Sunday, December 1

 Reece next door is up to something.  He's lived in Unit 3 as long as we've been here but we rarely see him.  At times, we've speculated that he is a fly in - fly out worker at some mining camp, and that explains why he never seems to be here, but I met his father one day and he told me that Rhys works a typical 9 to 5 job, but 'keeps to himself'.  I notice that I've spelt his name two different ways and that underlines how mysterious he is.

However, he's clearly up to something.  The other day, he was busily working around the yard, in full view of anyone wandering by.  He hosed down the walls of the unit and washed all the windows.  He put up a large number 3 on the front wall.  What's going on?

This morning, I can hear the sound of various tools, and his head is popping up over the top of the fence.  There's clearly work being carried out.  No doubt, Marilyn will come up with a plausible explanation but I can't imagine what it will be.

Saturday, November 30

 I was scratching around for something to read when I came across The Rosie Project by Graeme Simsion.  I remember looking at it years ago because it's about a fellow who probably has Aspergers' Syndrome, but I don't actually remember reading it.  Now that I have, I'm pleased to say that I enjoyed it.  Graeme Simsion is the author and he has written other books whihc I'll have to look for.

I've always preferred crime fiction but I now find that I get bogged down in the detail and have to re-read, which is not great.  Maybe these 'lighter' books with a simple story are more appropriate.

Jamie dropped in this morning and was showing me his latest gadget: a device which you plug into the car and it will identify any faults.  My car is almost ten years old so I was interested to see what the device would say.  It said no problems.  What was the show, years ago, where one of the catchphrases was 'Computer says No'?  It was something about travel ... I've have to look it up.

Friday, November 29

It's worrying. at my age, to find that I suffer from earworms.  I didn't know that this was my problem until I came across the term in something I was reading and, apparently, it's a real thing.  Here's a definition: 

An earworm or brainworm, also described as sticky music or stuck song syndrome, is a catchy or memorable piece of music or saying that continuously occupies a person's mind even after it is no longer being played or spoken about.

I usually only have one earworm at a time and it doesn't hang around for more than a day or two.

Today, I am sad to say, my earworm  is the song 'Davy Crockett'.  Isn't that sad!  

If it were the chorus from La Boheme or, even something by Kate Bush, it might be OK.  But 

Davy Crockett!!

Davy Crockett was a great thing when I was a kid.  We all had Davy Crockett hats and followed 

his exploits in comic books.  Looking back, he was not really a hero but the USians have never let

that little detail stop their veneration.

Today's story is a bit of personal history, tweaked to fit in with the topic.   I note it was written almost exactly four years ago

HOW THE OTHER HALF LIVES                                                            20 NOVEMBER 2020

My first teaching job was at a small privately-owned school in Randwick, NSW.  I wore a good suit to the interview and had always prided myself on my careful speech so I felt that I gave the impression of being an appropriate person to work in a fee-paying school in Sydney’s Eastern Suburbs.  It must have worked as I was appointed to the position and was told I would start the following day.  I didn’t know at the time that the previous teacher had had a heart attack and the Principal was desperate to find a cheap replacement in a hurry.  I was flattered that I might be considered for this position and was happy to accept a salary of 20 pounds per week which was a bit less than I had been earning in my previous job.  I   knew the position had not been advertised and I only knew about it because I had received a phone call from the college where I was studying for my teaching qualification encouraging me to apply.  At that stage I had attended only a handful of lectures so was hardly a prime candidate for the role.

Nonetheless, I was thrown in the deep end, and it was not just in an educational sense: I was being dropped into a different social world from the one I had been brought up in.  My family had emigrated from Britain in the early 1950s.  My parents had both left school at 15 and we had lived in a rundown tenement building near Glasgow in the dark days following World War 2.  Emigration was an escape.  With no capital behind us, we were fortunate to be allocated a house in a Housing Commission suburb in Wollongong and my father travelled on the train each day to the steelworks at Port Kembla.  Most of my friends came from a similar background and yet, suddenly, I was being thrust into living and working in one of the most affluent areas of Australia. 

The parents of my students were all wealthy, educated, professional people who took it as their due that they would have access to the best that money could buy, be it housing or holidays, entertainment or education.  Many parents were from Europe: refugees, mainly from Italy and Greece, Hungary and Palestine.  Coogee Prep. School was hardly in the same class as some of the better-known independent schools but, through some long-standing arrangement, Coogee Prep students had guaranteed access to both Scots College and Sydney Grammar.  Parents who lived around Randwick and Coogee found it convenient to have their young boys at a local school where they would receive a good grounding for their chosen secondary school.

It’s fair to say that I was welcomed warmly by the parents and I received frequent invitations for meals.  Perhaps, some parents had an ulterior motive and were hoping that their child might receive some favoured treatment but I feel the invitations were genuinely given.  When, after a year or two, my wife had joined me and we set up in a flat in Coogee, the invitations increased.

For the first time in my life I saw something beyond the rather narrow horizons of an industrial city built around mining and steel-making.  We saw that not all homes are the same.  When money is taken out of the decision-making process, the opportunities are limitless.  We met people who lived in traditional suburban homes, and grand Federation mansions, in modern architect-designed display homes and high-rise apartments.  We were introduced to the delights of the theatre.  Although we were always on a budget, we had the opportunity to learn about drama and musical-comedy and even ballet and opera.  In our frequent dinner invitations, we learnt about different food styles.  We ate Japanese food for the first time and Greek.  Wine became a normal part of our diet and we learnt how to tell a good wine from a more ordinary one.  We heard different styles of music and broadened our taste beyond the Top 40 and Folk Music we were used to.

Later, as our careers took us to private schools in different parts of Australia we saw more and more of the lifestyle enjoyed by those who had an above-average income.  Better still, we were able to indulge in that lifestyle ourselves.  In Queensland, we sailed in the Twilight Yacht Races on Townsville Harbour and caught coral trout on the Great Barrier Reef.  In NSW, we attended a party at Jimmy Barnes’ house and inadvertently ate hash cookies.  We fished for trout in a private lake in the Snowy Mountains.

Through friendship with a pilot, we’ve been upgraded on flights and were guests of honour at a traditional Japanese banquet in Kanazawa where over 50 tiny, exquisite courses were served. One of the richest men in the Philippines invited us to a birthday party on his estate.  He and his wife collect religious art and the walls of his house were covered with priceless paintings rescued from churches in the Philippines and elsewhere.  The food was served, spread out on a table and eaten with the fingers.

At another wealthy man’s dinner party in the Philippines, the dining table incorporated some mechanism which groaned throughout the dinner and flashed coloured lights. The house where we ate is one of several he owns and is only used for dinner parties.  Back in Tasmania, we’ve dined at Government House and spent the weekend at the Governor’s holiday shack at Swanwick, trying to cook scallop soup over an open fire.

They say that it’s dangerous to have champagne tastes on a beer income but we’ve thoroughy enjoyed our experiences with how the other half lives.

Thursday, November 28

 I don't normally take notice of how many people read this blog.  It's nice to think that people might be interested but I really write it as a personal exercise. Apparently, there are 9 or 10 semi-regular readers which is nice.  However, yesterday's blog attracted only 4 people.  Was it something I said?  I looked back at Tuesday's paragraph to refresh my memory and found I had commented on life in the Maldives, suggesting that all was not perfect in paradise.  Mea culpa.  Perhaps 60% of my readers took offense and consigned me to the dustbin.  Of course, I'll never know because no-one every takes advantage of the opportunity to write back.

(Note to self: avoid making controversial statements, keep the posts light and inoffensive, and, for goodness sake, don't rock the boat.)

Wednesday, November 27

I'm trying hard to wean myself off my Temu obsession but I never cease to be astounded by the stuff that they have for sale and it's insidious the way that their website is pushed in my face no matter what I'm looking at.  This morning, I opened Google and there was a photo of a beach with a road and a few houses.  From the corner of my eye, I noticed a Temu ad in the corner of the screen but I was more interested in the beach.  It turned out to be Werri Beach at Gerringong and one of the houses had just sold for $42.5 million.  It was a pleasant enough house but .. $42.5 million?  The blurb also noted that a new subdivision in the area had blocks available for just over $11 million.  Is it too late to start saving?

Back to the Temu ad, which was advertising something more in my price range.  It was, in fact a little set of steps and it was designed to sit beside your bed so that your little dog wouldn't have to jump to get up. There were even some paw marks stencilled on the sides. Archie, who often stays with us, is a chihuahua and is getting older so a set of bedsteps might be just the thing he needs.  But not today!

Tuesday, November 26

 We're having a pretty slow start this morning.  Marilyn would normally be going to a Craft group but is giving it a miss.  Instead we watched a Youtube video of someone called Brogan Tate enjoying a holiday in the Maldives.  I've mentioned her before so I won't go into any more details.  The resorts are wonderful and anyone would be enthused about making the effort to get there.  It's not far from Australia, after all.

The problem is that the reality of life in the Maldives is not what you see at the resorts.  It's a conservative Islamic country and women's rights are becoming more of an issue.  Every now and again there are news reports which are worrying.  You wonder whether it's appropriate to support a country which, in many ways, is denying rights to all its population.  However, the reality is that Marilyn and I are no longer travelling so we'll never be faced with that dilemma.

Monday, November 25

One of our neighbours is a woman about our age who lives alone.  In casual conversation, we discover that her husband is in Toosey, the local nursing home.  Apparently, she moved here to be closer to her husband when he was admitted.  Her name is Bertine and yesterday she knocked on the door to tell us that the nursing home had rung to say that he had died. She asked whether Marillyn might go with her to the home, to give her some support.

I drove them both there (it's just a few streets away) and it only took half an hour or so to go through the formalities.  Bertine will need some support over the next few weeks and we're pleased that she felt comfortable in coming to talk to us.

Life's a bugger, isn't it?

Today's story goes back to 2020.

THE BLUE ROOM                                                                                              4 SEPTEMBER 2020

We looked at dozens of houses in our search for a place to call home, a place where we would be comfortable in our declining years, a place big enough to show off our memorabilia but small enough not to demand too much attention.  It wasn’t easy.  We didn’t want a mass-produced, ho-hum, seen-it-all-before, unit with a bare minimum of space and just a couple of flashy features to catch attention, like a remote-control garage door or a humidifier in the air conditioning.

We wanted something with a bit of character, something we could point to with pride and which would give us a sense of satisfaction that we were a cut above the common herd who were content to be told that the developers knew what the customers needed and they should be grateful that the decision-making had been done for them and be thankful to take what was on offer.

Our estate agent, poor man, was showing signs of stress as we rejected property after property.  It got to the point that we no longer even bothered to think of a reason for our dismissal of his suggestions. We would just say, “Nah! What’s next?’

Eventually, we suspected, he was attempting to off-load one of his ‘hard-to-sell’ collection on us.  “I have a lovely property for you to look at,” he said, tongue-in-cheek.  “It’s been on the market for a while and it’s not everyone’s cup of tea but you’re such discerning buyers that I’m sure you’ll see the potential.”

On the face of it, it was a rather unprepossessing property, insipid on the outside and bland in the interior.  Every room was painted in a stultifying shade of beige, apart from one out-of-the-way bedroom which was decorated in vivid blue - a blue which caught the eye, which made a statement, which demanded you sit up and pay attention.  Strangely, we found ourselves expressing a positive attitude to the property. There was nothing about this house which should have sparked our interest and, yet, we found ourselves making an offer.

The estate agent was beside himself with glee.  No doubt he had visions of being ‘agent of the year’, of being congratulated by the Managing Director and of being slipped an unexpected bonus at Christmas. We know that estate agents routinely thank their clients for their custom with a bottle of not-too-expensive sparkling wine and, maybe, a coffee-table book, so perhaps the case of Veuve Cliquot we received from them was a bit over-the-top.  However, we knew we had been hard to satisfy and the agent must have been relieved to say goodbye to us.

We had been settled in for several weeks before we became aware that the locals were treating us with some reserve.  Many seemed surprised that we had moved into what they called the ‘old Jamieson place’.  Eventually, we demanded that someone tell us what was going on.  It seemed that the previous owner of the house, whose name was Jamieson, of course, had enticed young women to the house, kept them locked up in the blue room, eventually murdering them and burying their bodies in the back yard.  Jamieson was eventually charged with a total of seven murders although the police believed there were many more who had never been reported missing.

The tabloid newspapers dubbed it ‘The Blue Room Murders’ and it was quite a sensation for a time, but somehow the story had passed us by.  I suppose the locals thought that we would be appalled by the revelation and regret that we had bought this ‘house of horrors’.  Funnily enough, though, we had always imagined we would be happiest in a house that was unique, that had a tale to tell and, by good luck, we had found just that - so we’re here to stay. And the blue room will always stay that colour.

 

Sunday, November 24

 It's just turning 11 o'clock and I've been up since 7.  I always wake earlier than that but I try to stay in bed until what I think is a reasonable hour.  Marilyn's not so rigid and is happy for me to take her a cup of coffee which she enjoys while checking her emails.  If she doesn't come through to the lounge room, I can check on the exploits of the people I follow on Youtube: Steve is in Bergen getting a train to Oslo and Scott is in Sydney showing his son where he was brought up.  When Marilyn comes through, she wants to check on one of her favourites: Brogan has been in the Maldives but is notorious for being late in posting her offerings.  Sher's been home in England for a week and her post hasn't yet appeared.

It's a beautiful morning so we take our coffee outside.  Paul next door is mowing his lawn so we have an accompaniment with our coffee but, otherwise, it is a fairly typical, quiet Tasmanian summer's day.  What do they say; All's right with the World!

Saturday, November 23

I thought I'd mow our little back lawn this morning before the day became too hot.  It's overcast and the temperature is 22 so it's already a bit muggy.  Marilyn says I should leave it until Jamie comes but that's admitting defeat and I'm not ready to do that yet. Unfortunately, she has another weapon to ensure she gets her own way: before I even start, she's out there with her garden hat on and broom in hand, insisting she will help me.  She knows that I will throw my hands up in disgust and all I can do is loudly remind her that she is too old to bend over like that and hope the neighbours hear.

Even when I've finished and put the mower away, she is still there fiddling around, picking up leaves.  I think I know why old people live in flats: gardens are detrimental to any relationship.

We have a little square of concrete at the back door where we have a table and chairs.  It's on the western side of the house and is not the best place to sit when the sun is going down.  We've talked about a gazebo, or a sail or a pergola or something but haven't got around to doing anything - we've only been here four years, after all.

The bloke who has moved in next door has an identical set-up: square of concrete on the western side of the unit, However, he hasn't wasted time thinking about it.  The other day, we noticed some movement on the other side of the fence and, peering over, we saw he had erected a tent over the concrete slab.  It's one of those square marquee tents, about 2.4 metres square, you might see at a fete or market day,  Unfortunately, it's bright blue and towers over the house.  The word KINGS in big letters is emblazoned on the roof.

Well, we can scratch that off our list of options.

Friday, November 22

I didn't manage to write anything yesterday; Marilyn and I both had early appointments so I put off the writing until the afternoon but didn't get around to it.  However, it doesn't matter; our lives are so restricted now, there is little in each day which might merit a mention.  My 'appointment' was simply to pick up a new pair of glasses.  My last 'spare' pair has been misplaced but I put off replacing them in case my vision had deteriorated. When you get to my age, you expect things to go off but, at my last eye test, there had been no change so I decided to order a new pair.  One wall in Specsavers is covered with possibilities.  I could have a $200 pair as worn by some film star but I'm not looking for fashion. I went to the bargain basement and found a sturdy black pair for $39.  If anyone asks, I can say I chose them because Michael Caine wore a pair just like them in The Italian Job -  and $39 can't be beat!  How can they produce them at that price and throw in a free bottle of cleaner and a chamois wipe?

ON THE REBOUND                                                                                               MARCH 5, 2024

‘She’s behind you!’  Adam’s spidey sense alerted him that Rachael was here.  He’d been watching the door, waiting for her to appear and now she had disconcerted him by coming up behind him.  How had she managed that?  He had been dreading this meeting in any case and her unexpected covert entrance threw him into a spin.

“Oh, hi, Rache,” he stammered while noticing the little smile on her face.  You enjoyed that, didn’t you?  Bitch!  He couldn’t help himself.  Any feelings he might once have felt for her were long gone. Her snide remarks and lack of interest in anything he did had put paid to that. 

“Hello, Adam.  It’s good to see you.”  Her voice, which he had once told her reminded him of the sound of doves cooing, now grated on his ears.  How could he ever have thought that she might be ‘the one’?  Now her words sounded harsh and he had to steel himself to stay calm and be pleasant.

“It’s good to see you, too, Rachel,” he managed to say.  Surely he should try to be polite.  After all, she hadn’t ever been really nasty to him and had seemed devastated when he suggested that they should have a break from each other.  He remembered how her lip dropped when he suggested it and how her shoulders slumped as if she had been punched.  Had it been a month?  Yes, at least that, and she hadn’t tried to contact him in that time.  He wondered how she would take the news he was about to spring on her.

“Can I get you a coffee?” He remembered his manners at last and, when she nodded, left her sitting at the table while he went to give the order.  Glancing back at her, he noticed how well she looked: still very pretty and well-dressed.  That’s what had attracted him to her in the first place. She was bright, too, and had a good job with the government.  In normal circumstances, she would have been an ideal life-partner but, sometimes, things are not meant to be.

Returning to the table, he pulled in his chair.  “How have you been?” he asked in a low voice.

“How do you think I’ve been?” she burst out. “You dump me with no explanation and I haven’t heard from you for nearly a month.  I thought we meant something to each other but clearly you thought differently.  I wonder what surprise you have for me today.”

Her coffee appeared and they both took the opportunity to take a deep breath and try to calm down.

“Rachel, I know you feel that I’ve let you down and I’m sorry about that.  It was nothing to do with you but I felt you deserved better than someone like me.”

“Oh, don’t pull the old ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ excuse!”, Rachel interrupted.  “You’re just a miserable worm and I’m better off without you. I only came today to make sure you realised just how lucky I feel that I’m not saddled with you any longer.”

Adam was taken aback but pulled himself together.  “I’m sorry you feel like that, Rache.  You’re probably right.  Anyway, I have some news that might make you feel better.  I’ve met someone else and we’re engaged.” 

“Don’t call me Rache.  My name is Rachel.  I always hated how you thought it was cute to shorten it.  And who is the lucky lady?  Some bimbo you picked up on the rebound.”

“Well, no!  As a matter of fact, she’s my boss’s daughter.  I met her at a company picnic and we hit it off straight away.  Her name’s Alice and we plan to marry in a few month’s time.”

“Not Alice Monroe!  Oh, Adam, you poor fool.  Haven’t you heard the stories about Alice Monroe.  She was in my class at school and had a terrible reputation.  She was nearly expelled at one stage but her father donated money for a new gymnasium and whatever she had done was all hushed up.  But there were so many stories and her family had to ship her off to boarding school in Brisbane to squash some of the rumours.  I’d heard she was home. You deserve each other and I hope you’ll be very happy together.”

Adam leant back in his chair.   This wasn’t turning out as he had expected.  Perhaps he was a bit starry-eyed about Alice.  Another thought struck him.  Could she be pregnant and only marrying him because of that?  He lurched to his feet.

“It was good seeing you again, Rachel, but I have to go now.  I’ll see you later.”

Rachel took the last sip of her coffee, not even trying to hide her small smile of satisfaction. 

 

Wednesday, November 20

There's a blackbird sitting on the fence just outside my window and only about 8 feet from me.  Apparently, he doesn't know I'm here or knows that he's protected by the window. He's wet so has just had a bath and is busy preening his feathers.  It reminds me that I am due a shower this morning.  When the weather is cooler as it is now, and we're not doing much, I only shower every second day.

When did this obsession with showering every day take hold?  I'm old enough to remember when normal people only had a bath once a week, and you didn't get exclusive use of the bath water: 'Hurry up!" someone would shout. "Your brother is waiting to hop in before the water gets too cold."  The good old days!

Paul, the fellow who is renting Unit 1, has just walked past the window on his morning walk.  He seems to be a single man and works at a local Call Centre. He must be on the 11 to 7 shift today.  He normally drives an old Toyota van but has a lovely old Lexus in the garage which he brings out on weekends to take for a run.  I know he has a couple of daughters who live in Hobart and he often makes the trip down to see them at the weekend.

Tuesday, November 19

I had an early start this morning, having to drive Jamie into town.  He is part of an interview panel at the hospital and parking there is impossible so I offered to drop him off. Marilyn has gone to her Craft group and I'm at home, babysitting Archie. I don't mind an occasional half-day to myself; it gives me a chance to catch up on some of the rubbish I watch on Youtube.

Another task I have on my list is to enter a competition online.  I enjoy quiz magazines and I've just completed the latest issue of Better Home and Gardens Puzzle book.  I can now enter my answers on their website which saves me finding an envelope and stamp to post in the entry form.  I don't know why I bother, though.  I've been doing this for years and have never won anything.  This particular issue is offering prizes like a washing machine, a mobile phone and a smart TV but, with my luck, the best I could hope for is a pair of earbuds. 

Really, though, anything would be gratefully received.  

Monday, November 18

 I mentioned that Marilyn and I have been re-watching Madam Secretary.  You have to take it with a grain of salt, making allowances for the fact that it's produced for an American audience and there will be a level of massaging of the reality of that country's place in the world. However, it's escapism at a reasonably intelligent level.

One of the main characters is the US President, a lantern-jawed, straight-shooting, decisive individual, well aware of the challenges of his position.  He always makes the right decision, no matter how complex or delicate the situation.

Marilyn and I have taken to playing a game, 'What would Donald Do?', trying to imagine what Donald Trump might do, or say he would do, in a similar situation.  It's great fun and we believe his 'go-to' response to any world crisis would be to invite everyone to Mar-a-Lago where he would charge everyone and their entourage full price for the accommodation, insist they play rounds of golf with him and not let them leave until the situation is resolved.

I suppose we'll have a chance in the next few years to see how close to the truth we are.

I wrote the following story in May this year:

AFTER TWENTY YEARS ….                                                                                31 MAY, 2024

 "G’day.  Long time, no see.  How’ve you been?”

“Is that the best you can do?  We haven’t seen each for twenty years and all you can say is ‘How’ve you been?’”.

 "Well, whose fault is it that we haven’t kept in touch? Certainly not mine.  I have sent out a Christmas letter religiously every year and I can’t remember the last time we even received a card in reply.”

“Haven’t you got a ‘phone any more?  Would it be too much trouble to pick it up and press a button or two?  Our number hasn’t changed, although it wouldn’t surprise me if you’ve lost it.”

“Hang on a minute.  ‘Phones work both ways.  You could just as easily have picked up yours and rung me.”

Geoff took a deep breath.  He knew it was going to be like this.  He and his brother had never been close and, if Geoff had any memories of their time growing up, they always included their frequent fights.

He took another breath and mentally gave himself a shake. He could handle this; he was a mature individual who had dealt with his share of difficult situations.  Dealing with his brother should be no harder than some of the other confrontations he had lived through.  Could this meeting be any harder than the time he had separated the two Italian grape-pickers in the Barossa winery, both brandishing knives?  Or the time in Fiji when two rival gangs hurled coconuts at each other, and he was the only overseer in sight?

But this was his brother, breathing fire, and it was always harder when a member of the family was involved.  Of course, he was handicapped by the fact that Harry wasn’t interested in winning an argument: all he wanted to do was to make his brother lose control.  If Harry could bring Geoff to the stage where he was screaming in annoyance, he was happy and would just smile, metaphorically rub his hands together, and leave the field of battle. 

It was one of the reasons that Geoff had moved his family to Alice Springs.  It was about as far from other Australian cities as you could get and so it was unlikely that Harry and his brood would drop in uninvited.  Yet, here they were: against all the odds, Harry, and his surly wife, Samantha.

Outside, Geoff could see the bulk of the caravan which Harry was in the process of towing across Australia.  Typically, Harry hadn’t let Geoff know that a visit was imminent.  He hadn’t even let his brother know that he had taken Long Service Leave and set off on the six-month trip. The first Geoff knew of it was when the ungainly rig pulled up outside their house, flattening a camellia bush in the process.

Of course, Geoff had to appear to be hospitable and invited Harry and his wife into the house.  Thankfully, there were no children to deal with as they had, long ago, left to make their own way in the world.  One of them, Geoff remembered, was a particularly difficult child, causing mischief wherever he went.  Probably managing a Fortune 500 company now, he mused.

“How long are you staying in the Alice?” Geoff asked.

“Oh, that’s typical!” Harry burst out. “We’ve only just arrived and you’re already counting the days till we leave.”

Days? thought Geoff.  Surely they’re not going to be here for days!

“Well,” said Harry. “It’s been a hard drive through the outback and we don’t have to move on for a week.  We’re a bit fed up with the caravan and I said to Samantha that you will find a bed for us.  It will give us a chance to catch up and, maybe, have a few hands of poker.  Remember the number of times you tried to beat me, but you never could.  I must have stung you for a few hundred dollars over the years. This’ll be your chance to win it back.”

Can things get any worse, thought Geoff?  Just when I thought my life was, finally, going along as it should, my idiot brother shows up.  It’s just like the old days – everything I do is spoiled by this insidious monster of a brother I’m stuck with.

He took a deep breath and looked at his wife, signalling with his eyebrows that she should say nothing.  “Oh, what a shame.,” he said.  “Rhonda and I are flying to Darwin tomorrow for a week but, I’ll tell you what, I’ll leave you the keys and you can stay here.  I’m disappointed we won’t be able to catch up but it can’t be helped.  Maybe another time.”

Sunday, November 17

 I think it will be an indoors day today: it's overcast and cold.  We have a couple of chairs and a small table on the little strip of concrete at the front door and it's a pleasant spot for enjoying a cup of coffee but that won't happen this morning. I've been up for an hour, watched a YouTube video of Steve Marsh on the island of Hoy and had my breakfast, but Marilyn has taken the chance for a lie-in.  

Yesterday was a big day in Longford when they had the Annual Blooms Festival.  As the name suggests, it has to do with flowers; there's a big display at the Town Hall and lots of open gardens.  There were little groups of pedestrians up and down our street all day walking from one garden to another.  I'm pleased that nobody arrived demanding to look at mine. Also, there was an 'Artisan Market' at the gymnasium at the top of Burghley Street.  I drove past and the carpark was full.

I had trouble turning into the supermarket carpark with the number of cars coming into town.  Longford seems to be the place for festivals: apart from Blooms, there's a regular Vintage Car Show, a Festival of Trucks, the usual Country Show, Art Exhibitions and a couple of Poultry Shows.  You could be at something every weekend if you were so inclined. (Hint: we're not!)

Saturday, November 16

 When I was diagnosed with diabetes, I resigned myself to a lifetime of watching my diet, avoiding the food I enjoyed most and taking blood sugar readings every morning.  I don't know how many years I have suffered the regular pin-prick to draw a drop or two of blood but, when I read somewhere that a smart watch could take a reading by magic, I determined that I would have one.

"We'll get you an Apple Watch," said Jamie, the last of the big spenders, but I reminded him that I didn't have an Apple 'phone so he switched tack and suggested an Android model for $199.  It would have been nice but I resisted and found a cheap copy on Temu for $28.  I've had it for twelve months now and it works brilliantly.  I plug it in each night and take my reading before I have anything to eat or drink in the morning.  This morning the reading was 4.6. I suspect it reads a bit lower than reality but have convinced myself that I should worry more about fluctuations than the actual number.  It looks just like an Apple watch, too, so I also have the 'show-off' factor.

This morning Marilyn asked me what else the watch did, apart from telling time, I had no idea.  I pressed a button on the side and a menu popped up.  I chose 'workout' and numbers started to appear under various headings.  An hour later, it tells me that my heart rate is 86 bpm, I've expended 327 calories. I've covered 217 steps and 0.16 km.  And I haven't even been outside.

Friday, November 15

 I seem to have lost the last two days but I'm back on track now.  The cleaning lady is coming this morning.  She does have a name but I'm never sure who it will be.  Because it's already 10.08, Marilyn is confident that it will be Sandra, (the others tend to come earlier), but we are ready to be surprised if it happens to be someone else.  We've filled in the time by doing a Coles order and that saves a trip into town.

We tried to sit outside this morning to have our coffee but a cold wind drove us back indoors.  Perhaps I was a bit premature thinking that Summer has come to Longford; we'll still have a few days of cold weather before we can enjoy being outside.

Nothing else is planned for today.  I might try to write something but it's more likely I'll get back into my book or even see another episode of Madam Secretary.  We're watching this series again and it's interesting to see the many ways in which the US manages to save the world from disaster in the space of a 43-minute episode.  The worry is that there might be people around the world who think that it is all true and wonder why all the rest of the world is not falling over itself in gratitude, especially now that D. Trump is back on the throne.  

Where would the world be without the US Republican Party?

DON’T ASK                                                                                          JUNE 12, 2020

Do you find, like me, that some people seem to have been born with the ability to irritate everyone around them without really trying, or meaning to?  I had an uncle like that.  Whenever he was around I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck start to bristle, obviously some sort of primitive warning that it was time for me to run away.  To be fair, he never did me any physical harm but he had a terrible effect on my state of mind. I’ve often wondered what it was about my uncle that attracted my aunt but she often spoke dreamily about Richard Gere and Harrison Ford so clearly she wasn’t looking for subtlety or depth in her ideal man.

I also tried to analyse what it was about my uncle that irritated me so much and there were several things which sprang to mind.  He had a perpetual smirk: an expression which seemed to signify that he had an innate sense of superiority.  I know you can’t choose the face you are born with but surely you can control to some extent the expression you put on it. 

To go with his smirk, he was what we used to call a smart-aleck.  No matter what the topic of conversation, he always claimed to have special insider knowledge not available to the rest of us.  And he used cutting expressions like: “Didn’t you know that?” and “What did they teach you at that University you spent so many years at?” 

His name was Lancelot. Yes, I know it’s bizarre but perhaps his mother had a romantic yearning for the days of King Arthur, and her husband was happy just to let her have her way, but it was an unusual name for someone living in a middle-class Australian suburb.  I would have thought it would make sense for him to use his middle name (William) or shorten his first name to Lance but, no, he clung to the incongruity of the name as if using it as a weapon to beat all the rest of us plebs.

Another of the things which irritated me most about Uncle Lancelot was his speech. He had a whiny voice, like a querulous bank manager complaining to a junior clerk about taking an extra five minutes for his lunch hour.  When he began one of his lengthy monologues about what the government should be doing about the current fiscal downturn or the pitfalls of our immigration policy, I had to use all of my willpower to stop myself from screaming.

And on the top of my list of things I hated about my uncle was his habit of turning any polite inquiry about his state of health or a throwaway remark about how he was going into a tirade about the extraordinary trials he was dealing with and the unfairness of life.  I confess, I didn’t have a comprehensive vocabulary of conversation starters but my tentative “How are you?” or How are things?” would invariably be met with a “Don’t ask!” and my heart would sink as I knew what was coming.

Tuesday, November 12

 Our electricity provider, Aurora, has introduced something called Power Hours.  Customers register a 3-hour period when there is no charge.  It's not regular; it's an occasional 'event'.  We chose 3 hours last Saturday afternoon. We postponed our showers to that time, did a big load of washing and I mowed the lawn (with our electric mower).   We save $1.46!  Hmmm. Not what I'd call a great success.

Marilyn has gone off to have a blood test. Apparently, she couldn't have it at the local facility and has had to go in to the whiz-bang clinic in town.  Jamie is driving her so I can get my paperwork in place for tomorrow's Probus meeting.  I made a mistake in taking on the job of Treasurer; it obliges me to go to the meetings and sometimes I'd prefer not to.  I've never been comfortable with men-only organisations; the Deloraine club was mixed and that was fine and I suppose I expected the Longford group to have a similar feeling, but it hasn't.  Being single-sex has an effect on choice of speakers, mood of the meetings, social occasions and so on.

My plan at the moment is to hang around until the next AGM in March, resign as treasurer and slip away gracefully.

Monday, November 11

One of my favourite authors is Simon Winchester.  The first book of his that I picked up was The Surgeon of Crowthorne which is the story of an American doctor and army officer who was arrested for murder in Britain and sent to prison for life.  As an officer and fairly affable fellow, he was treated well and ensconced in a pleasant, private room with access to the prison library and a newspaper delivered to him each morning.

At the time, the Oxford English Dictionary was being produced and a call had been put out for readers to assist the compilers by sending to them examples how particular words were being used.  Dr Minor, our hero, had the time and inclination to take part in this project and, in fact, submitted more suggestions than anything else.

It's not the sort of book I would normally read but, surprisingly, I enjoyed it.  All Simon Winchester's books have a similar theme: take an aspect of history and tease out the back story.  Currently, I'm reading The Perfectionists, which is about the Industrial Revolution and how, gradually, manufacturing became more exact.  It's the story of clocks and locks and so on.

A poem today, I think.

LEARNING JAPANESE

 

In the wilds of far Tasmania, it’s rare to hear the chatter

Of jolly Japanese jabbering about things that really matter

In this typical selection of the Aussie population

It’s English that we speak, like the rest of this great nation.

 

If we all could choose a language that we use to tell our story

And we all chose something different, conversation would be gory

To concentrate on English is a sensible decision

It means that all we need to say can be said without revision

 

But when we go to foreign lands, we’re faced with much confusion

The natives there don’t speak like us – I’ve come to that conclusion

Next time I go to distant climes, I’ll sort that out, by jingo

By learning how the natives speak and speaking in their lingo.

 

Instead of saying Good Afternoon, I’ll say Konnichi-wa

And sumimasen, kudasai and Mo tabemashita ka?

I’ll cause a stir where’er I go, they’ll stop me in my track

To hear me speak like natives do and slap me on the back.

 

I’ll order food in restaurants and chat with passers-by

They’ll think I’ve lived here all my life, I’m such a clever guy

I’ll know about the things that happen to people in the street

And talk about the weather with everyone I meet.

 

The Emperor will serve me tea and laugh at all my jokes

I’m told that all the Royal mob are just like other blokes

They sip their beers and scratch their bums and talk about the footy

And open fetes and wave to crowds and carry out their duty.

 

But really, when all’s said and done, I’m just a lazy fellow

Who thinks that folk will understand my English if I bellow

If I shout out loud and wave my hands my meaning will be clear

So I’ll leave my learning Japanese on the shelf for another year.

 

Sunday, November 10

 In the Main Street of Longford, on the footpath just outside the Real Estate Agent's, there's a cupboard with a sign reading Longford Community Pantry.  Every day, people put in any surplus food they have, extra fruit from their apple tree, the last few loaves before the bakers shuts its door, and so on. The idea is that, if you're struggling or waiting for your next bit of dole money, you can help yourself to what's in the pantry.  We put bits and pieces in there from time to time.

 Locals are very proud of the initiative and it's well-supported.  Every now and again, though, somebody goes too far and the Community Facebook Page is filled with outrage.  One time, somebody from Cressy, the next town, was seen emptying the pantry and driving off.  Or, someone complains that they put in 2 dozen eggs and somebody took the lot.

I'm following the latest scandal with interest.  On the other side of the road from the pantry, outside the Commonwealth Bank, is a seat, put there for weary travellers.  Some women have been observed sitting there, 'all day', watching the pantry.  When they see someone making a donation, they hurry across the street and 'take the lot'.  What makes it interesting is that the women in question are Pacific Islanders, the partners of men from Tonga, Fiji, etc, employed to work at the Meat Works or as pickers at the local farms.

So, in sleepy Longford, we have a genuine Racist Scandal brewing. I'll be watching its development with interest.

Friday, November 8

Well that's it.  Don't expect me to put myself through that again.  I couldn't fault the staff at Launceston General Hospital; they were all that could be expected, and more.  They even found me a serving of sticky date pudding when I finally emerged from the theatre. But the whole rigmarole is demeaning and unpleasant, and I don't see why I need to put myself through it.  Even if I get a personal letter from the Prime Minister, I'll just politely say, No, thanks!

I haven't thought of Arthur Clough for years but I remember he wrote a poem which said:

Thou shalt not kill; but need'st not strive
Officiously to keep alive:

That's a philosophy I can relate to.  Who needs well-meaning individuals making decisions on your behalf?  Just because I’m 81, doesn’t mean I’m ga-ga.  I am perfectly capable of making my own decisions and I don’t need some well-meaning dill in an office deciding what I should be doing.

Having said that, I certainly feel better.

 

Thursday, November 7

I'm showered, shaved and dressed, ready for my trip into the hospital.  I can't have breakfast but I had a litre of some concoction to ingest which has taken away my appetite, anyway. Check-in time is 11.30 and Jamie will drop me off.

But that's not the important item on today's news.  The real big issue of today is that Donald Trump is, once again, President of the United States.  Words fail me.  One report I read said that it was the smallest turn-out of voters in years.  Many people were either not interested or too lazy to vote.  The ones who did make the effort were the enthusiastic followers of Trump.  The story of Trump just keeps on giving and it's not over yet.

Wednesday, November 6

 I'm afraid my project to feed the birds in our garden has failed.  Marilyn commented that I would need to formulate a plan to clean up the increased incidence of bird droppings on the concrete driveway and that was an issue I hadn't considered.  It was going to cost me about $10 for a bag of bird seed and there was no way of predicting how many bags I would need in the future.  

The final straw, though, was when I saw the lady next door tying plastic bags to the corners of her clothesline.  I was flummoxed at first but realised that this was a primitive bird-scaring device to protect her washing from being stained by the errant droppings of passing blackbirds. My kindness may have the unintended effect of encouraging more feathered passers-by to visit.

There are always unintended consequences, so it's time to think again. 

Today is a fasting day in preparation for tomorrow's exploratory operation.  I can have black coffee, jelly and not much else but I've survived it before and I will survive it again.  I think they wrote a song about it.

Tuesday, November 5

 I don't know which is the more important event happening today: the Melbourne Cup or the US election.  They say that the Cup is the 'race that stops a nation' but I suspect most of the world is holding its breath to see, instead, what results from the idiocy that has overtaken the USA.  How 'the world's greatest democracy' as they like to call themselves could seriously consider Trump as an appropriate leader is beyond me.  There was a movie years ago called The Gods Must be Crazy. Maybe it's time for a remake.

Marilyn is meeting up with other Ladies Who Lunch at the Carrick Hotel today and is rummaging around in her wardrobe to find an appropriate fascinator to wear. Apparently, it's de rigueur to wear something on your head at a Melbourne Cup do.  Who would have thought!

My heart sank when I found I had to write about A Tree in a Meadow but here is the result

A TREE IN A MEADOW                                                                                      24 March, 2023

If you saw it for the first time, you would say it was a tree, just a tree, a nondescript tree in a meadow.  It would be surprising if you paid this particular tree any unusual attention but that’s because very few people know the story of what makes this tree special.  I know because I’ve lived in the house across from this same meadow and I know the true story of why this tree in this meadow is different from other trees.

When we were kids, this tree was a favourite place for our games.  It wasn’t a very big tree but little kids could still hide behind its trunk and play tricks on their friends.  On warm days we had picnics in its shade and, when we were older, we climbed into its branches and tied ropes to them to make swings.  We used whatever we could find to make cubby-houses around its base and, in our imagination it was a stagecoach, a World War II destroyer and a racing car.  There was no end to the ways in which this tree became the focus of our games.

One day, soon after my 16^th birthday, I carved a heart into the bark of the tree and inscribed the initials of the girl whose face filled my dreams.  I took my courage in both hands and invited her to walk with me through the meadow and contrived to wander beneath the branches of the tree until she was confronted by my clumsy scratchings.  I don’t know what I expected; perhaps, that she would squeeze my hand (in my imagination, we were holding hands as we walked along), simper (I thought I knew what simpering was) and say how lovely it was that I had expressed my feelings in that way.

However, it didn’t work out exactly as I had hoped.  She didn’t even see the carving even though I had stopped directly in front of it, and I was forced to point it out to her.  To my horror, she burst out laughing.

“Oh, William,” she giggled.  “How ridiculous. What were you thinking?” And she laughed.  Yes, she laughed. 

I was shocked at her reaction and even more upset when she went on to say how disappointed she was that I had desecrated this glorious tree.  Desecrated?  What I had done was a gesture of my affection for her and an expression of my hope that we could possibly have a life together.  There was not much hope of that now.  How could I possibly have anything to do with someone who threw my expressions of love back in my face?

We didn’t speak much on the way back to her home; in fact, I said goodbye to her at the corner and let her walk the last hundred yards on her own. 

The next day, I borrowed some of Dad’s tools from the shed and erased as much of the heart from the tree as possible.  It made a bit of a mess and I felt a little bit guilty but I was determined that there would be nothing left to remind people of my embarrassment.  I avoided the tree after that.  At 16, I was involved in other activities and I’m sure I never even ventured into that meadow again.  That is until the day after my eighteenth birthday. 

I’d had a few drinks with my friends the night before and was resting my sore head by sleeping in when I was awakened by the sound of police cars in the street outside.  I staggered to the window and saw the revolving lights on the roofs of the police cars and heard the shouts of what seemed like dozens of police officers running across the meadow.  They surrounded a tree - my tree - and shouted at something, someone (?) in the branches. Soon, a dishevelled figure dropped to the ground.  He was quickly overpowered, handcuffed and led away to one of the cars.

I watched the TV news later to get the details of what had happened.  Apparently, this fugitive had held up a local service station at gun point, and escaped on foot.  The police were called and given the information that he was hiding in the branches of what some of the locals, apparently, had taken to calling the Lover’s Tree.  The police spokesman said they could identify the tree because of the damage to the bark caused by a disappointed lover who had his romantic advances rejected.

I’m older now and the feeling of embarrassment has faded but that tree will always be special to me, for a whole host of reasons.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Monday, November 4

I suppose it would be possible to work out how many days I have been on this earth .. it's only Mathematics, after all.  81 years x 365 days is 27565; add 20 to include leap years, which would mean 27585 up to my last birthday; 9 months from February to November (9x30=270) but February is only 28 days and others have 31, not 30 .. and it's all too complicated for me this morning!  Let's say it's close to 28000 days that I've been taking up space.

I didn't work for the first 18 years of that and I've been retired about 15 years.  That's 33 years when I was unproductive.  And I'm probably fairly typical.  I wonder whether there is some government department somewhere who are calculating this level of cost benefit analysis.  It would be interesting to see the results and I wonder what governments would do with the information.

Sunday, November 3

 I have to go in for a colonoscopy next week.  It's a regular check-up and the last one led to an operation which reduced my bowel by several metres.  Not much fun.  Before the event, I have to be careful with my diet and make some changes to my medication.  So, this morning I had to plan out everything for the next few days leading up to the hospital visit on Thursday: removing certain medications from my routine, making sure I had Rice Bubbles available for breakfast, and so on

On the Wednesday, I have a very carefully-explained procedure to follow, including drinking various preparations.  The last time I went through this nonsense, I vowed it would be the last time but, in fact, here we are again.

The good news is that the new bird feeder is a roaring success.  It took a while for the dopey creatures to find it but this morning there were 4 or 5 blackbirds and several sparrows fighting for access.  I've just brought in the tray for washing and refilling.  I think we can count this as a plus.

Saturday, November 2

 We often sit on the little strip of concrete at the front of the house for our morning cup of coffee.  It faces east so we get the morning sun and, at this time of the year, we enjoy the comings and goings of the birds looking after their new broods of chicks.  There's a blackbird's nest in the guttering above our heads and the two adults spend their day flying back and forth with worms for their offspring.  On the house opposite, a family of sparrows has taken over a stretch of guttering as well so there is quite a bit of activity.

The birdbath is always popular even if it's only for a drink so I realised that we needed a bird feeder as well.  Jamie had given me a packet of expensive, organic muesli which I couldn't tolerate so feeding it to the birds might be a way to get rid of it without criticism.

I had a 3-shelf wire construction for pot plants which was not being used so that would provide a base.  Marilyn gave me a flat wooden tray which would be big enough for seeds at one end and scraps of meat at the other.   She was becoming quite enthusiastic about the project.  I was happy just to put out the tray and see what happened but Marilyn wanted to go a bit further,

She found a pot plant to 'give it a bit of colour' and a decorative concrete toadstool to stop the tray from wobbling when the birds landed on it. 

It's not exactly as I envisaged but I hope the birds appreciate the trouble we go to.