakfast.  I don't think there's anything planned but that's OK; we can keep ourselves busy no matter what. Marilyn will likely ring her sister, Anne, which she does every morning. Anne is my age and is now in an Aged Care facility in Sydney.  She was widowed a couple of years ago and couldn't live on her own so her family found this solution.  By all accounts, it's a great place and Anne seems happy to be there.  When Marilyn rings her they talk about what is planned for the day and it seems the facility works hard to keep the residents involved and active.

Our normal day is not as structured as that.  Sometimes, we have a meeting of Probus to go to or some shopping but it's more likely we won't cross the threshold.  And that's OK.  We just celebrate each day that we're reasonably healthy, reasonably compos mentis, and still have each other.

Wednesday, September 18

Although we're having beautiful weather during the day, nights are cold.  Sadly, as Tom Jones tells us, it's not unusual to have to get up during the night to visit the toilet.  And it doesn't take long for the body heat to dissipate so then whichever one us has been lucky enough to stay in bed has to deal with a frozen bed-fellow climbing in trying to get warm again.

It was Marilyn's turn this morning to get up and, when she came back to bed she tried a new trick.

"Slide over," she said. "Let me get into the warmer side.  It's colder near the window."

I'd never thought about it.  Marilyn has always slept on the left side of the bed and me on the right.  I suspect it's because I like to sleep on my right side and the temperature of the room doesn't come into it.  However, we're now accepting the new reality: that the temperature in the room varies with how close it is to the window.  As the male of the species, I have no choice on which side of the bed I sleep on so I'm now relegated the cold side.  

We'll see how it goes.

Tuesday, September 17

Marilyn and I are great fans of Youtube and it's rare for us not to watch something each day.  Of course, our tastes are different and we have to accommodate each other's preferences.  I like watching a couple of Scottish fellows, Steve and Scott, who make videos of their travels in Europe and further afield.  Scott even took an extended train trip from Portugal right across Europe through Russia and China, ending up in Vietnam.  Brilliant!

Marilyn has a couple of favourites but particularly a young woman called Brogan who makes videos about her life and travels, advising her viewers about all sorts of things.  She has set herself up as an 'influencer' and has thousands of followers.  It's her full-time job.  I find it hard to watch, mainly because of her husband, Benji, who trots after her and routinely wears a baseball cap, backwards!  I know I shouldn't let it annoy me but it does.

When you're retired and have little else to do, even Youtube videos have an attraction.

Monday, September 16

We've had a slow start this morning.  The sun is shining although the air is cold and we have no urge to do anything.  Jamie says he has to go to JB HiFi to buy something for the audio in his car and has offered to take me with him. He had his Murano audio system set up to his satisfaction but, now that he has inherited the Jeep, there's some upgrading to be done.  I can't remember the last time I even turned on the radio in my car but we're all different.

I suspect he thinks I'm becoming too housebound and would benefit from some fresh air.  I'm lazy; however, I'm always happy to surround myself with new technology even though I don't need anything, so I'm waiting for him to arrive. I've just heard some planes flying over; I assume they're the Roulettes heading home after their performance in Hobart yesterday.

This is the alternate version of Faces in the Street:

FACES IN THE STREET

 Sven Eriksen rises early each morning hoping that this day will be different; that this will be the day that his search comes to an end; that at some point in the next twenty-four hours he will see among the faces in the street, the face he has been searching for.  He hopes that she hasn’t changed too much.  It’s been several months since he saw her and who knows what hardships she has faced in that time and what effect it has had on the fresh-faced optimistic image she once presented to the world.

 Wearily, he drinks his first coffee of the day and eats his meagre breakfast.  He’ll have to get a job soon as his savings have almost all gone.  But how can he hold down a job when every waking hour is spent in walking around the town, staring at the faces in the street, looking for the familiar features of his sister.

 Inge was only 17 when he last saw her, at the airport back in Denmark as she waited to board a plane to take her to the other side of the world.  She was full of excitement, talking about the great adventure of back-packing in Tasmania with a handful of companions, earning some money for the trip by working at a farm in a town called Forth, picking tomatoes.  Tomatoes?  Sven thought it was a ludicrous idea but Inge was adamant that thousands of young men and women from Europe were doing exactly the same thing.  Tasmania was a very safe place to visit and she would be with good friends.  Nothing was going to happen to her.

 She promised to keep in touch and to always have her ‘phone switched on.

 For the first few weeks, her messages were enthusiastic and positive.  She had enjoyed the flight, stopping at Dubai, then Melbourne before catching the shorter flight to Devonport.  Her group had been picked up by one of the farm-hands and she was comfortable in the accommodation provided.  As the weeks went on, though, the messages changed.  The farmer and his family were kind but some of the other workers were ‘risikable’, as they would say in Denmark, although Inge used the Australian idiom, ‘a bit dodgy’.

 The day came when one of her messages was very worrying.  She had left the farm and, with another girl, was heading for Launceston where she hoped to find work picking berries.  She still had some money and wasn’t ready to come home yet.  From that point, her messages became further and further apart until they stopped altogether.  Her family became very worried and requests were made through the Danish Embassy for assistance.  The over-stretched police force in Launceston made every effort but had to report that there was no sign of the missing girl.  One berry farm in Hillwood had had a girl of that name working with them but she hadn’t lasted long, not getting on well with their regular workforce of Nepalese and Bhutanese refugees.

 Sven walked tirelessly up and down the streets of Launceston.  Well-wishers suggested to him that she might well be living in one of the nearby towns like Georgetown or Deloraine so he took local buses to these outlying areas, trudging up and down their streets looking at the faces in the crowd.  He enlisted the help of other travellers and had some signs made which he attached to lamp posts in the main street of the various towns.  He wondered whether he needed to offer a reward but the police said it wouldn’t be necessary; Australians are generous people and would help if they could, without needing an incentive.

 Sven thought again about the need to earn some money.  His parents, back in Denmark, could no longer afford to subsidise his search.  He knew there was reasonable money to be had in working on farms and one or two farmers even offered accommodation.  He was losing faith that his search for his sister would ever be successful and decided he would give it two more weeks.  In the meantime, he answered an advertisement for a farm looking for help and hitchhiked to Illawarra Road to meet the farmer. 

“Oh, you’re from Denmark!” said the farmer.  “Well, you’ll be pleased to meet a young Danish girl we’ve got working here.  She was in a bad way when she arrived but she’s coming good now.”

 

 

Sunday, September 15

I've finally worked out the significance of September 14th: it's my grand-daughter, Madeleine's, birthday.  What reminded me was Marilyn asking me to transfer her some money to buy herself a present.  It's probably not as significant a world event as Bill Tilden winning the 1929 US Open Tennis but I should've remembered.  Apparently, Jamie is trying to arrange for her to bring the kids down to Tasmania before Christmas but the logistics of that are immense, not to mention the cost.  The days are gone when we might have flown up to see them and we have to console ourselves with the occasional 'phone call.

Of course, when they're old enough they might fly on their own.  Madeleine used to visit us by herself from 8 years old, flying to Hobart without a qualm.  Great days!

Saturday, September 14

 When I looked at today's date I had the thought that it was significant in some way.  September 14?  Surely something substantial and historic happened on this day back in history.  My mind wouldn't come up with any details so I turned to Google.  The trouble with Google is that it doesn't have any idea what is historically important and what is not so it answered my question within seconds but bombarded me with information which was of no interest nor significance to me, such as some baseball player who hit three home runs in a row, or that on this date in some year an American doctor carried out the first big toe transplant.  There must be a word for the phenomenon of attaching importance to trivial events in an attempt to make yourself look good or more important than you really are.

The most significant things I could find which happened on this day was that Rembrandt's painting The Night Watch was slashed in 1975, Britain carried out a nuclear test at Maralinga in 1957 and that Henry Bliss, in 1899, was the first man in the US to be killed by a tram (trolley bus).

Nothing to celebrate there then.

Maybe some people in Longford will be celebrating later today as it's the Grand Final of the local football competition.  The football ground is not far from us and they're already testing the sirens ready for the big game.  I'm sure there are many local residents who are already lining up to make sure they geta good seat.  At least they have a good day for it; the weather is beautiful

Friday, September 13

Friday is always a mixed-up day as the cleaning lady is here.  She's very efficient but it mucks up my routine.  I like to keep out of her way but that means avoiding the computer and my comfortable lounge chair.  The house is too small to avoid her completely and it's a bit cold to sit outside but we do our best.  She's gone now so I can get on with what I had planned for today: blog post, collect my car from Jamie's, collect a few groceries from the local supermarket and put my feet up for the rest of the day.

Apparently, today or tomorrow is Battle of Britain Day and there is to be a flyover by the Roulettes at about 3.50.  I hope we might see a bit of that.

FACES IN THE STREET

 Evolutionists tell us that the most successful members of the animal kingdom are those who can live and work together cooperatively.  Animals which can work as a team in hunting their prey bring home more food for their young.  Huge swarms of fish might attract predators but the very size of the shoal and the sheer number of individuals in their group means there is a better chance that an individual fish will live to swim another day.  Even something as simple as animals being able to huddle together for warmth in cold weather might mean the difference between life and death.

 Historians tell us that it is our innate abilty to live cooperatively which has made the human race so successful in populating the world.  We are able to work together to solve problems, create innovation, plan huge development projects and, of course wage wars. There is no doubt, we are very good at working together with colleagues to get things done.  But what about the others, the ones we don’t know intimately or even casually, the strangers, the men and women behind the faces in the street?

 We hardly notice them, do we, those faces in the street, as we walk along?  We keep our own faces looking vaguely downward, our gaze averted, our eyes hooded as if we are fearful of being recognised.  Are we frightened to draw attention to ourselves?   Is there safety in anonymity? 

 Why are we like this, so ashamed to look our fellow-citizens in the eye?  Our mothers warned us not to talk to strangers, but is that enough to explain our antipathy to those who are not part of our circle of friendship?  Is shyness a factor or is it the result of the stress of living in our high-powered, dog-eat-dog society?

 Maybe we’re frightened that the infection which stalks the streets of the US will come to us here in our little city on the edge of the world - 197 gun deaths in St Louis, Missouri last year.  What effect would something like that have here in Launceston?  I remember the movie quote, “You talkin’ to me?”, fair warning that to make eye contact, let alone initiate a conversation can have dire consequences.  It certainly doesn’t pay to take chances.

 We’ve all met those well-meaning individuals who go out of their way to be friends with everyone, the ones who have unrealistic expectations that a stranger is just a friend you haven’t met yet, who actually say things like that and are surprised when you look at them as if they are mad.

 I’ve occasionally thought that I should institute a new approach to co-existing with my fellow-man.  No longer would I hide myself in a cloak of anonymity, afraid to make eye contact in case someone takes my fleeting glance as an invitation to start a conversation.  I’d be ready to embrace new friendships, believing that most people are basically good and kind, and anxious to become another part of my friendship circle.

 But, of course, that’s not how the world works.  Man is a co-operative animal, it’s true, but he’s also a tribal one.  Innately, we believe in ‘them’ and ‘us’.  ‘Us’ are the people in our family and immediate circle, ‘them’ is everybody else, the faces in the street, if you like.  Behind their blank expressions, we can’t know what anxieties and fears and distresses they are dealing with.  When talking about serial killers after they have been found out, their neighbours always say, “He seemed such a nice man – quiet, kept to himself but the sort who wouldn’t hurt a fly.” But, they didn’t know him; he wasn’t one of ‘us’.

 I think evolution has served us well.  We have evolved from the basic family group of hunter-gatherers to small bands of cave dwellers to clans and tribes, still linked by family and customs, to village-dwellers and townsfolk, to city dwellers.  Through all of this, we have kept our innate suspicion of the stranger, the unknown face in the street.  This reserved attitude has served us well and we would be foolish to abandon it too quickly.

 

Thursday, September 12

I had an early start this morning.  Jamie wanted to drop off his car at a mechanics and he needed me to pick him up and take him home.  He has gone off in my car to take Marilyn and his nephew, Brendan to doctor's appointments, and that leaves me at home to catch up on some writing.

The car we dropped off to the mechanic is Jamie's Nissan Murano and he is getting it ready for sale.  Nera's Volvo will be delivered tomorrow, and Jamie will take over the Jeep that she has been driving.  He is disappointed that the Murano will go but the Jeep is a better long-term proposition.  He offered me the Murano but I don't need a vehicle that size ... maybe once upon a time but not now.

Wednesday, September 11

 I don't know why I missed writing to the blog yesterday; I probably had nothing to say but that's not unusual.  In that case, I usually waffle on about the weather or something else inconsequential. However, it didn't happen and we move on.

Marilyn and are off to the Men's Probus Annual Luncheon.  It sounds very grandiose but it's held at the Bowls Club and probably served by some of the Lady Bowlers volunteering their time to raise money for some new mats or something.  And, it's $40 a head which seems a bit steep.  But, heigh-ho, it's only money.

I'm starting to regret joining this local club.  If I'd realised that, as I get older I'm getting more anti-social, I might have saved myself some bother. And then to take on the job of Secretary, I must have been mad!  The next election of officers is not until March so I'll have to hold on until then.

We have an appointment at the hairdressers before the lunch and Marilyn is signalling to me that it's time to go,

Monday, September 9

 We're waiting for the big truck to arrive with our new washing machine.  Because our laundry is in the garage, I've had to move the car out so that the blokes can wheel their trolley in.  They've also agreed to take the old machine away.  I met Bertine from Number 5 at the supermarket yesterday and told her that our machine had blown up just like hers did the previous week.  She asked whether we had bought a Bosch which she believed would last longer than other brands.

"Don't be silly, dear," her friend commented. "It doesn't have to last a long time; it only has to see them out."

That's what I think, too.

The topic for today's story was 'On the Beach', inspired, no doubt by the 1959 movie starring Gregory Peck..

ON THE BEACH                                                                                                       MAY 16, 2024

 It was the harsh sound of birds which woke him.  He slowly opened his eyes, feeling the lashes reluctantly parting and immediately closed them again as the bright rays of the sun struck his retina.  He tried again, shading his eyes from the worst of the sun, trying to make sense of the situation in which he found himself.

He was on a beach, that was clear, and the sun was coming from across the water so he was on the east coast of somewhere.  He couldn’t think where that was.  He struggled to sit up, taking stock of his situation.  Nothing was broken, he decided but there was a gash on his left leg, not bleeding, thankfully, and, as he looked more closely, he noted several other lacerations.  Even though the sun was shining, he was very cold and he was soaking wet.  What on earth had happened to him?

He became aware of a splitting headache and, feeling his skull gingerly, found several bumps he couldn’t remember from before.  Before?  When was before?  Before what?  What had happened to him to put him into this predicament? 

His survival instinct kicked in and he painfully scrambled to his knees and attempted to stand up.  Whoops!  It was not as easy as he had thought and he sank back.  Take it slowly, he reminded himself, took a deep breath and rolled over on to his knees.  I’ll be right in a minute, he promised himself, waited until the dizziness had passed and tried again to stand.

This time he was more successful and he managed a few steps before he fell back on to the sand.   I need a walking stick, he thought, looked around and noticed a length of salt-bleached driftwood maybe 50 metres away.  That might do it.  Laboriously, he began to crawl towards it.  It was too painful and he noticed that both of his knees were covered with lacerations.  What on earth had happened to him?  The easiest way for him to move was to sit on his bottom, use his hands to push himself up, extend his legs and flop back down on to his bottom again.  In this way, moving backwards, he could cover 40 or 50 centimetres at a time.  It wasn’t much, but at least he was making some progress.

After a dozen or so attempts, he found himself in some sort of rhythm and was making reasonable progress.  The stick he was aiming for was still far out of his reach but at least it was becoming measurably closer.  He paused for breath and gave his attention to trying to make sense of his situation.  It was morning, that was clear, but why was he here on this beach and not in his bed at home?

Vaguely, a memory impinged on his consciousness.  There was a girl and they were sitting together at a small round table.  There were two drinks on the table, one in front of each of them.  I remember, he thought, her name was Sandy or Sandra, something like that and she was a friend of what’s-er-name, Craig’s new girlfriend.  That’s right, Craig had arranged that they were going to meet these two girls at the Dolphin Hotel in Coogee.  Craig thought it would be romantic to walk along the beach in the evening and watch the moon coming up over the water.

But this wasn’t Coogee Beach.  Surely, even at this time in the morning, there would be people around, if it were Coogee Beach.  This was deserted.  He stopped his painful progress towards the piece of driftwood and held his head in his hands.  He remembered a car and girls laughing excitedly about going for a drive.  He had had a few drinks and everything felt like an adventure so he had agreed with the idea.  One of the girls drove because he and Craig were sure they were both over the limit.  He had no idea how long they had driven but they had clearly ended up at this very lonely beach.

Had one of the girls suggested a swim?  Yes, that sounded right and he vaguely remembered putting his wallet in the glove box of the car for safe-keeping.  He had just been paid and he probably had three or four hundred dollars in it.  He stopped as the realisation came to him that he had been robbed – set up like a mug and robbed.

He became aware of a voice calling and realised it was Craig, walking across the sand towards him.  Am I rescued, he wondered, or are we both lost?

Oh, well, he thought, this will be a tale to tell my grandchildren. How their grand-dad fell for the charms of a pretty girl and ended up beached.

 

Sunday, September 9

I've tried three times to write this little paragraph and been interrupted each time.  The last interruption was Jamie and Nera dropping in to give Marilyn some nice bits of clothing that she'd never worn.  Nera likes designer pieces so today's selection had names like Chanel and so on.  Marilyn was delighted. And now she has asked me to 'pop up' to the shops so I'll have to leave it there.  I might come back later.

Saturday, September 7

 A Harvey Norman truck drove in the other day to deliver a new washing machine to Bertine in Unit 5.  She came around later to talk about how she had to replace her machine but the first one they delivered was faulty and they had to replace it. It turned out that her original machine, the one that blew up, was the same brand as ours which we bought when we moved to Dilston in 2012.  

You guessed it; our washing machine also refused to work yesterday so we're off to The Good Guys to buy another.  I don't like shopping at Harvey Norman; Gerry Harvey is rich enough without my little contribution.  Jamie is here to de-install the old one and get rid of it.

At last, we're having a bit of warm weather.  Today is a cracker.

Friday, September 6

It's a miserable day today: grey and drizzly.  The cleaning lady will arrive sometime soon and my job is to strip the bed so she can change the sheets.  Marilyn put the dirty linen in the washing machine and we sat down to have breakfast.  And the microwave wouldn't work!  When I checked the washing, it had stopped too.  It seems the two machines are on the same circuit and we've never noticed.  It's all too hard!

The local Facebook page was full of forlorn residents asking whether anyone else was having power problems but I don't get involved in those group whinges.  

There's a bird chirping away outside; I think it's our lovelorn blackbird still advertising for a mate, Good  luck to him.

There's nothing planned for today so we'll probably read, watch something on Youtube and drink too many cups of coffee. Life gets tedious, don't it?  Maybe we need a change of scene.

CHANGE OF SCENE                                                                                   OCTOBER 29, 2021

“What you need is a change of scene,” the doctor pronounced, with all the authority that 40 years in the business had conferred.  I wondered whether any of his confidently-asserted diagnoses had ever been questioned because there was never any shred of doubt in his voice, no sense that his advice might be less than satisfactory.  But, who was I to suggest that the twelve-minute consultation he was allowed under Medicare was hardly long enough to get to the bottom of the lethargy and lassitude I had been feeling for the past few months?

 This was not the first time I had consulted this particular doctor for this particular disorder.  He had at first confidently prescribed anti-depressants but I might as well have been taking lollies for all the good they did.  “We’ll try something stronger,” he said and I spent the next few weeks in a semi-comatose state.

 “Hmm!” he murmured. “Have you tried exercise?  A brisk walk twice a day often works in this sort of situation.”  I tried, faithfully, for a couple of days but then the winter rains set in and the streets were too flooded and slippery for me to walk safely.  “Join a gymnasium,” he advised, breezily and I duly fronted up to my local gym and joined the “Middle Years Marchers” group.  Who comes up with these names?  The group was almost exclusively female, silver-haired and desperate for companionship.  As a new member, I became ‘flavour of the month’ and, sadly, was not able to cope with the unwonted attention.

 Finally, my long-suffering doctor suggested talking to his brother-in-law who was a psychologist but the waiting list for a consultation stretched far into the future.  “In the meantime, keep doing what you’re doing,” was the advice.  What I was doing was staying in bed until mid-morning, watching TV all afternoon, drinking too much, and falling into bed after midnight.

 A change of scene?  Maybe a holiday would help.  Now that the COVID restrictions were being lifted, I had a few options to work with.  New Zealand might be a possibility but it’s a bit staid and I craved something a little more exciting.  Bali?  No, I wouldn’t feel safe there.  Queensland’s always good.  At least the sun is likely to be shining and the Premier, Anastasia, is talking it up.

 I can fly to Brisbane direct from here, check into a reasonable hotel, spend some time on the Gold Coast and investigate what Joh Bjelke-Petersen used to call the flesh-pots.  I can’t wait; thinking about this holiday is the best I’ve felt for ages.  Maybe the doctor is right, after all.

There was no problem getting a seat on the plane and I had my choice of luxury hotels to choose from.  The direction to wear a mask was a bit difficult but having the bottom half of my face covered took years off my age and that could only be a good thing.  I was starting to become more than a little excited by my projected holiday.

 I had a good flight, the crew were attentive and didn’t object to the few beers I enjoyed.  As the plane came into land, I felt just a little under the weather but I put that down to Altitude Sickness.  I had been reading about Edmund Hillary on Mt Everest and he had suffered from Altitude Sickness and I had been a lot higher than him.  That little stumble on the steps down from the plane meant nothing. 

I had another beer, and a little something stronger, while I was waiting for my luggage to come around the carousel and stood patiently outside for a taxi.  I couldn’t wait to get to my luxury hotel and start to enjoy my change of scene.

The façade of the hotel was Queensland glitzy.  I had stayed in good hotels in other cities in the world but Brisbane hotels had a touch of Las Vegas about them that I hadn’t experienced elsewhere (except in Las Vegas, of course.) I stifled a little giggle.  It wouldn’t do to let people think that I was slightly drunk, and maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to have had a few beers on top of my anti-depressants.

The young woman behind the reception desk said, frostily, “I’m sorry, sir. I can’t process your booking at the moment.  If you would take a seat, I’ll speak to my manager and he will be with you shortly.”

I couldn’t believe it, but sat down to hear the reason why I couldn’t book in.  An officious-looking middle-aged man came over to me and told me that the hotel’s policy was that they would not register any customers who were clearly intoxicated.

“Intoxicated?”  I bellowed.  Perhaps I should have kept my voice down because the next thing I know a couple of policemen had taken me by the arms and were hustling me out the door and into a police wagon.  So, now I am sitting on this hard bench in a Brisbane Police Station waiting to hear whether I will be charged with Disturbing the Peace.  And, I’m sure this is not the change of scene my precious doctor was talking about.

Thursday, September 5

I mentioned that Jamie and Nera were flying to Melbourne last week to pick up a Tesla.  Well, it never happened.  It became very complicated: the car they were interested in belonged to a company who had leased it to a fellow who is currently in Dubai.  He would have to fly back to Australia to sign it back to the lease company (why?)  but, in the meantime, Jamie was doing some research on the costs of owning this new technology, and it didn't add up. Apart from that, who wants to be associated with someone like Elon Musk?

So, they aborted the idea and are now looking closer to home (and not for a Tesla!)

Wednesday, September 4. 2024

I neglected to write an anecdote yesterday; I had no excuse as Marilyn was out all morning and I had nothing else to do; however, whatever else I found to do took up all my time.  

Marilyn spoke to her sister this morning and, apparently, Tasmania's weather woes are being shown on the national news.  I suppose it's better to be famous for your weather than not to be famous at all.  The good news is that Spring is upon us and things can only get better.  There was a solitary blackbird on the fence opposite this morning, singing his heart out.  He seems to think it's mating season.  I have a soft spot for blackbirds and look forward to seeing them about and, of course, hearing their call.  Extra settlers to Tasmania were nostalgic for their call and those who could afford it paid to have them imported  from Britain.  Captain Langdon brought in a shipment of dogs and birds, including blackbirds in 1827 and a Mr Muston brought in a pair in 1834.

They thrived in Tasmania and, by the 1920s, growers of raspberries were complaining about damaged crops so in May 1930 a bounty scheme was introduced.  The Government offered sixpence for each blackbird head and twopence for each egg.  It seemed to work; in the period 1941-42, for example, 19380 heads had been handed in and 8709 eggs, for a total payment of 557 pounds,1 shilling and sixpence.  A good way for kids to get pocket money, apparently.

Thankfully, the eradication program didn't completely work and we still have blackbirds to entertain us today.

Monday, September 2

 

Did I say it was blowin' a hooley yesterday?  Well, I was only half right; it was only half a hooley.  We had a whole hooley last night.  The windows rattled, the house shook and we slept like babies through it.  When I checked around this morning, our plant stands at the side of the house have been knocked about and a couple of pots upset.  Some of the stands were covered in plastic and that's been ripped off, although I think I can fix that, and there's no real damage. The fence around Rhys's place next door has been damaged and a gate is off its hinges but I think he's pretty handy so it shouldn't be an issue.

Across the state there are hundreds of houses without power, rivers have flooded, roads have been closed, and so on ... just another day in paradise.

I didn't have a story about a storm so here's one about wind.

CATCH THE WIND                                                                                 30 APRIL 2021

If you take the coast road from Wollongong and head north towards Sydney you will pass through a little town called Stanwell Park.  Most of the houses are clustered around the beach and there’s not much to see on the highway: just a railway station and a shabby hotel, with a few cottages built perilously close to the cliff edge.  Over the years, several of these cottages have collapsed and many of those left have been abandoned.  Overlooking the town is a coal mine, the reason that the town is there in the first place.

There’s no reason for you to stop and, if you drive on a little way you might catch sight of a memorial to one Lawrence Hargrave, a giant among the early pioneers of aviation.  The road you are driving on is now known as Lawrence Hargrave Drive. Perhaps his name doesn’t have the same recognition factor as Wilbur or Orville Wright, or even the Frenchman, Louis Bleriot, but without the inspired discoveries of Hargrave, the flights of the Wright Brothers and Bleriot would likely have taken place much later.

Lawrence Hargrave came to Australia as a young man and was apprenticed at the Australasian Steam Navigation Company.  His father was a Judge and a shrewd investor.  He was generous with his sons endowing them with long-term investments so that, at the age of 33, when his income reached 1000 pounds a year, Lawrence was able to give up work to live the life of a Gentleman Inventor. Many wealthy gentlemen, and ladies, in Victorian times avidly pursued their interest in science and the natural world and, through their work, significant advances were made.

Lawrence moved to a house in Stanwell Park where the family had an interest in the local coal mine.  He was attracted to the town because its proximity to the sea provided the wind conditions he needed to pursue his interest.  His observations of waves and the movements of fish, snakes and birds had encouraged him to become interested in exploring the possibility of flying and, at first, he thought that, if he wanted to achieve flight, he needed to duplicate the flapping motion of birds.  This wrong direction hampered his work for many years.

Initially, though, he put most of his attention to developing a new kind of engine, light-weight and powerful.  He invented a three-cylinder rotary engine which was revolutionary for its time. Hargrave, as a gentleman-inventor, did not believe in patents so all his designs were circulated freely among the community of people working in this area.  He was in regular contact with other inventors such as the Wright Brothers and Louis Bleriot who took up his ideas with enthusiasm.  Sadly, restrained by patriotism and patents, these fellow-inventors were not as free as Hargrave in sharing their designs.

Hargrave’s second great invention was the box kite.  He worked out that the box structure provided much more lift than the traditional kite and in November 1894, using an arrangement of four box kites strung together with piano wire, he was lifted from the ground to a height of 16 feet.  He was the first person in Australia to fly using a heavier-than-air machine and he demonstrated  that flight was possible and safe.  When the first European aeroplanes were built, they used the Hargrave box-kite construction.

Lawrence Hargrave never received the acclaim he deserved during his lifetime.  He could not even find an Australian institution who would display his models and, eventually, he had to send them to Munich where they were treated with the respect they deserved.  The models have now been returned to Australia and are on display at the Powerhouse Museum in Sydney.

If you continue your journey and leave the town of Stanwell Park behind, you will begin to climb Bald Hill.  In the carpark at the top of the hill you will find the memorial to Lawrence Hargrave which was erected in 1940 but, more significantly, on almost any day when there is some breeze you will see hang gliding enthusiasts catching the wind and enjoying their sport.  On the hill above the beach where Lawrence Hargrave made his first discoveries into the nature of flight, the value of his work is being demonstrated and celebrated each day.