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.

Thursday, October 3

When he has a busy day planned, Jamie has got into the habit of dropping Archie the chihuahua off with us to spend the day.  Jamie says he is a 'therapy dog' and has to earn his keep by providing companionship to the two oldies.  He seems to enjoy coming and Marilyn spoils him outrageously.  

Now the weather is becoming better, she is in the habit of taking him for a short walk. She sees a walk as an important part of her own exercise routine and, recently, I've encouraged her to take the walker that I had to buy when I had my stroke. It gives her a bit of support and has a seat to sit on if she needs it.

Archie gets very excited when he's put on the lead and sets off full of energy.  But, he's only a little dog and, by the time they've reached the end of the block he wants to sit down for a rest.  Marilyn now simply bundles him into the basket on the walker and he comes home as a passenger, sitting up like Jacky.

As I wrote the last bit of that sentence I wondered who was Jacky and why is he remembered for sitting up?  I assumed it was an Australian expression but Google thinks not: it suggests that 'Jacky' refers to Little Jack Horner who 'sat in a corner' and said 'what a good boy am I'.  That fits the image of Archie sitting in the basket of the walker.

We're all dotty, of course.

Wednesday, October 2

 I have a few jobs to do this morning and I'm trying to put them in some sort of order so that nothing is forgotten.  Writing this blog has jumped to the top of the list although it's probably not the one that Marilyn would like me to be making a priority: there's last night's washing-up still sitting there and a few things to picked up at the shop.  The washing-up is a particular issue.  For years now we have shoved everything into the dishwasher and washed it overnight but recently I started to question this process.  We're not cooking in the same way as we used to and not using as many pots and pans so a normal load in the dishwasher would be a few coffee mugs, a couple of plates and a handful of cutlery; hardly enough to warrant a 3-hour wash, rinse and repeat dishwasher cycle.  

The only way I could get Marilyn to agree to give up her favourite labour-saving device was if I became the chief manual dishwasher.  That's now the accepted rule of the kitchen.  I don't always get around to it in the evening but it's always there in the morning waiting for me. It didn't get done last night because we became involved in a great TV show; Night Sleeper.  It was particularly interesting to me because much of the action in the first couple of episodes took place in Motherwell, where my father was born.  My grandfather, John, left Gourdon on the East Coast of Scotland before the First World War and settled in Motherwell, taking a job in the local coal mine.  He married Janet Gore and my father was born in 1918.