Friday, November 1

 I'm not sure I like Fridays.  It's the day our cleaning lady arrives and she might arrive as early as 7.15.  Today it was 11 o'clock before she turned up but we had to be up and ready in case it was our turn to be on the early shift.

There's no time for a shower; that will have to wait.  The bed has to be stripped and all the linen put in the washing machine.  When that's done, I can have my breakfast but there's no time for an omelette; I'm lucky if I get a slice of fruit toast.  And then we wait.  It's not the fault of the cleaner; she's given a list of people to attend to and, no doubt, everybody gets a turn at being first.  At Last, we hear a knock at the door and it'll only be an hour and we can get back to normal.

I've included my attempt at a fairy story.

IN SEARCH OF A HAPPY ENDING                                                SEPTEMBER 25, 2023

The Prince realised that things had started to become unstuck on their wedding day.  He was so used to being referred to as Prince Charming that he had forgotten that he would have to be married under his given name and Ella’s reaction when the celebrant intoned, “Do you, Algernon, take this woman ….?” was less than sensitive.  She could, at least, have saved her splutter of laughter until they were back in the privacy of the palace.  He would have been able to explain to her that Algernon was only a family name and he rarely used it, and then only for official documents.

Of course, his mother professed to love the name and insisted on using it whenever she  came to visit.  It was like a bludgeon to remind him that he was still her little boy and not the celebrated leader of the most prosperous kingdom on this continent.

“Algernon, it’s so lovely to see you, Algernon, and your lovely wife, er, umm Ella.  Come and give your mommy a big kiss, Algernon.  Mummy has been missing her favourite boy.”

Ella had been less than nice about Algernon’s relationship with his mother. Surely, the Prince thought, Ella should know that mothers often failed to realise that their little boys have to grow up some time.  It was not that he wasn’t up to the job of being Prince of this kingdom.  Oh, he was aware there were rumblings from the peasants but the Prime Minister seemed to be keeping those rumblings under control, at least for the time being.

And, anyway, Ella shouldn’t look so smug.  It hasn’t been that long since she was Cinderella and making her living cleaning the fireplaces of her betters.  It’s true, she has a pretty face but that’s not enough to warrant marrying a Prince of Royal blood and being able to live in the most luxurious palace in the kingdom.  She’s had no education, never read a book, can’t speak a word of any foreign language and is flummoxed by the questions on even the dumbest of quiz shows.

Oh, how nice it would be if we could have an intelligent conversation which didn’t include references to the Kardashians or the latest beauty treatment.

The real problem is that, since he brought Ella to live in the palace, she has been enjoying the lifestyle here just a little too much.  She’s probably never previously had three meals a day and, with the good living, she’s becoming just a bit too chubby.  He shuddered to think how she might look in five or even ten years from now.

‘Marry in haste, repent at your leisure,” his father used to say.  He used to add, “A truer word was never spoken,” and that’s the truth.

He heard a timid knock at the door and Ella walked in.  Her eyes were red and she was obviously upset.

“We need to talk,” she said.  “We’ve been married nearly six months and I’m beginning to think I made a mistake.  I think you took advantage of me, and coerced me into marrying you before I had a chance to think it through.  If I had known what a pompous, shallow, Mummy’s-boy you were, I would have never agreed to be your wife.”

“I want a divorce.  We can do this the easy way, or the hard way.  If you agree not to contest the divorce and make sure I have enough funds endowed on me to live a comfortable life somewhere else away from this stifling palace, the scandal should all blow over in a few months and I promise you’ll never hear from me again.”

“Or, if you choose to be difficult, I will make sure your name is dragged through the mud and, when I’m finished, you’ll be forced to abdicate and find another job.  I wonder how the peasants would feel if I told them how you like to spend your evenings playing hanky-panky with the scullery maids, or how you have regular deliveries of Class A drugs come to the palace.  After all, it’s their taxes which pay for these indulgencies.”

“Maybe you’d have to change your name from Prince Charming to Prince Alarming.  I think that’s a better description at the moment, don’t you?”

As is expected in the world of Fairy Tales, things are not always as they appear.  But, when reality rears its unwelcome head, the story-teller must always find a way to reach a happy ending.  That is the case in this story too.  You’ll be pleased to hear that Ella received all she asked for, Charming was able to continue his indulgencies, his mother had her darling boy all to herself, and they all lived happily ever after.

 

 

 

Thursday, October 31

Appointments regarding health issues take up too much of our time.  Marilyn was at the doctor's yesterday, we will be at Specsavers this afternoon to get our eyes checked and I've just received a notice that it's time for my regular colonoscopy.  Just think of the money our government could save if they rationed health care for the over 70s.

I'll bet there's a top-secret government committee meeting regularly to toss around ways to trim the health budget.  The agenda couldn't have an item saying 'Reducing expenditure on unproductive senior citizens' but it might say 'Strategies to manage increased spending'. Just think of all the exciting new military equipment we could buy if we didn't have to throw all this money at keeping old people alive.

Wednesday, October 30

 We had an early start this morning as Marilyn had an appointment with her doctor.  She's recently moved to another practice and it's in Westbury, about a 30-minute drive away.  We have a doctors' practice in Longford with a second office in Perth, 10 minutes away but it's almost impossible to get an appointment.  This is a growing area and more and more prospective patients are arriving every day.  The doctor Marilyn went to in Longford was the senior medico at the practice; her husband had already retired and she is always taking leave to go on holiday with him.  Marilyn was tired of seeing a different locum every time she needed advice.

I haven't made the decision to move yet but my doctor is female and has a reputation for being good with 'female issues'.  She seems to be the first choice of older ladies in the town.  I'm lucky if I can get an appointment within a fortnight. And, it can only get worse.  One option is to change doctors within the local practice but I'm not sure if it would make a difference.  I think it's important to have a doctor who is easily accessible so somebody 20 Km away is not ideal but neither is somebody who is too busy.

Tuesday, October 29

 During the summer here I water every day.  It's my first chore of the morning and I generally get it done before breakfast.  In fact, I use the thought of breakfast as an incentive to get the job done.  During the colder months, though, I don't water at all.  My theory is that there are enough days of rain and enough moisture in the atmosphere to keep the little buggers alive.

In general, Marilyn goes along with this.  Her philosophy is that she is in charge of indoors and anything outdoors is my domain. From about now, though, she starts to make incidental comments:  'Those bushes at the front could do with some water.' or 'The lawn's looking a bit dry.'  

My usual response is to splash a bit of water around and reassure her that regular watering will commence on November 1st.  It sounds authoritative and like something I might have heard a gardener say but, it's all a con.  I would have no idea when watering should start and November 1st makes no more sense than any other date.

Yesterday, I did relent and uncurled the hose to address the issue.  Unfortunately, during the winter, the two nozzles I use on the hose had deteriorated badly and I ended up saturating myself with the back spray caused by the leaks.  Yes, I have two nozzles and I neglected to put them away in the shed when the cold weather started and now I will have to replace them.

Another trip to Bunnings although I wonder if I can get them on Temu.

Monday, October 28

 "Put an apron on," Marilyn said. "This spaghetti is messy and I don't want it on your white shirt."  It's the way that wives talk to you when you get old, and I just go along with it.  I have a couple of aprons to choose from: one has the pattern of a kilt with a painted-on sporran.  It's plastic so good for catching the occasional spill.  The other has a cryptic logo which seems to represent the children's ward at the hospital; I've no idea where that came from, but it's cotton material so is much easier to wear.  I wrap it around me and collect my meal.

I become aware that there is something in the large pocket on the front of the apron.  I reach in tentatively and pull out ... my missing glasses.  I have no idea how they got there.  I seldom wear the apron and can't remember having it on the day I lost the specs.

I'm starting to wonder whether we have a poltergeist or a nisse, the mischievous elf of Norse legend.  Anyway, all's well that ......

I think I must have been watching Downton Abbey when I wrote 'Bianca'.

BIANCA

Bianca was the only person she knew who had that name and she never understood what her mother was thinking when she decided to inflict her only daughter with such an unusual appellation.  It was unlikely her mother had read it because she couldn’t read so she must have overheard it somewhere.  It may have been part of some obscure plan designed to give Bianca a better start in life as if people with influence might be impressed with the name and give Bianca special attention.

One never knew with Bianca’s mother; she may have lacked education but she was cunning and was forever thinking of ways that her daughter could have more opportunities than she, herself, had enjoyed.  Throughout her young life, Bianca had been warned again and again.  “Don’t go into service.  Whatever happens, don’t become a servant in a big house.”

Bianca never went to school because she would have been expected to pay a shilling a week for the privilege, and there was never a shilling to spare for such frivolity.  Instead, she occasionally visited the local Church minister along with half a dozen other under-privileged children for some basic tuition in reading and writing.

When Bianca was twelve years old, her mother died and her father said it was time that Bianca contributed to the family income.  He had arranged for her to meet the housekeeper at the Big House and warned her to be polite and say, “Yes, ma’am” and “No, ma’am”

With her heart in her mouth, Bianca dragged her heels through the town and up the long driveway to the Big House.  She had never been close to the house before and couldn’t understand why just one family would need so much room.  Her own house only had two rooms and a scullery, and everybody in the street shared one lavatory.  She had been warned not to go to the front door so made her way to the back and timidly knocked.  The door was opened by the grandest individual Bianca had ever seen: he was tall with glossy dark hair and an immaculate uniform.  “Yes?” he enquired.  Bianca was speechless but the man beckoned her inside and pushed her along a corridor to a little room where she could see, sitting there, a severe-looking woman dressed all in black.

This was the housekeeper, who said, “You must be the girl who needs a job.  What is your name?”

  “Please, ma’am, it’s Bianca.”

“That’s a most unsuitable name for a servant.  We will call you Ethel.  We don’t have an Ethel on the staff at the moment so that is who you will be.  You may call me Mrs Hodges.”  You will begin work here as a scullery maid and, if you are satisfactory, you may be selected to become a chamber maid.  You will work from 6 o’clock each morning and you will be allowed one afternoon off each week.  Because you are just twelve years old, your wages will be paid to your father. Report to Cook who will find you a uniform and explain your duties.”

From that moment, Bianca’s life changed forever.  Her dreams for the future had never extended to meeting a rich young man who would sweep her off her feet and shower her with luxuries.  The most she could yearn for might be a position as sales girl in a fashionable shop, a marriage with a reasonably respectable young man and eventually a small home of their own where she could bring up her own children.

Instead, her own dreams had to be set aside and all her energies and attention must now be on fulfilling the desires of the members of the wealthy family who owned the Big House.  Ethel (as she now must call herself) didn’t even know the name of the family who owned the house and how they had come to own it.  Were they aristocrats, or did they make their money some other way?  Ethel knew that ‘real’ aristocrats looked down on people who were making their money ‘in trade’ and Ethel hoped her new employers were not members of that grubby bunch.

Days passed and Ethel’s life fell into a dull but reassuring routine.  There was one other scullery maid, a cheerful girl called Beryl who took Ethel under her wing and helped her through the difficult early days.  Mrs Hodges was strict but was seldom seen by the younger staff who worked assiduously to keep out of her way.  There were a couple of boys on the staff about Ethel’s age and she enjoyed their cheeky banter.  She shared a bed with Beryl but the sheets were always clean and the food from the kitchen was more than she expected.  The best part of her day was when all the staff sat together around the large table in the kitchen for their evening meal. Her life might have improved if she had a little money to spend on her afternoon-off but it was all given to her father who never thought to pass any on to her.

Eventually, she discovered that her ‘family’ were true aristocrats.  The owner of the House was a Lord and spent his days in gentlemanly pursuits which included regular attendance at the House of Lords.

Ethel, if she thought about it, would have agreed that her life was surprisingly happy.  Certainly, she was working hard and had very little free time but she enjoyed the friendship of the other servants and Beryl was almost like a sister.  Also, one of the young men who worked in the coach house was showing an interest in her and they were walking out together on their afternoon off. 

We can only imagine how Ethel’s life might have evolved but, sadly, she died in the 1918 Spanish Flu epidemic.  To his credit, Ethel’s father insisted that her headstone should show her true name, and it is still there in the churchyard of her village.  Her young man visited her grave for a time but finally realised he needed to get on with his life and his visits ceased.  Bianca is now all but forgotten, just a girl with an exotic name who trod lightly on the earth.

 

Sunday, October 27

I've lost my glasses.  I put them in the pocket of my jacket yesterday when I went out, didn't use them at all, and when I came home they were missing, absent, not where they should have been. It shouldn't be a problem; normally, I would fall back on my spares but, as chance would have it, those particular, rarely-used glasses are missing a screw.  I had already booked an appointment for my regular check-up and mentally noted to take the damaged pair in for repair at that time.  But that won't happen until Thursday.

In the meantime, I have checked and re-checked the car, investigated places I had been and racked my brain for possibilities.  I also rummaged through drawers and found discarded glasses of previous prescriptions and, unless a miracle happens, until I can get a new pair, I am having to deal with everything being slightly out-of-focus.

Saturday, October 26

With my health plan, I am allocated six podiatry appointments per year.  That should be enough to keep my feet in reasonable order but the woman who runs the business sets it up so that I find I need to pay for at least one extra session and the price is $75.  I suppose that's reasonable but I still resent paying for something which, with a little bit of organising. could be free.

I was whinging to Nera and she suggested that I have my nails done occasionally by the young filipina woman who comes to her.  She's not a podiatrist but all I need is someone to trim my nails once in a while.  She visits the home so I fronted up this morning to Hadspen and joined the queue to be looked after.  She was a tiny woman and she works from the floor. I sat on the lounge and she squatted cross-legged in front of me.  She had all the right gear, dealt with my issues, recommended I user Vicks Vaporub on a bit of fungus I have been incubating and charged me $15.

What's not to like?

Friday, October 25

Nera is very worried about her family in the Philippines.  There is a typhoon battering the area around Balatan and it is hard to keep in contact with her mother and father.  Her father is a very stubborn man and would refuse to move out even in the most dire circumstances. There is also the added worry about the house that she and Jamie own in the town. It's right on the beach and. although it's a sturdy construction, it was pretty badly damaged in the last storm a couple of years ago.  It's an on-going issue; severe tropical storms are common in this part of the world and the infrastructure and emergency response arrangements are not always adequate.

Jamie has been checking flights in case Nera has to fly back in a hurry but we hope it doesn't come to that.

.......................

I wrote this story a couple of years ago when the next door neighbour thought it would be nice if he acquired a few chooks.

GOOD NEIGHBOURS

I’ve looked over the fence from time to time and noticed our neighbour.  He’s an elderly bloke, like me, but old-fashioned in his dress and he avoids catching my eye.  I’ve decided he was a farmer in his younger days but is now retired and his family has moved him into this cottage in a suburban street in Longford.  He was probably very surprised a few years ago when the developers moved in over his back fence, buying a couple of large blocks next to him and demolishing the shabby cottages, making room for the construction of five modern units.

Of course, he would have had to live through many months of the noise of construction, and the dust, and the persistent radios of the builders.  However, the time would come at last when the final Top-40 song was heard, and the last builder’s ute drove away.  Our neighbour might have shown mild interest when the Estate Agent’s signs were erected, and might have noticed in passing the eager buyers looking at what might be their new home.  He might have thought, like me, that all the units would be bought by oldies, like him but, when the dust settled and the removalist vans had departed, three of the units were occupied by single women, one by a single man and just the one by a retired couple of mature years, my wife and me.

I hope that our neighbour might have been pleased that his new neighbours, pushing hard up against his back fence, are very quiet.  None of us play loud music, none of us has noisy parties, none of us has loud backyard conversations.  Of course, his 1930’s wooden cottage is right on the front of his very long, pre-war block of land, and it is likely that he is remote enough not to be affected by any of the potential goings-on of these johnny-com-latelies.  By any measure, he could not be in a better position nor could he have hoped for better neighbours so, my wife and I were very surprised with a recent unforeseen development.

A month or two ago, there was movement in the neighbour’s backyard, just over the fence from our unit.  I tried not to appear too nosy but managed to take a surreptitious peek at what was happening.  A younger man, perhaps the elderly neighbour’s son, was stringing up some wire around what seemed to have been a long-neglected chook yard.  Within a couple of days, it had some inhabitants: three hens and a young rooster.

I stepped out the distance from the edge of the chook yard to our bedroom window and it is just 4 metres.   Perhaps the distance from the edge of the chook yard to the neighbour’s bedroom window is 5 times that distance.  The rooster usually starts his morning calling around 4.15am. In this warm weather we are having, it is more comfortable to sleep with our bedroom windows open and we generally sleep very soundly until the persistent crowing brings us wide awake … at 4.15!  I’m sure the neighbour, remote as he is from the chook yard, doesn’t hear them. 

And there is the dust, and the smell, and the potential for vermin.

The whole exercise has me bemused.  Are they pets, or are they expected to produce eggs?  If so, what is the point of the rooster?  The neighbour seems to have no interest in the creatures: he rarely visits them, and seldom brings them any food.  He doesn’t seem to collect any eggs and the birds  appear to lead a solitary existence surviving on goodness-knows-what.  It would not surprise me if he sometimes forgets that they exist.

But we, his neighbours, are constantly reminded that they exist.  Of course, we have options.  I could go and knock on his front door pleading with him to think of the damage he is causing to his neighbours’ equilibrium.  I could slip a note in his letter-box, threatening retribution if he doesn’t get rid of the rooster, at least, or I could go to the Council and put in a Noise Complaint.  People I have spoken to, though, suggest the Council would be unsympathetic; it is a rural area, after all. 

In the meantime, I am training myself in the arts of Zen Meditation, learning to block out extraneous noise while I seek solace and harmony in self-imposed inward silence.

UPDATE: Thursday, March 2^nd – It was very quiet this morning and we slept until 7 o’clock.  I looked over the fence and saw that the chooks had disappeared.  Is it possible they won’t return?  We can only hope.

 

 

Thursday, October 24

 My mother use to say, "the Greeks have a word for it," if she was hesitating over how to express herself or came across an odd pronunciation. Now, though, we seem to be adopting words from other languages as never before.  Japanese is a great source.  How could we live without karaoke, tempura, sayonara, and so on.  And, here's another one (although I think this word will take a little longer to get used to).

The word is 'kuchisabishii'.  It means 'unconscious eating' or the act of eating when you're not hungry because your mouth is 'lonely'. Think about it.  How often do we grab a bag of chips or a few biscuits to enjoy in front of the TV or when we're relaxing with a book?  It's not because of hunger, it's kuchisabishii.

I've never thought of my mouth being lonely before but you have to admit it: it makes sense.

Wednesday, October 23

 I don't know what I was dreaming about last night but I woke up thinking about the French national anthem - La Marseillaise.  We learnt to sing this in First Year at Wollongong High School with Miss Mills.  I had been given the name Charles in the class, as Jacques and Jean (which might have been more appropriate for someone named John) had been allocated to other students and I was quite enthused about learning this rousing anthem; much better than the dirge, God Save the Queen.  I've been saying for years that Australia needs a new anthem and our move to Advance Australia Fair was no improvement.

Somehow in my imagination, I've started to link La Marseillaise with Donald Trump.  I think he'd be impressed with the references to 'sang impur', the impure blood of our enemies and the demands to Marchon. Marchon (March! March!)  Perhaps he could add another verse "Il manger les chiens!", "Il manger les chats!"  I think that might translate as 'they eat the dogs, they eat the cats', but it's been 69 years since I studied the language.

Tuesday, October 22

 I had my day planed out.  Marilyn has gone off to her Craft group with instructions to me to pick her up at 11.30.  I have a couple of things to do: make the bed, mow our tiny lawn and identify some TV shows for us to watch.  Not being a very good manager, I start with the most interesting task and check the internet for recommendations for new shows.  There's new series of Rebus but that won't do and so I look elsewhere.  And Jamie walks in. "I've got a couple of hours to spare so I thought I'd come and mow your lawn."

That's a relief so I leave him to it, pull up the bed and go back to Netflix and Prime to start listing possibilities.  

Monday, October 21

It's my brother's eightieth birthday today and, of course, that reminds me that I am even older.  Did I hear someone say that 80 is the new 60?  If not, I wish I had.  In fact, I don't feel much different today than I did ten years ago.  But that's a bit of a fallacy.  When I was 60, I was holding down a full-time job, orienteering at the weekend and planning holidays in foreign countries.  I was looking yesterday at a Youtube video of people cavorting around in Iceland.  It looked wonderful but, when I analysed the trials of getting there, the rough ground they had to walk on, and the distance they had to cover, the weather they had to deal with and so on, I realised  that my age would be a real factor in deciding whether that sort of holiday would suit me.

I think of the last time I was on a plane: a short flight to Sydney.  I happened to have a middle seat so it was not ideal but, even if I had been on the aisle, I would have struggled with the claustrophobic feeling.

I'll have to face up to it: my travelling days are behind me.  Maybe today's story is particularly appropriate for today.

100 YEARS AND COUNTING                                                                   NOVEMBER 10, 2023

“Please listen to me,” I said.  “I don’t want a party.”

They won’t leave me alone.  You’d think that, at 99 years and 11 months of age, a man could be treated with some respect but they think that they know best.

“You’ll enjoy it when you get there,” they say, “And it will be good to see all your old friends again.”

All my old friends?  There’s not one of them can even remember his own name, let alone mine.  They’ll be winkled out of their nursing homes by whichever member of their family has responsibility for them this month and dragged along to be sat down in a corner and ignored until it’s time to go home.  Why would I inflict that on them?

And my own family?  What are they going to get out of it?  My kids are in their seventies and almost ready for a nursing home themselves.  Their kids, in their fifties, are too busy to be bothered with such nonsense and the next generation is so intent on getting rich, the thought of a party for an old has-been with one foot in the grave will be the last thing they want.

What I would like is for my birthday to be treated like every other day of the year with no fuss and no cards and no presents.  What would they buy for a 100-year old, anyway?  I haven’t even opened the presents I got for last Christmas: I know it will be more underwear and pyjamas to add to the collection I already have.  One of the carers here told me that the local paper has been informed and they’re planning to send along a reporter to interview me.  I can’t think of anything more boring.  I‘ll fix them, though.  I’ve been practising my ‘dotty old man’ act and, if I act senile, they might take the hint and leave me alone.

I’ve been listening to an audiobook which came from the library.  Some bright spark discovered I am turning one hundred and decided I needed to hear this book called The 100-year-old Man Who Climbed Out the Window and Disappeared.  I wish I could do that. I haven’t heard much of it as I keep falling asleep but, apparently, he has many adventures and meets important people.  I remember the first chapter where the hero, Allan gets one of his carers to smuggle vodka into the nursing home.  Maybe I could try that, although I would prefer Whisky to Vodka.

My grand-daughter is coming to see me this afternoon.  She is clearly the next one in line to try to make me change my mind.  My daughter left in tears last week after I told her that I would rather die than have a birthday party.  Maybe I was a bit harsh but, just because I’m old doesn’t mean that I can be treated like a child.  I’ll have to remember to apologise to my daughter when I see her next and try to be on my best behaviour when my grand-daughter gets here.

Thinking about parties brings back wonderful memories.  I can barely remember going to parties when I was child but there was one, later, which stands out: I was turning 22 so it would have been 1945.  I was in the army, of course, and we had just been de-mobbed and were on a train travelling down from Brisbane to Sydney We were just so grateful to be alive and could just imagine the wonderful opportunities opening up before us.

And, they were great times.  We had been promised ‘a world fit for heroes’ and, although we worked hard, we knew we were building a better future.  I met my wife around then and we were married for over 60 years.  I’m not able to remember very clearly the details of all that occurred but I do know there were significantly happy times, and some sad.  I know we fell out from time to time but we always made up again. 

So, I know what I want to do for my birthday.  I don’t want a so-called Birthday Party, sharing my significant day with people who are there out of a sense of duty, putting on false smiles and offering insincere good wishes.

I want to enjoy my 100^th birthday with my memories, the ones that remain.  The best present I could receive is to be able to re-live those wonderful years when I was in my prime.  And I have my photo albums.  When I tell my family that this is what I would like to do, they say, “But won’t you be lonely?”

And I say to them, “I won’t be alone,” but they don’t understand.

Sunday, October 20

 I was watching a podcast this morning of a fellow called Scott. He happened to mention that a quarter of a million people had watched a recent post he had put up.  He wasn't saying this was a remarkable number so I assumed it was nothing unusual.  Now, I don't know how much this translates to in cash terms but Jamie mentioned at one stage that he receives 1.5c for every play of the music he puts on line.

So, if Scott is on a similar deal, he took in $2500 dollars from that one post and he does at least two a week.  I assume it's US dollars so it's not a bad income for not doing very much.

The other regular I watch was in Copenhagen this morning making his way north through Denmark to catch a ferry to Iceland.  How I would love to do that!  This afternoon, I will plan a phantom trip from here in Longford to that ferry port in the North Sea.  I've stopped pretending that I might do the trip one day; it's not the destination, it's the travel.  Who said that?  Google tells me it was Ralph Waldo Emerson but he got it wrong .. it's the planning that's the best part!

Saturday, October 19

 Apparently, it's the Longford Show today and the organisers will be congratulating themselves on arranging some fabulous weather.  The showground is only a couple of streets away so we can clearly hear the annoucements wafting on the breeze.  Marilyn and I won't be going.  Our days of wandering around gawping at baby animals and looking at the culinary efforts of local school-kids are long gone.  I'm trying to remember when was the last time we went to one of these events.  I took Marilyn to the Royal Easter Show before we were married, so let's say 1965 and the next show experience was at Mole Creek in about 2012 or 13.

Jamie's ex-wife, Melanie had landed on us with her two sons in tow.  At the time, we were living in Deloraine and, struggling to keep the boys amused, we realised that Mole Creek Show was on, and it had a great reputation. We spent most of the day there but gawping at tables covered with sponge cakes and embroidered doilies soon loses its charm.  The boys behaved themselves and enjoyed the ice-creams and stuff we bought but nobody at the end was saying, "We must do that again."

Have country shows had their day?  I'm certainly not the right person to ask.

(I forgot to post a story yesterday but nobody has complained.  That probably tells me something.)

Friday, October 18

You'd think they would want to make it as easy as possible for the bill to be paid.  I'm talking about Aurora Energy, who provide the electricity we use.  You'd think the email they sent me this morning would tell me how much I owe and give me a link to click where I could input my credit card details and forget about it.  But, Oh no!  The email tells me to go to the app, log in and follow the instructions.

And, of course, when I go to the app, it tells me my password is incorrect and there is a whole new rigmarole to go through to sort that out.  All I want to do is fill in a few numbers and forget about it for another month.  I'm too old for all this rubbish.

It doesn't help knowing that there are probably thousands of other Tasmanian citizens this morning tearing their hair out trying to meet their obligations to their electricity supplier.  And if anyone of us threw our hands up and moaned,  "It's just too hard!", there would be no sympathy shown.  

One of my favourite words is AORTA, as in the sentence ' AORTA do it a better way'.  I don't know when I first heard it but is has a definite Monty Python ring about it.  And I'll say it again, AORTA fix it!

Thursday, October 17

I've always been an enthusiastic reader; in fact, I think I was able to read simple books before I started school.  Of course, it was simply that I learnt to associate the letters on the page with the sound of the words that I knew by repetition.  'Up the airy mountain, down the rushy glen' was a poem I could recite by heart and recognise on the page.  Putting the two together was no big deal.

I started school in September, 1947 and by the end of 1948 I was in Miss Mars's class.  All the female teachers in those days were 'Miss' as it was expected that married women would have a full-time job looking after their husbands and 'bairns'.  My recollection is that Miss Mars was a stern, ungainly woman and marriage may not have ever been a possibility for her.

It was in her class that I first made the connection between the letter that I recognised on the page and the sound it made.  Once I understood that, I could work out words I had never seen before.  I don't know how many books I have read since then: thousands, certainly but maybe hundreds of thousands.

Sadly, though, I am now not reading as much.  When I put a book down after reading a few pages, all the details drift away from my memory.  When I get back to the book, I flounder with what's happened before and I now know where the phrase 'losing the plot' comes from.

I'm now experimenting with audiobooks to see whether it makes a difference.

The other problem is that I think I've written this blog before.  My only hope is that my few loyal readers are just as forgetful as I am.

Wednesday, October 16

 Today is the sort of day you feel that it's good to be alive.  There's a great Australian saying: 'You wouldn't be dead for quids' which I think sums it up.  And why would we not celebrate?  We're in good health, live in one of the safest countries on Earth with a political system which looks after us, we never go hungry and we're still together after 58 years.

Sadly, not everyone can say the same.  It came home to me when we took part in the census a couple of years ago.  Part of my area was the rural town of Bishopsbourne.  Essentially, it's just one main street and a few lanes running off it.  Most of the houses were attractive and well looked after but there were some areas which appalled me.  I met one young woman sitting on the front step of her shack of a dwelling.  The house was surrounded by a wilderness of long grass and blackberry bushes.  In the front yard was a burned-out car.   However, she seemed cheerful enough.

At the beginning of one lane was a cluster of letterboxes.  As I drove up to them, there was a man putting things in them.  He was the typical Australian gentleman farmer: moleskins, checked shirt, polished boots and Akubra.  He told me there were four dwellings up  the lane, each with a single male occupant.  They were his farmhands.  I drove up to the little settlement and my heart sank.  There were a couple of demountable buildings and two caravans.  The main feature of the area was a huge pile of discardeed cardboard beer cartons.  It was one of the most derelict and unloved places I had ever seen,

You could picture their existence: work on the farm all day, call into the pub for supplies on the way home and spend the evening drinking in front of the TV.  There was no sign of any female presence and the farmer never mentioned it.

We don't know when we're well off.

Tuesday, October 15

 We've woken to a beautiful Spring day in Longford.  The sun is shining, the air is warm and the feeling is that this good weather should be enjoyed while it lasts.  Marilyn is getting ready to go to her Craft group and Jamie has rung to say he is dropping Archie off to 'look after me' while his car gets an oil change.  Jamie calls Archie a Therapy Dog whose duties includes looking after aged relatives.  I think it's more for Archie's benefit than mine.

I browsed through the Longford Community Facebook page this morning.  It's amazing what people find to write about. Apart from the regular requests for recommendations for help with gardening or removing rubbish, there are the sad pleas from people needing desperately to earn some money, there are the pictures of the echidna which has taken to wandering around Marlborough Street and the anguish from a fellow who was broken into last night; "does anyone have any video footage taken in Catherine Street last night?'

I suppose it's just a slice of life and would be typical in a million communities across Australia.

Monday, October 14

 I've come across a book about the Knights Templar which describes how they grew rich and powerful during the Crusades, and how they were finally brought down.  It's called The Knights Templar and Scotland and I know there is an ancient Templar Chapel called Rosslyn near Edinburgh and there are many legends surrounding it.

It's a fascinating story and I'm looking forward to finding out more.

I was showing off my rudimentary French in the following story called Moonlight Bay:

MOONLIGHT BAY                                                                        MAY 12, 2023

Bradley had only spoken to Angelique a couple of times but he realised he was totally, madly, crazily in love with her.  He couldn’t eat, he couldn’t sleep, he couldn’t think of anything but the next time they might meet. He was swept up in a whirlwind romance and he was revelling in the excitement of, at last, finding the girl of his dreams.  More surprisingly, and more joyfully, he realised that Angelique seemed to feel the same.  Her eyes sparkled when she was with him and her voice dropped to a low, throaty murmur and he felt he was the only person in the world who could hear what she was saying.

He'd only arrived in Paris yesterday, on his own after his travel-mate had decided to head back to Australia.  Bradley knew he was sometimes hard to get on with and was used to his own company.  Now, here he was, in a small and shabby pensione on the left bank of the Seine.  On this first morning, when he stopped for breakfast at the tiny café on the corner, it was Angelique who served him.  He was immediately enchanted by her dark, sultry looks and extraordinary husky voice.  Certainly, he had had girlfriends in the past but there was nobody back in Westbury who evoked quite the same feelings in him as Angelique did.  He knew he was lost and could never be happy again unless he had Angelique by his side.

He had only known her for a few hours but he believed in ‘love at first sight’ so, gathering his courage in both hands, he asked her to marry him.  To his surprise she said ‘Yes’. 

“But first, ma cher,” she said, ”You must meet my parents.  Tomorrow, we will travel to their home at La Baie du Claire de Lune and you must ask my father for permission for us to wed.”

Bradley thought he was walking on air.  Is it true what they say, he thought, that Paris is the City of Love?  How else could you explain what had just happened?

The following morning, Angelique met him at the café and they made their way to Le Gare de Lyon for the train to La Baie du Claire de Lune 

“My French is not good,” he said to Angelique. “How do you translate La Baie du Claire de Lune?”

“In English, you would say Moonlight Bay.”

“Moonlight Bay?” thought Bradley.  “What a wonderful name.” 

The train soon pulled into a small station.  Through the trees, Bradley could see the glisten of ocean but he had no time to enjoy the view as he found himself facing a large gentleman with a red face and wearing a beret.

“You are Bradley, are you not?” said the large man.

“Yes, monsieur, I am,” Bradley managed to mumble, realising that this must be Angelique’s father.  Bradley could feel that this man might not take to him as quickly as Angelique did.  He would have to be on his best behaviour or everything could come unstuck.

The next few days was an idyllic time for Bradley.  He and Angelique walked hand-in-hand through the winding streets of the mediaeval town, they drank coffee at the café where Rene, the café-owner, would tell them stories of the war and they made plans for the wedding.  At M. le Blanc, Angelique’s father’s, suggestion, Bradley transferred a large amount of money into a joint account at the local bank to cover the expenses of the wedding and their life afterwards.

It was a surprise to everyone when, a few days later, Angelique announced that Bradley had decided not to marry her after all and had left during the night.  There were some who were suspicious but it was not thought necessary for the police to investigate.  In any case, people could always be found to testify that he had been seen walking to the railway station early in the morning, even if the Stationmaster had not noticed him.  Rene and Edith at the café would certainly testify that they had heard Bradley talking to a friend on the telephone saying that he was coming home.  If someone had happened to have seen M. le Blanc in his boat on the bay in the dark of night, dropping a large bundle over the side, they would certainly not mention it to the gendarmes. The people of La Baie du Claire de Lune look after their own.

Angelique mourned the disappearance of her lover for an appropriate length of time then married the son of a local wine dealer.  The capital she brought to the marriage was very welcome and allowed them to launch a new range of wines which they called Moonlight Bay.

Sunday, October 13

 I'm having trouble logging in to my account so this message is simply a test, hoping to help solve the problem.

Saturday (2)

 This is Nera surrounded by last night's Aurora Australis.

Saturday, October 12

 Marilyn and I were sitting at the front of our place the other day, enjoying a cup of coffee, when a scruffy young man marched across in front of us, heading for the front door of Unit 1.  Marilyn almost called out ‘He’s not home,” but the fellow was too quick.  He came back a few minutes later, ignored us again and disappeared. 

When we next saw Paul from Unit 1, Marilyn told him about the visitor.  Apparently, Paul thought he was a gardener that he had arranged to come around and give a quote for some maintenance.   But he wasn’t!  Paul soon discovered the bloke had been in the garage, broken into Paul’s Lexus and pinched his little container of money for parking meters. 

The next thing, Paul is up a ladder, installing security cameras. 

Yesterday morning. Marilyn noticed a hat moving along above the fence between us and Unit 3.  She thought it was the same hat as she had seen on the head of Paul’s intruder last week.  And Reece from Unit 3 is away at the moment.  We seem to have a serial intruder. 

So, Jamie is now at JB HiFi, purchasing a couple of security cameras for our place.  We already had one little camera which scanned the loungeroom but it has now been moved and is sitting on the windowsill peering out at the front of the unit.  Apparently, Tassie is no longer the safe little haven it once was. 

Friday, October 11

First job for me on a normal Friday morning is to strip the bed.  All the linen goes to the laundry and the rest is piled into the spare room.  When the cleaning lady arrives she gives the 'topper' a shake and puts on fresh linen; so all I have to is spread out the doona and the bed is ready for another week.  This morning, just after I had finished my part of the operation, the cleaner rang to say she wouldn't be coming until Monday!

If I had known earlier, we could have slept in the same sheets for another couple of nights and stripped the bed on Monday.  But now I'll have to remake the bed and that's the part of the operation I hate: especially tucking in the sheets .. not great on my back.  Of course, it could be worse; we might not have a cleaning lady at all and I'd be faced with this chore every week.

Marilyn has gone off for her walk and will be back soon for our third cup of coffee for the day ... and it's only 10 o'clock.  No wonder people complain that the days get longer as you get old.

I wrote the following bit about funeral directors as an exercise and it gave me a chance to use some big words, like 'dichotomy'.

When a hairdresser says he has had a good day, it is likely he is looking at the number of haircuts he provided, or that he had several new customers, so there was an increase in his income for that day.  Likewise, a greengrocer’s good day will involve the sale of more fruit and vegetables.  I think we all understand what is meant by ‘a good day’ and can feel pleased for the people who are enjoying one.

But what of the local funeral director?  If he is having a good day, does that mean his income has increased because he is burying more people?  If so, he is basing his good day on the increased number of people who have died.  There’s a direct correlation between the number of deaths and how happy the funeral director feels about it.

There’s no joy being a funeral director.  When he says, “I’m sorry for your loss” It is with the tacit understanding that he is, at the same time, happy about the consequent increase in his income.  There are some people who would find it hard to deal with that dichotomy: putting on an empathetic, sorrowful face while, underneath, their heart is singing with the thought of the extra dollars in the bank

In some way, you would have to compartmentalise your roles or, in other words, develop a split personality.  Psychiatrists, however, tell us that schizophrenia or ‘spilt personality’ is one of the major causes of mental health issues.  It’s an unusual person who can successfully keep apart two parts of their personality and they’re usually diagnosed as being psychopaths.

It’s a sobering thought, isn’t it, that your friendly neighbourhood funeral director might be an undiagnosed psychopath, like Adolf Hitler, or Pol Pot or Son of Sam?

Is it time for Do-it-Yourself Funerals which will allow you to cut out the, perhaps dangerous, middle man?

Thursday, October 10

 We were sitting down to have our lunch when I realised that I hadn't written today's blog post, so I'm catching up a bit late.  We were watching a game show while we had our sandwiches.  There's a good selection on Youtube and today it was the UK version of Tipping Point.  We've watched the Australian version but it's a bit frenetic for me; some of the contestants try a bit too hard to be entertaining and Todd can be a bit aggressive when he's trying to tempt the winner to take a risk.  In comparison, the UK version is a bit lower-key.  I could see myself taking part in the pommy one but not the ozzie alternative.

In fact, Marilyn and I did take part in a TV quiz show years ago.  We were married but it was before Jamie was born, so late 60s.  It was called The Marriage Game and we managed to win our heat.  We got a heap of prizes which included dinner for four at a restaurant in Sydney.  Very nice!  The show might have been hosted by Gordon Boyd but I can't be sure.

Nearly forty years later, we were on a cruise in the Malacca Straits on the Superstar Gemini and, as part of the entertainment, they resurrected The Marriage Game.  Marilyn and I enthusiastically took part thinking that our experience would help, but we failed miserably.  The prizes weren't worth winning anyway.  (Sour grapes?)

Wednesday, October 9

A beautiful day and I'm starting to think about getting ready to go to my Probus meeting.  That usually runs between 10 o'clock and 12.  The problem is that I'm expecting a call from the doctor to arrange a couple of repeat prescriptions, and it would be embarrassing if she rang mid-way through the meeting.  I think I'll just go for the first part and slip out before the guest speaker.  They're not always riveting and, being a rural area, we get more than our share of farmers talking about their crops.  Last month was an olive grower and, with the best will in the world, it's hard to get a laugh out of that.

Tuesday, October 8

 It's our Probus meeting tomorrow and, because I agreed to be Treasurer, I have to prepare a financial report for the meeting.  It's not a big deal; we collect $10 from each member at the meeting and pay the Bowls Club ladies for the morning tea they provide.  Hardly anything to stress over.  However, I think I've made a mistake in taking on this job.  One problem is that I am having trouble learning the members' names.  After a year, I probably only know four for sure.  Yes, they have badges but I would have to put on my glasses to read the names and that's not a good look. (that comment comes close to being a joke - not a good look - glasses?) I also made the mistake of agreeing to give a talk about our experiences in the Philippines and it didn't go as well as I had hoped.

In the past I've always been happy to take on a leadership role.  Even in the Cubs, back in about 1957, I wanted to be the one who said 'DYB DYB DYB' while everyone else answered 'DOB DOB DOB'  But nowadays all I want to do is fade into the background. 

This business of getting old is no fun.

Monday, October 7

I met a man in the caravan park at Ross one time, probably in 2010.  He and his wife had recently retired (like us) and were taking a year or so to travel around Australia in their van.  I asked him if he had a plan or was he just following his nose.  He had a plan all right; once he left Tasmania his travels would take him and his wife to as many of the famous 'big things' as he could find.  he mentioned the Big Prawn and the Big Banana and expected to hear about others as they travelled around.

I mentioned the Big Merino at Goulburn and the Big Potato at Robertson, though I warned him that the spud might be a little underwhelming.

In my reading this morning, I read about a new Big Thing being built in Carnamah in Western Australia. Carnamah is a town of about 400 inhabitants, one pub, one restaurant and one grocery store.  The big attraction, which the town hopes will bring in hordes of visitors, is an enormous replica of the Chamberlain 40K tractor, the machine that helped develop the region into a productive farming area.  It's 11.5m high and 16m long and painted bright orange.  It cost about $1 million to build.

I suppose there are people who think that 'big things' are interesting but I can't imagine I would make the 600 km round trip from Perth just to look at a huge orange tractor. They probably wouldn't even let you climb on it.

 

ON YOUR TOES                                                                                                  AUGUST 5, 2022

Charles Grantham had joined the Alabama Prison Service when he left school and had now reached the pinnacle of his career: through hard work and dedication he proudly held the position of Governor of Holman Prison.  His father would have been proud of him.  Throughout Charles’s childhood, his father had encouraged him to strive to make the most of his opportunities.

‘Stay on your toes, son,” he would say, “Who knows when opportunity will appear?  Always be on your toes, ready to seize the chance.”  When the chance came to stand for election for the job of Governor, Charles received more votes than anyone else and was awarded the job.

Always following his father’s advice, Charles tried to ensure that the prison ran as efficiently as possible and brought in new rules to look after the welfare of prisoners.  It was hard, though.  Holman was a maximum security prison and the prisoners, for the most part, were a brutal lot. 

“It’s not like Shawshank Redemption,” he used to say.  Nobody is asking for library books here.”

The guards were little better.  To survive, they had to be more brutal than the inmates so every day in the prison was a continuation of an on-going battle between the hard men in the cells and the even harder men in the blue uniforms.

One of Charles’s innovations that had a positive effect was his institution of a Dress Code for female visitors.  He had been appalled at the appearance of the wives and girlfriends who came to visit the inmates: tiny mini-skirts, low cut blouses, and so on; there was almost a riot on visiting days when the doors were opened to let the visitors in.  Some of the guards resented having to police the regulations but understood the need for them.  There had been a couple of unsavoury episodes over the years which no guard wanted to see again.

One day, Charles received a message from the State Governor.  It had been decided that one of the Death Row prisoners, Joe Nathan James, was to be executed in early-August, and would Charles make the necessary arrangements.  Even though there were over 170 inmates on Death Row, there hadn’t been an execution for years and Charles would need to be on his toes handling this one.

The day of the execution came and witnesses gathered at the prison to ensure that all was carried out as expected.  Charles was expecting representatives from the media but was surprised when his deputy appeared in his office to tell him that two reporters had arrived and were undergoing the checks to make sure their clothing matched the Dress Code requirements.  Charles was appalled; it was never intended that reporters and other VIPs would be subjected to that indignity but his deputy was adamant; they were visitors like the wives and girlfriends who came every week and shouldn’t be given any special treatment.

It might have been alright but a young female reporter from the local paper was wearing a mini skirt which was several inches shorter than the code allowed.  Charles might have overlooked this one infringement but his deputy was taking delight in his discomfort and Charles could not be seen to be making an exception for a pretty young girl.

He met the young lady and begged her to find a solution.  He didn’t want to refuse her entry but he might be forced into it unless something could be done.  The young woman tried to pull the skirt down to her hips but it was still too short.  Eventually, a photographer who was there remembered she had been fishing with her boyfriend at the weekend and still had her rubber waders in the trunk of the car.  The reporter was very reluctant but agreed to try them on.  She pulled them up under her skirt and somehow secured them so they wouldn’t fall down.

The deputy, enjoying his boss’s discomfort reminded him that his Dress Code also stipulated that female visitors must not wear open-toed shoes and pointed out that the reporter was still not compliant.  Luckily, she had an old pair of sandshoes in her car.

Imagine the young woman’s discomfort. She arrived for her first major assignment, well-dressed in fashionable clothes but was not able to view the execution until she donned khaki, rubber waders to cover her legs and shabby sandshoes to cover her feet.

It would be good to say that the execution went off without a hitch after that, but it wouldn’t be true.  It took the medical officers three hours of poking around to find a vein for the insertion of the intravenous line for the lethal injection. 

Of course, there are some who might say that the whole execution was a farce; being in jail for 28 years, surely, was punishment enough.

Sunday, October 6

I should be changing our clocks but why bother?  Time is relative and, unless you need to be at a certain place at a certain time, it doesn't matter.  I always have my breakfast at breakfast time and my lunch at lunchtime but it doesn't really matter if the clock says it is 8 o'clock or 11 o'clock, the fruit toast is just as delicious.

I turned on Youtube this morning and Steve was getting on a plane to Ireland.  It was a whim; he had no plans and no luggage but the possibility opened before him and he grabbed it.  Spontaneity is a wonderful thing.  I often dream about heading to the airport carrying just a credit card but I soon come back to earth.  My card would probably take me to Melbourne but I'd probably have to sleep on a bench at the airport and there's no fun in that.  Better to stay at home where I know there will always be fruit toast in the pantry if I fancy it.

Saturday, October 5

We've been watching a show on ABC TV called Return to Paradise.  It's supposedly linked to the show Death in Paradise but the only reference I can see to the original show is an occasional appearance of an Irish actor who once was the policeman on D in P.

It's not a bad show but we watch it because it's shot in the suburbs north of Wollongong. I think they use Stanwell Park Beach and other villages around there, and Thirroul pops up from time to time.  Watching the show, I often think of a walk I did with a Fellowship group  in that area.  I suspect it was about 1959 or '60.  We took the train to Austinmer Station and headed up the escarpment to Stanwell Tops.  It was very steep in parts and somebody had installed steel ladders, attached to the cliff.  Very hairy!

When we got to the top, we had lunch but I can't quire remember how we got home.  Maybe we walked down the highway to Stanwell Park and took the train.  A good memory, if a bit unclear.

Friday, October 4

I'm addicted to the website, Quora and it's the first thing I turn to when I open my eyes in the morning.  Of course, with the US elections coming up the spectacle of Donald Trump trying to keep himself out of prison is riveting but that's a rare treat; Quora keeps on giving 365 days of the year.   This morning, there was a post from somebody in one of the southern states, "Is it better to have a shotgun or a handgun for protection from home invasion?"

Yes, it's a real thing.  In the world's wealthiest and most advanced country (or so they say), people are planning how best to kill a burglar.  There were several replies, of course, all saying much the same thing: it's a matter of personal preference.  Too many, I thought, sounded like they would enjoy blowing the intruder away and looked forward to the opportunity.  One respondent, though, a little more thoughtful perhaps, suggested it might be worth thinking about where the shot might go if it missed the hapless burglar.  It if was a bullet from a handgun, it might travel through the wall and hit someone in the next apartment or even in the house next door.  Collateral damage, you might say, but think of the paperwork!

A BLAST FROM THE PAST                                                                               MAY 24, 2024

I don’t know what it is about rivers that attracts sad people.  Perhaps it’s because rivers ‘just keep rolling along’, and that’s a good message for someone whose life is in a bit of a turmoil.  Anna’s life was like that: she had broken up with Peter, her boyfriend, when she found he was seeing another girl and, although he was remorseful, she felt she couldn’t trust him.

And, on this bright and sunny August afternoon, a walk beside the river was just what Anna needed.  Up ahead, though, there was a shabby figure sitting on a bench and Anna’s senses were alert to any danger.  He – and Anna was almost certain it was a man - was wearing an old army greatcoat which made Anna think he might be homeless. In the past, she might have avoided passing the stranger but the way in which she had handled the recent break-up had given her more confidence and she walked on.

As she approached the figure, she noted that he was drinking from a bottle: the label on the bottle was red and the liquid in it was colourless: vodka, then, and this confirmed in her mind that the stranger was a homeless alcoholic.  Sad, of course, but she had no sympathy to share with someone who had clearly made wrong choices in his life.  

Anna walked a little faster; however, she had been brought up to be polite and, as she came alongside the stranger, she glanced towards him and gave a tentative smile.  Surprisingly the stranger called out, “How are you, Anna.  It’s been a while.”

Anna stumbled to a stop and looked more closely.  Apart from the shabby coat, she noted even more shabby boots, matted hair and an unkempt beard.  Nothing about the figure sparked any glimmer of recognition.

“Do we know each other?” she muttered.

“Oh, yes, Anna, we certainly do.  You’ve probably forgotten but we knew each other very well about 20 years ago.  I’m Darren, a little older, a little shabbier but still the same Darren you once thought you would marry.”

“Darren? I would never have recognised you.  What on earth has happened to you?”

“It’s a long story and I hope you’ll let me tell you all about it but it’s too cold sitting here; let’s go to a café and you can buy me a coffee.”

 Anna hesitated.  Darren had been a very special friend and she would love to know what had brought him to this state, but he was filthy, there was a rank smell about him and he had been drinking vodka straight from the bottle.  How could she take him to a café looking, and smelling, as he did?

“I don’t think so, Darren.  You wait here and I’ll get a couple of take-aways and bring them back.”  She backed off hoping that she didn’t appear too rude, but Darren didn’t seem to notice anything unusual in her manner.  Perhaps he had been rejected so many times he no longer bothered to take offence.

Anna drove to the nearest café, ordered coffees and something to eat, and made her way back, but not before ringing her ex-boyfriend to let him know what was happening.  Although Peter was still upset with her, he promised he would come immediately. In the meantime, he said, stay close to where she had met Darren and don’t agree to go anywhere with him.

 When she returned with the coffee, Anna was surprised to see that Darren had gone.  Apart from a red cap from a bottle of vodka, lying on the table there was no sign that he had ever been there.  Had he thought better of their reunion and decided to leave, or had he fallen in the river? Lost in her thoughts and looking at the oily sheen on the water, Anna was hardly aware of Peter’s car pulling up and it was only when he ran up and threw his arms around her that she knew that everything was going to be alright.