Friday, July 25

 I've just come back from my walk.  It's cold outside and there are not many people walking. One middle-aged couple were on the other side of the road walking witjh a little boy I assumed was their grand-child.  "Why doies that man have a stick?" he yelled, referring, obviously to my cromach which I've taken to using on all my walks.  I have a more ordinary stick but the cromach has a particular air about it. You don't see many  cromachs in Longford.  I hoped they might ask me about it when they crossed to my side of the street but they just went on their way.

I was given my cromach by my Uncle Archie many years ago.  He told me it was made by his cousin, Bill Henderson who was a farmer on the island of Arran off Scotland's west coast.  It's traditional for the islanders to make cromachs during the long winter nights.  The shaft of the stick is from a rowan tree and the crook is made from antler shed by one of the deer which roam the islands.

Recently, I saw a snippet on TV showing King Charles wandering around  Balmoral Estate in Scotland and he was carrying a crook which might have been the twin of mine.  He was also wearing a kilt but I'm not brave enough to add that to my walking wardrobe yet.  If I did, it would certainly give the locals something to talk about.

THE OTHER JOHN CHRISTIES                                                                May 15, 2020

 

They say that no good will come of googling yourself but it occurred to me that googling my name would throw up other people who share the same combination of twelve letters and it might be interesting to see what other people with that same name have made of their lives. 

John Christie is not a particularly unusual name.  In my own family, there is at least one John Christie in every one of the last ten generations I’ve managed to uncover in my genealogy research but I don’t expect to find any of my forebears on Google.  But John is still one of the most common Christian names and there are enough Christies in Scotland to warrant the family having its own tartan and it is likely that some of them must have made some kind of mark on society.

I hope to find that there are John Christies who are famous scientists, doctors, and musicians and I know that one namesake founded the Glyndebourne Festival in England, but the first John Christie Google chooses to list is John Reginald Christie, the notorious murderer. They made a movie about him in which he was played by Richard Attenborough and books have been written about him.  Years ago I was stopped by a policeman in Hobart for some trivial driving offence and, when he looked at my licence, he commented, “I’ve just been reading about you.”  Well, not me, of course, but he clearly had a professional interest in my namesake. 

John Reginald was a sad character who killed at least 8 women between 1943 and 1952 in England and he was so notorious the local authorities destroyed the house and changed the name of the street where the murders took place in an attempt to erase memories of the outrage. Of the many  books written about him, the most sensational is entitled ‘The Rillington Place Strangler’.

The next of my namesakes suggested by Google has had a book written about him too.  It’s entitled ‘Damn You, John Christie!’ and it’s the story of John Mitchell Christie, who, in 1866, joined the Melbourne detective force which was then said to consist of well-educated men of standing. Later he was described as a 'well-groomed, refined-looking, walking embodiment of good taste', but he was also seen in a less favourable light as one who grew rich on his share of fines.

John Mitchell was a master of disguise who was variously a travelling tinker, a street-sweeper, a clergyman, but most often a 'gentleman'. The highlights of his career, however, were when he 'shadowed' visiting royalty; in 1867 he travelled throughout Australia and New Zealand with the Duke of Edinburgh; in 1881 he accompanied Princes Albert and George, and in 1901 acted as bodyguard to the Duke and Duchess of York when they visited Australia to open the first Australian Parliament.

A good athlete, Christie became well known in boxing and rowing circles throughout Australia.  He resigned from the detective force in 1875 to devote more time to sport although he did then join the Customs Service, spending a great deal of energy trying to close down illicit stills which were rife at the time.  It may have also been a good career move to give him better opportunities to put something aside for his retirement.

I wonder, in fifty years’ time, when people Google the name John Christie, will the names of the notorious criminal and the notorious policeman still appear at the top of the list of results, or will some other worthy namesake take their place?

Thursday, July 24

 It's not unusual for me to have a cold at this time of the year.  My nose runs, my eyes water and I get a persistent cough.  There is always a box of tissues close at hand.  And, after two or three miserable days, the symptoms disappear and my life returns to normal.

But not this year.  I've had my current symptoms for over a week and they're showing no signs of disappearing.  It's been so bad, I've agreed to talk to the doctor and we'll have a phone conversation just after noon.  I can't imagine what he will tell me that will solve my problem. He might give me antibiotics bot do they work on a cold?  Who knows!

Wednesday, July 23

 We continue on our journey to put plans in place for our life in retirement.  We have to face up to the fact that our future lives will be less active and we will be less able to get out and about.  We have to work out how we will deal with things like shopping, going to the doctor, collecting prescriptions, etc, all in the reality that we'll be less active, less able to drive and so on.

As part of the process, Marilyn had a call from Care Assess this morning following an interview I had a couple of weeks ago.  During my conversation, we identified areas where I needed some assistance and how My Aged Care could help, and this morning the same questions were explored with Marilyn.

It's reassuring to know that there are agencies out there who will get involved and I'm pleased that they're so willing to help.

Tuesday, July 22

 Another day, another dollar!  There's a sameness about the days when you retire, especially when you notch up the number of days that Marilyn and I have enjoyed since we hung up our boots. We retired officially in December 2009 so we can claim 15 years and 7 months of leisure or just over 3900 days.

So, what have we planned for today to celebrate almost 4000 days of freedom?  Well, nothing much really.  It's cold and Jamie has borrowed our car, so we probably won't get out.  The house is warm and comfortable and we both have good books to read, there is food in the fridge and coffee in the pantry,  What else would we want?

Monday, July 21

It's a grey day in Northern Tasmania and the weather matches our mood.  Sadly, today is the day of the funeral of our sister-in-law, Janet.  It was too difficult for us to travel to Bulli for but we were pleased that we could watch the televised service on-line.  We hope we'll see Sandy before too long so we can reminisce about some of the memories we share.

I wrote Ticking Politicians during a previous election campaign and it's still as relevant today as it was then.

TICKING POLITICIANS                                                                    MAY 7, 2020

What makes a politician tick is a question I often ask myself.  What drives a man or a woman to set aside the chance of a normal life and choose to swim among the dreadful dangers that lurk in the vile swamps of our national capital?

What stimulus is strong enough to overcome the innate sense of survival which has evolved over millennia to help us avoid the dangerous pathways where our lives may change for the worse?  Where is the instinct to look for a comfortable and stress-free life?

Is it love for their fellow-humans which provokes the reaction to take the plunge – a desire to be involved in ensuring that the government fulfils its duty to look after the well-being of all its citizens?

Or is it a broader love – for the world, its natural beauty, and all the enormous variety within it?

Perhaps it’s a sense of duty: the understanding that it’s a thankless task but someone has to do it – that sacrifices must be made for the common good and, if I won’t do it, who will?

Then again, it might be a personal belief that one is equipped for greater things and what better way to display extraordinary talent than by basking in the limelight of public life?

For some, it may be a belief that they have been called by God to carry out his work on Earth.

It may be that there are some who believe, naively, that they can make a difference, that their influence will encourage the government to be more generous, more inclusive, more responsive to the needs of the electorate.

Perhaps, for some, it is their ego providing the spur, that insatiable insistence that nobody can do it better.  I wonder whether a thick skin is an essential adjunct to the hyper-functioning ego.  Does the presence of an ego help you to withstand the slings and arrows which beset a politician’s life?

Is it a lust for power – the yearning to feel the buzz of knowing that a simple word from you will change the course of the life of an asylum-seeker, or a fruit-picker from Tonga, or a French au pair?

Is it more mundane than any of the above?  Is it simply personal greed which is the primary motivator?  Is it the lure of access to all the trappings of a privileged life – the chauffeur-driven cars, the luxury jets, the taxpayer-funded junkets, the well-padded expense accounts?

Is it the desire to be ‘set for life’ – the knowledge that a few years in parliament, with all the on-going benefits, will eventually ensure a comfortable retirement income in later years?

Is it the need, perhaps, to please a more powerful sponsor – industry, developer or union?  Is there an expectation of preferment, after a career as an undercover agent, of well-compensated employment when parliamentary life is over?  Are our budding politicians no more than plants in our parliament to promote the interests of powerful benefactors?

Perhaps it’s none of the above or only some of them but, it is just as likely that every one of these is represented in our parliament.  What seems to be patently obvious is that we are not attracting enough of the right people.  Where are the committed men and women with the intellect, breadth of vision and compassion to be the leaders of our community?

Instead, we are at the mercy of too many mediocre, time-serving foot soldiers of corrupt political parties who work under the constant threat that, if they don’t toe the party line, they will lose their seats at the next election. And so their first loyalty is to the political party which holds their future in its hands.  Is it too much to expect that our employees should give their first loyalty to the people who pay their wages?

I know that, nowadays, Politics is regarded more as a career than a civic duty.  Once upon a time, a man (and they were almost all men in parliament) might take some time off from his law practice or running the family farm to spend some time in Canberra.  Now they go straight from school to university, and to a job as a political staffer, until they can snaffle a pre-selection spot.  Nepotism is rife and the only criterion for selection is whether they can win the seat. No points are given for intelligence, or common sense, or honesty, or respect, or that old-fashioned word: honour.  So, it’s no wonder that our parliament is riddled with con-men, shysters, chancers and grifters.

God help Australia!

Sunday, July 20

 Yesterday's State Election has come and gone without very much excitement.  In previous years, Marilyn and I might have been working but those days are gone.  Jamie still put his hand up and was sent to a small booth in the town of Hillwood.  He said he spend most of the day outside the small hall which 

is in front of the local football oval and there was a match being played so Jamie was directing traffic: this way for the football, that way if you are voting.

It seems to be clear that the Liberal Government has been returned which is a bit of a surprise as they have made some serious errors.  At the beginning of their last term, they ordered two new ships, from Finland I think, for the Devonport to Geelong run.  Both ships have been completed but can't be delivered because somebody forgot to check whether they would fit into the existing port facilities.  Apparently they don't so the delivery has been delayed until new faciliiies can be built..  One of the ships has spent months tied up at Leith in Scotland and we happened to see it when we were watching a Youtube video with one of our regulars, Steve Marsh.

One of the politicians standing yesterday was a young woman that I taught at Friends school in the early-1980s.  Her grandfather, Albert Ogilvie, was a Labor Premier of the state and it's no surprise that Madeleine followed in his footsteps.  What is surprising, perhaps, is that she defected to the Liberal Party and was a Minister in the last parliament.  I don't think she has been re-elected but the reports are a bit patchy.

Saturday, July 19

 Tasmania is heading for the polls today.   Marilyn and I are without a car at the moment so we've arranged to get a lift with Bertine from Unit 5.  The polling station is at the local primary school which is just up the road but it's a bit cold to walk and it's uphill.

When you read about how elections are run in other parts of the world, Australia should be proud of how we do it here. A totally amateur bunch of local people turn a school hall into a polling place, hundreds of people turn up, line up patiently and cast their votes.  Nobody asks them to show ID; we just trust that they are who they claim to be.  We support the local charity by buying a sausage as we are leaving and the whole thing is civilized.  USians would be amazed if they saw how understated the whole process is.

I had a restless night last night.  The cold weather is affecting my throat and I have a persistent cough. It's not helped by lying down and I had to abandon my bed in the early hours of the morning and set myself up in the loungeroom.  I found if I reclined my chair half-way, I could sleep more comfortably and the heat of the room helps me doze.  Winter in Tasmania is not a lot of fun and it's not a season I look forward to.

Friday, July 18

 The trouble with buying something new for the house is that it tends to lead on to buying something else to enhance the original purchase.  So it is with my new chair.  We've been in this unit almost 5 years and, for all of that time, my habit has been to sit in my chair reading a book.  At my left shoulder I had a smallish table lamp which illuminated the pages of the book so I could read reasonably comfortably.

With the new arrangement, the table (and the lamp) has moved to my right side between my chair and Marilyn's and she is now more aware of how relatively poor the lighting is. 

We need a standard lamp, she decides, about 6 foot tall to throw a light on your book.  "Check out Buy, Swap and Sell on Facebook," she instructs me.

I do, and also look at the websites of various shops in Launceston, but they're either short of suitable items or they're too dear.  I fall back on Amazon, find exactly what I want at a reasonable price and, with one click, it's on its way. It will be here by August 1st.

Today's story goes back 4 years.

THE ONE WHO CAME BEFORE                                                                                2021

Liam knew from an early age that his parents had high expectations of him.  His mother had taught him how to make his bed as soon as he was tall enough to pull up the blanket, his father gave him chores to do in the garden and, on his 6^th birthday he was allowed to steer the electric mower around the lawn, under strict supervision, of course.  His parents often said they wanted him to be able to look after himself.

There was vague talk that one day he would study to be an accountant and eventually be able to take over the family business.  Liam watched his father go off to work each morning, always dressed in a dark suit and striped tie, and carrying a briefcase.

As he grew older, he became aware that there were some things in the house which seemed not quite right but were never talked about.  There was a bedroom which he wasn’t allowed to go in, there was a shed in the yard which was always locked.  He never seemed to get any new clothes; when he needed another singlet or pair of shorts, his mother would look in a drawer and find what he needed.  All his toys had a ‘used-before’ look about them and he was never allowed to ask for a particular present for Christmas. His presents didn’t even seem to come from a shop, they seemed to have been in the house all the time.  At first, Liam didn’t think this was odd; as far as he knew this was normal but, when he became more aware of how his friends’ lives differed, he started to wonder.

One time he found some picture books in the bookcase with the name William inside the front cover.  I wonder who William is, he thought.  Another time, he found his mother crying in the kitchen.  He had never seen his mother cry before, but she never laughed either, or even smiled.  “Don’t worry, William,” she said. “I’m only thinking about someone that I used to know.”

Why is she calling me William, Liam thought.  That’s not my name.

On his 12^th birthday, his parents sat Liam down and said. “Now that you are 12, there is something important that we have to tell you.  Before you were born we had another child, your brother, William.  Sadly, he died.  All our hopes and dreams rested on that little boy and, when he was gone, we decided to have another child as soon as possible.”

That night, Liam thought about this for a long time.  From what his parents had said, he was only a replacement for the one who came before.  Even his name was just a shorter form of William: a bit like William, but not as good. Everything I have, he realised, was William’s first.  William is so important, Liam thought, that, even now he is dead, he still has a bedroom in the house and a special locked shed in the yard.

It was William, Liam understood, who was supposed to train as an accountant and take over the family business.  Well, I’m not going to be just a substitute for William, he decided.  I’m not going to spend my life stuck in an office.  I’m going to follow my own dream.

I’m going to be … a Lumberjack!

Thursday, July 17

 The lift chair I had ordered on-line arrived yesterday (at last).  I thought it had been lying in a warehouse in Devonport, an hour's drive away but, in fact, it had already been transported to a depot near Launceston, just 15 minutes away.  However, all that is history and it is now set up in our loungeroom.

It came in a cubical-shaped box; when I opened it, the back of the chair was separate, and lying across the base section.  I thought I would have to carefully screw the two sections together but, in fact, the back simply slid onto two flanges attached to the base.  Is 'flange' the right word?

Having said that, I really had no part in it.  Jamie was summoned by Marilyn and he arrived, took charge and gave me insignificant jobs from time to time. He finished the day by taking asway all the rubbish.

I was worried that the loungeroom might look cluttered with an extra chair in it but, with some re-arrangement, it is now much more efficient than it was before.  A very good result all round.

Wednesday, July 16

 The Coles man is expected this morning so I'm taking the chance to write the blog while keeping an eye out for him.  Paul from next door has just passed our front window on his morning walk but, otherwise, nothing much is happening.  It's a beautiful day although the air is cold and we'll need to stay indoors for a bit longer before venturing out.  

I forgot to order icecreams so, when Jamie brings my car back I'll have to make a trip to the local IGA to see what I can find.  The IGA is a great shop but the prices are a bit higher than Coles so we buy all our basic stuff from the bigger shop and only get what we need daily from the local.

I've been listening to a podcast about a murder twenty years ago.  It's on the ABC podcast called Trace and there are a number of other mysteries in the series.  I tell myself that I need to listen more regularly but putting on headphones is a bit antisocial, so I reserve my listening to when I'm on my daily walk.  But that's very frustrating: my walks are short, it takes time to set things up and I usually forget what I've heard on one day before I try to pick up the threads the next.  Life wasn't meant to be easy.

Tuesday, July 15

 I sat down earlier to write this blog but Jamie drove in so I set it aside.  He has our car at the moment because Brendan, Nera's nephew, who is staying with them, has borrowed Jamie's Jeep to get to and from work. Until now, Jamie has been dropping him off and picking him up again, but he's getting so much work, Jamie decided it was better to make him independent even if it meant giving up his car for a day or two.

I've had my walk and Marilyn has now set off with Archie for her stint. We try to walk a couple of times each day but it's not always easy.  Still, the weather is beautiful and it's always a pleasure.  Somebody has just arrived with our evening meals from Toosey. I'm having rissoles and Marilyn is having roast lamb.  She can't remember ordering it but hey ho, she'll certainly enjoy it.  It's been a real success getting these meals and we'll extend it to five days a week from now on.

Monday, July 14

 We had terribly sad news last night that our sister-in-law, Janet had passed away in Wollongong.  She had been ill for some years so it was no real surprise to us but, nevertheless, it was tragic.  Janet was the youngest of us and we've known her since she was about 12 years old.  We always made fun of the fact that she came from Dapto which, in Wollongong, was seen as something less than desirable.  Sandy and Janet had been married for almost 59 years.

I can't help thinking of my mother's death all those years ago and, especially the poem I read at her funeral.

Death is nothing at all
I have only slipped away into the next room
I am I and you are you
Whatever we were to each other
That we are still
Call me by my old familiar name
Speak to me in the easy way you always used
Put no difference into your tone
Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow
Laugh as we always laughed
At the little jokes we always enjoyed together
Play, smile, think of me, pray for me
Let my name be ever the household word that it always was
Let it be spoken without effort
Without the ghost of a shadow in it
Life means all that it ever meant
It is the same as it ever was
There is absolute unbroken continuity
What is death but a negligible accident?
Why should I be out of mind
Because I am out of sight?
I am waiting for you for an interval
Somewhere very near
Just around the corner
All is well.
Nothing is past; nothing is lost
One brief moment and all will be as it was before
How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting when we meet again!

Sunday, July 13

 I've had a bit of a cold over the last few days and Marilyn decided I needed to do a Covid test.  I wasn't keen but couldn't think of a good reason to resist, so we dug out the last test kit.  Just as I was getting organised, Jamie appeared and insisted on getting involved.

I'm not keen on having an audience when I'm carrying out personal matters, watching what I do, giving me advice, commenting on my clumsiness and, in general, raising my blood pressure.  However, I managed to complete the exercise without losing my cool and was relieved when the result was negative.

Wrap up warm and keep out of drafts is how I plan to spend the next twenty-four hours in the hope that my head will be clearer.

Saturday, July 12

 

On my morning walk yesterday, a woman came towards me with two little West Highland Terriers.  When she saw me coming towards her with my walking stick, she tried to get the two dogs under control.  One was on a long, long leash and the other was untethered.  She was clearly worried that the combination of dog on a leash and dog untethered would pose a threat to my equilibrium so she started to panic.

“Gordon!” she called to the loose dog, while attempting to coil the long leash to make sure it didn’t trip me up.  Gordon, of course, ignored her and went about his business.

I commented to her that Gordon was a great name for a Scottish dog and she started to complain about how naughty and how stubborn he was as if it was his name which caused it.  I think I only know one or two people called Gordon and I wouldn’t regard them as anything out of the ordinary.

It's a very cold day here.  My first job in the morning is to switch on the heating and this morning it took a ridiculous amount of time before the lounge room was comfortable enough to sit in.  Of course, even in Tasmania we don't build houses suitable for winter weather because we know that, in a few months, it will be 30 degrees outside and we'll need air conditioning.  I'll just put on another jumper.

Friday, 11 June, 2025

I think I'm becoming a bit of an intellectual snob. The tendency has, probably, has always been there but I've been careful not to let it show too much. Now, though, I can't help myself feeling superior and letting others know how I feel.  I wrote a story recently where I made snide comments about a woman who prided herself on being an intelligent reader but she only read Mills and Boon novels and then I read the story to my writing group where there were, no doubt, other people who had similar reading tastes.  Were they offended? I have no idea and it never occurred to me beforehand that anyone might take offence.

Also, there's the matter of general knowledge.  We watch a couple of quiz shows on TV which involve the asking of questions.  I have acquired the insufferable habit of answering the questions before the contestant, and I say the answer out loud.  Poor Marilyn, having to tolerate my showing off!  And, of course, she is too polite to tell me to put a sock in it.

I know it's not the right time of the year for resolutions but I must resolve to show a bit more humility.  I'm not expecting myself to BE more humble; the best I can hope for is to conceal my cleverness a bit more cleverly.

I'm starting to scrape the bottom of the barrel for stories and Memory Lane is not one of my better efforts.

MEMORY LANE                                                                                         OCTOBER 13, 2023

Russell had written a story at school which he called Memory Lane and he remembered that his teacher had been particularly complimentary.  The incident had stuck in his mind because compliments from his teachers had been rare and, as this one had come from Mr Stewart, his English teacher, it was particularly notable.  The details of the story were long gone from his memory but Russell assumed it had been the usual trite and clumsy stringing-together of unrelated thoughts and ideas which marked his attempts at literature.

Happily, he had little need to practice his writing skills in his new occupation as an Uber delivery driver and he managed to keep up his haphazard conversations with his Facebook community with the liberal use of emojis.  He liked to think he was something of an expert on the use of emojis, and his mates had often complimented him on how he expressed himself, so put that in your pipe and smoke it, Mr Stewart!

Thinking about that small glimmer of success from his days at school had given Russell a warm glow of satisfaction so he turned again to his phone to check the address where he was to deliver this order of MacDonalds.  Yes, 213 Memory Lane.  It must be in the new lot of houses out on the highway, so he started his car and made his way through the suburban streets.  It was a bit further away than his usual deliveries but you have to take the rough with the smooth, he mused, and what you lose on the swings you pick up on the roundabout.  Russell was oblivious to the fact that he thought and spoke in cliches and often silently congratulated himself on his mastery of the English language.

He kept an eye out for his turn-off and here it was.  Taking the right-turn with care, Russell looked out for the sign to Memory Lane on the left.  He hadn’t been out this way for ages and there had been a lot of building going so he was surprised to find that the street looked very familiar.  His front wheel ran into a pot-hole: that was odd, a new street shouldn’t have potholes so soon after being built!  And the houses didn’t look as new as he expected.  What was going on?

Rounding a bend, he passed a school on his right.  It looked strangely familiar: timber demountables with peeling paint walls, a decrepit flagpole standing forlornly in the middle of a burnt patch of grass, a few straggly rose bushes lining a broken-up concrete path.  “That’s Rosemount Primary School!”, he realised with a gasp.  How can that be, in a new subdivision?  Russell had never prided himself on being a quick thinker and it wasn’t until he had identified a familiar corner shop, a park with swings and seesaw and a decrepit tennis court that he made the connection in his brain that he had somehow stumbled upon his old neighbourhood.  But, he had never lived in Memory Lane.

He rode on a little further.  The trees he remembered were all a little bigger, the houses a lot shabbier and the fences a lot more decrepit.  Surely, his memory was playing him tricks.  He had moved away from this neighbourhood after he had left the primary school and he had never returned, but it was eerily familiar, just that everything was twenty years older.  The only thing was that he could not remember any street called Memory Lane.

“I’ve had enough of this,” he thought, “I’m going to deliver this order, then I’m going home  to bed.  Maybe I’m coming down with something.”  He noted that he was passing Number 191, so he wasn’t far away.  He was also pleased to see that the houses were now starting to look a little more modern and better looked after.  It was odd, he thought, the school used to be in Rosemount Street and, just after we passed it, we came to a patch of scrub.  “What’s happened here?” he thought.

Russell wasn’t a genius, he knew, but he wasn’t a dill either so he soon worked it out.  “They’ve extended the street into a new subdivision, re-named it and I’ve been riding along it without realising I know this area well,” he thought to himself.

Number 213 was on his left now.  He rang the doorbell, handed the bag to a harassed looking young woman, accepted a generous tip and made his way back along Memory Lane to collect his next delivery.

Realising now that he was in familiar territory, Russell enjoyed his trip back along Memory Lane, identifying places from his childhood: the homes of his friends, the telephone box where they used to make prank phone calls, and the letterboxes they blew up on Cracker Night.  Memory Lane, indeed!

Thursday, July 10

 It's a good day today!  Well, I should note that it's raining but even that that doesn't dampen my enthusiasm.  No, it's a day to remember, nonetheless.  It's the day that I hand over the responsibility of being Treasurer of our Probus Club to some other poor mug. I've just come back from the bank where I deposited last meeting's takings and handed over the deposit book and cheque book to my successor.

He only joined the club yesterday but is already Treasurer of a number of other organisations and has the process down to a fine art and good luck to him.

The problem I found in being Treasurer is that it obliged me to attend meetings.  And I am no longer happy to be a slave to duty.  I might, in fact, go regularly to the meetings or I might not.  It should be a choice I make at the time.

I'm still waiting for the lift chair I ordered more than a week ago.  I'm a fan of on-line shopping but, in this case, I didn't have much option.  Looking at local suppliers, I could only one (Fantastic Furniture) that had a lift chair to show me, and it wasn't suitable (not really fantastic) so I ordered one on-line, and it was much cheaper too.

The chair left the factory in Melbourne and travelled by air to Devonport where, for some reason, the local carrier rejected it and asked for a replacement.  The replacement was sent by ship (much slower) and, on Tuesday, arrived in Devonport where it now sits in a depot waiting for the next leg of its journey.

In some ways I hope it doesn't come today; I'd hate for the electrical lift mechanism to be affected by the rain.

Tuesday, July 8

 Marilyn is getting ready for her regular Tuesday activity - meeting up with her usual group for Craft and, perhaps, a game of Bingo.  I'm staying home, hoping my new chair will arrive.  It's not that I'm desperately in need of it but, when I buy something, I like to have it. It's goes against my idea of how thig should be to have to wait until some impersonal company tries to get its act together.

Looking out the window, I can see that it's a typical winter's day here; the sky is grey and there's a bit of a breeze.  I'm glad it's Marilyn going out and not me.

I've just been instructed to make some coffee so I shall move on.

Monday, July 7

 The meal that we spent yesterday morning cooking was delicious, Tender meat falling off the bone, crisp vegetables and a superb gravy.  However, at the end of the repast, Marilyn calmly accepted the warm congratulations and solemnly announced that she was hanging up her apron.  After more than 60 years of cooking, cleaning and washing up she was calling it a day.  If I wanted a home-cooked meal, I was told, I could ring Stickybeaks Cafe and one would be delivered to me.

Fair enough!  The world moves on and we all have to move with it.

I'm waiting for a delivery.  I ordered the lift chair I had my eye on and it was coming from Melbourne.  Apparently, something went wrong and the local carrier asked for another one.  His website suggests that it might be delivered today but somebody is not keeping it up-to-date and I am somewhat in the dark.

The arrival of the new chair will upset the careful arrangement of our loungeroom.  It's not a large space and already has a two-seater and three other chairs.  the arrival of a rather large easy-chair will upset the equilibrium.  Of course, I will expect it will take the position directly in front of the TV and the lesser chairs will take subordinate places.  Maybe one will have to go and will then end up in Jamie's garage.  We shall see.

In today's story I was playing with cliches

IN THE BLINK OF AN EYE                                                                                MARCH 21, 2024

It’s not every day you get a chance to work in your dream job but Gerard was one of those lucky people who always landed on his feet. “If he fell in a cowpat, he’d come up smelling of roses,” his mother would say.  Alma, that was her name, prided herself on being well-read.  She had devoured every Danielle Steel ever written and was on the list at the library to be notified each time a new Nora Roberts was released. She also belonged to the local Reading Circle and enjoyed sharing her knowledge of the world with her group of similarly well-read friends.  She was very proud of Gerard who had worked hard at school and had even won the Founder’s Cup for most promising student in Year 6.

When Gerard heard he had landed the job at Automotive Industries, he was on the ‘phone in a flash to tell his mother.  She could not have been more pleased and, without pausing for breath, she rang around her friends to let them know. 

Gerard started his new position on the following Monday.  He was shown the desk he would use and it was suggested he might take the first morning to acclimatise himself to his new surroundings.  It all seemed too good to be true and Gerard rubbed his hands together with delight.  However, precipitously, everything changed.  As he was being introduced to his fellow-workers, one of them seemed familiar.  Where had he met her before?  And, like a shot, it came to him.  It was Beatrice Brown, his nemesis from primary school.

In a flash, those long-repressed memories came flooding back.  He squirmed as he recalled how she had teased him, told tales about him to his class-mates and dobbed him in to the teacher.  They had been together in the same class for the whole six years of primary school and had only been separated when his parents had made the sacrifice to send him to the local grammar school.  Now, it seemed, he and she would be working closely together.  His heart sank as he thought of all the things that would go wrong if they had to work together.  What could he do?  But, as ever, when put on the spot, his brain didn’t let him down.  Like greased lightning, the words tumbled from his mouth.

“Beatrice and I are old friends.  I don’t think it’s appropriate that people who know each other well should work closely together so I suggest that a job be found for her in another department.”

Not wanting to upset their new star employee on his first day, management agreed in a trice.  Beatrice looked quite down in the mouth but it couldn’t be helped.  Presto, the problem seemed to be solved.

I’d like to think that everybody lived happily ever after but life’s not like that. Beatrice was no fool and, instantaneously, she reacted with her usual savoir-faire.  “I have a better idea,” she said.  “Why don’t I become Mr Brown’s secretary.  I know him better than anyone and can anticipate how he might want things to be done.  And, because I’ll be working so closely with him, he can make sure that nothing goes wrong.”

In a wink, it was done.  The Managing Director, who, if truth be told, rather fancied Beatrice, agreed to the proposition and Gerard was forced to smile and accept it.  In the blink of an eye, all his hopes and dreams were shattered and he could do no more than look forward to a bleak future with Beatrice involved in every aspect of his life.  What would his mother say?

 

Sunday, July 6

 I found myself involved in cooking this morning, a very rare occurrence these days. Our normal fare is pre-packaged meals and, more recently, brought-in meals from Toosey, the local Nursing Home.  However, Marilyn was determined this morning to prepare a large pot of Osso Bucco.  Because there was a certain amount of chopping, stirring and moving of heavy pots, I became involved as well.

It was actually a pleasant exercise and I'll enjoy eating my share of the result.

We have Archie staying with us at the moment.  He seems to have a couple of nights each week here and he must see us as his second home. 

With our coffee, I turned on Youtube to see what is happening and found a video made by Steve, one of our regulars.  He was in Nova Scotia and was clearly in love with the place.  His video was nearly 50 minutes long and would certainly encourage anyone to visit.

It's a beautiful day; the sun is shining but the air is cold, typical winter weather in this part of the world.  Some people think that Tasmania at this time of the year is bleak, cold and wet, but nothing could be further from the truth.  Yes, we will have rainy days which are not much fun but the normal weather is crisp and sunny ... bracing, I think they call it. 

Saturday, July 5

 We seem to have got out of the habit of watching what I call 'traditional' television.  What I mean by that is getting involved in a regular tele-drama and looking forward to each episode as it appeared: shows like Country Practice, Blue Heelers, Silent Witness, and so on.  After a diet of crime shows we're a bit tired of the format and are looking for something a bit less challenging.  So, currently, we're absorbing ourselves in 'lifestyle' shows like A Place in the Sun and, most recently, Cruising with Susan.

Susan Calman is a short, tubby, Scottish comedienne.  The premise  of her show is simple: she goes on a cruise, solo, and meets up with other passengers, encouraging them to get involved in some of her exploits. Clearly, companies like P&O are delighted to have the great publicity the show offers but, from our point of view, it's a particularly interesting travelogue with some poignant moments.

We have a state election coming up in a fortnight and it's hard to avoid the plethora of advertising bumpf which fills our letterbox.  There's not a great deal of money sloshing around Tasmanian politics but some of the material is pretty unpleasant.  Marilyn has worked at the past few elections and has received pleas from the Electoral Commission to put up her hand again but I'm glad she's continuing to refuse.  Let the younger ones do it!

Friday, July 4

 We have Archie staying with us at the moment.  Jamie and Nera had a big party to attend last night and dropped Archie off with us so he wouldn't be home alone.  Normally, we leave the back door slightly ajar for him in case he needs to go to the yard overnight but the weather is too cold so Marilyn closed the door and put down mats for him to use if he was desperate.  He wasn't happy about that so woke her up early this morning to tell her to get up, he was desperate.

The weather is very cold and we'll certainly be staying home today.

I note that it is July 4 and that is usually a day of celebration in the US.  However, I wonder whether their celebrations today will have a touch of desperation about them.  The holiday, supposedly, is to celebrate their independence and yet twice now they have voluntarily handed over the rule of their country to a would-be dictator.  Makes you wonder whether they might have been better sticking with Britain; then they might have turned out more like Canada or Australia, and that would have been no bad thing.

Today's story is a more recent one. The first lines are from a song by Judy Collins.

RUNNING AWAY FROM HOME                                                              MARCH 14, 2024

My father always promised us that we would live in France.  We’d go boating on the Seine and I would learn to dance.  To a young girl, growing up in the shadow of the Port Kembla steelworks, it was a gloriously romantic notion.  We didn’t have TV in those days but I haunted the library looking for picture books about France and its capital.  Madeleine was my hero. As well, I demanded to be taken to the pictures if a film remotely connected with France was being shown.  I must have seen An American in Paris five or six times, and I loved The Red Balloon and Mon Oncle with Jacques Tati.

Somehow, I convinced myself that, on my seventh birthday, my father would, with a flourish, produce the long-awaited tickets which would magically transport my family to the enchanted city of my dreams.  Imagine my disappointment when my father sat me down and said in a soft voice,

“Happy birthday, sweetheart and we hope you have a wonderful day.  Sadly, there is no birthday present this year.  You know that I’ve been on strike for weeks and there just isn’t the money available for extras.  But, when we’re back at work, I’ll make it up to you.”

It was like I had been slapped in the face.  “But what about moving to Paris?” I burst out.  “You promised we would move there and I would have dancing lessons.”

His voice hardened.  “Those dreams will have to be put on hold and, anyway, you’re a big girl now and you know that sometimes promises aren’t real.  Living in Paris is a dream and dreams don’t always come true.”

I went to the room I shared with my big sister and threw myself on my bed, crying in disappointment.  I would show them. I would run away and then they’d be sorry.  I scrabbled around under my sister’s bed until I found the backpack she had taken to the last school camp.  I would fill that with all the things I would need to look after myself and I’d move away.  Then they’d be sorry.

I quickly found my spare pyjamas and a jumper in case it got cold, a few socks and handkerchiefs, and my slippers.  I dragged the backpack into the kitchen and thought about what else I would need.  Opening the fridge, looking at what was there. 

“Mum, can I take this leftover jelly”.

“Yes, dear.  What are you going to put it in?”

“Oh, I don’t know.  Do you have a plastic bag?”  Then I noticed some leftover cooked sausages.  They would be handy as I hadn’t thought about how I would cook things.

In the pantry I found a few small bags of chips and some crunchy bars.  I thought a bit more and realised I would need something to drink.  Mum wouldn’t ever buy me soft drinks but there was a carton of milk in the pantry.  That would be handy although the thought of drinking warm milk made me feel sick.

My big brother came in about then, rubbing his hair.  “It’s starting to rain out there.  I think we’re in for a stormy night.  What’s this backpack doing in the middle of the kitchen floor?”

 

“Oh, Cheryl is running away and we’re helping her gather the stuff she will need if she’s going to survive on her own.”

Oh, good” my brother replied. “It will be good to have one fewer person in the house.  That will make a little bit more room for the rest of us … and, one less mouth to feed.  But you’ll need something to protect you if you are attacked during the night.  I can lend you my folding army knife.  It’s very sharp, so be careful.  And I have a compass and a pair of binoculars you can borrow.  It’s a shame I won’t have time to show you how to use them but I’m sure you’ll work it out.”

He walked over to the window, pulled the curtain aside and looked out.  “That rain has really set in.  I wouldn’t let a dog out in that. That reminds me.”  He turned to me and asked, “Have you organised some shelter for bad weather?”

“Don’t worry about me,”  I said.  “I’ll be OK.”

”I’ll sure you will be, dear,” said my mother. “But I can’t stand here talking.  I have to start making tonight’s dessert: French crepes with warm caramel sauce and ice-cream.”

“Crepes?” I thought, and rain. Maybe this is not such a good idea.

“I think I’ll stay one more night,” I said, “And see how I feel in the morning.”

“That’s nice, dear,” said my mother.

Thursday, July 3

 I woke at my usual time, made Marilyn a cup of coffee and turned on the TV to see what has happened overnight.  It wasn't the news which interested me; it was what was happening on Youtube which catches my attention.  Scott and Steve were quiet but there was a video from a fellow called Josh which attracted me.  His site is called 'Josh Goes Slow' and that's enough to spark my interest.

His plan was to travel to each of the six Australian capital cities and the two territories in 24 hours.  He started from Darwin, dealt with the inevitable delays and ended up in Perth with about 15 minutes to spare.  It's the whole pointlessness of the exercise which interests me, and the fact that there are enough sad individuals out there with too much time on their hands who will watch the show, which will, magically, generate the funds to pay for it.  I don't claim to understand how Youtube finances work but I know there are hordes of people making a living at it.

If only I had heard about this years ago! 

Wednesday, July 2

 I was slow in getting organised this morning and, before I could gather my thoughts to write something, Marilyn dragged me out the door. I'd forgotten a podiatrist appointment and you mustn't be late for those.  The current podiatrist is an Irish fellow; he tells me he's enjoyed his time in Tassie but he and his girlfriend are heading back to the Emerald Isle at the end of this year.  The owner of the business will be unhappy as she can't replace them.  There's a real shortage of medical professionals in the Apple Isle.

There was a thick package in the letterbox when we arrived home from the appointment. It was the report of my recent visit from My Aged Care, page after page of comments about my weakness and failings, and suggestions about how they could be ameliorated.  I didn't realise I was so disabled although I assume the young woman anticipated I would have deteriorated a bit more before the right support could be allocated.

Nowhere did it mention that I have difficulty making sense of government reports, and that is certainly an issue.

Tuesday, July 1

 There was a ding on my phone last night and the message told me that the lift chair I had ordered was on its way. There was a diagram attached to the message showing me that the chair was sitting on the side of a road near Moorabbin Airport in Melbourne.  I assume the chair was in the back of a truck.  Later, the diagram changed and I again assumed the chair was on its way.  Since then I haven't been able to access the tracker so we'll have to wait in anticipation.

I've been watching Steve on Youtube who has decided it would be fun to travel from Glasgow in Scotland to Glasgow in Nova Scotia.  I realised I could do something similar here: travel from Longford in Tasmania to the original Longford in Ireland..  Well, not real travel but virtual travel is nearly as good.

The itinerary is something like this:

* Car from Longford to Launceston airport

* Jetstar flight to Melbourne Airport

* Overnight flight with Emirates to Dublin via Dubai

* Train from Dublin Airport to the city

* Train from Dublin City to Longford.

I might flesh it out with dates and costings if I have a spare hour or two today which is very likely.  I seem to have lots of spare hours at the moment,

Monday, June 30

 In past years I might have been starting to get anxious about what this date signifies but, as I haven't put in a tax return for 15 years, I've forgotten what a pain it was. I can't help thinking about how our national financial system must be coping with the fact that we are all living longer.  When the system was devised. the average citizen might work (and pay tax) for 48 or 49 years, and then live in retirement for, maybe 10.  The tax he or she paid in their lifetime easily covered what they would draw out in the decade they were dependent on the pension.

But now, when we can expect to live until 80 or more, the sums don't add up as well.  The longer we live, the more of a burden we are on the government.

I'll bet there's a government department which spends its whole time thinking of ways to deal with the problem of a horde of pensioners drawing on the financial resources of the country, not to mention the over-use of the health system.

If I were a more sensitive person, I might feel badly about being a drain on society but, luckily, I don't give it a second's thought.

Happily, I've found a story called One Hundred Years and Counting.

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, June 29

 The thought of having a lift chair is nagging at me.  Myaged Care might help to provide one but it's dependent on a report from an Occupational Therapist ... and they are very rare in this part of the world and we were told the waiting period for assessment was over twelve months.  As an aside, when I needed an OT at Giant Steps, I had to import one from the Philippines.  Over the years I brought in two; they took citizenship, and are now well established in Launceston and still at Giant Steps.  However, it was a sad loss for Hope Intervention Center in Calamba.

Dependent on the results of that assessment, Myaged Care might pay something to the cost, but the average price for a chair from their preferred supplier is $2500.  We decided that, rather than wait, we might be better to get one from Kogan at, say, $500, and forget the OT rigmarole.

However, the $500 chair was going to cost $269 to get to Longford. 

Plan B: I found a site call Lasoo who had a wide range of chairs and they offered 'free shipping nation-wide'.  Sounds good; I found a chair I liked for a reasonable price, clicked to purchase, and a sign came up '"$150 shipping to that address'.  By this time I was fed up, so pressed 'Complete Purchase' and left it at that.

It will be here in a few days and we can set about re-organising the loungeroom.

Saturday, June 28

 I don't drive much these days: a trip to the shop or the doctor is about the extent of it, but I still have some music on tap for when I get behind the wheel.  The current favourite is Judy Collins, the American folk singer.  She was very popular in the early 1960s and her big album was Maid of Constant Sorrow.  She's done well because she has continued to produce albums and the latest one I can find was released in 2022.

Because I have the music on a USB drive it comes on when I turn on the ignition.  I have other stuff but am too lazy to change it.  Consequently, I have developed an ear worm.  I now go through life with the constant background of Judy Collins in my ear, even when I'm not in the car.

I wish I could change the persistent track in my head to another one.  She has a beautiful song, My Father Always Told Me that We Would Live in France with an extraordinary accompaniment, but, unfortunately my earworm is locked into 'Someday Soon'.  It's a great song but a bit country and western with twangy guitars and banjos, so I get tired of it ... and, it's always there, playing in the background of my life.

Friday, June 27

 

June 27,2025

Sandra, the cleaning lady has arrived and I'm banished to my desk so I don't get in the way.  We had the young man from Nepal for the last couple of weeks; I suppose the management likes to shake things up so their staff don't get too familiar with the clients.

There was a letter in yesterday's mail from MyAged Care, summarising what had been agreed at my last assessment and confirming that the funding had been approved.  There was an authorisation order for a cutlery set with fat handles and that's already been delivered at no charge, and a fellow has already installed some grab rails in the showers.  I will get a bill for those although the government pays for the installation.

The big item is an electric lift chair and the paperwork referred me to a website.  I know that I will need a report from an Occupational Therapist before I can get one of these but the cheapest chair on the website was about $2500!  Madness!  I can buy one online from Kogan for less than $500.

Is it possible that the company which has won the contract to supply the government is ripping them off?

It's all academic, anyway.  There's a long way to go before I can start re-equipping the loungeroom.

LONG LOST BROTHER                                                                                          MARCH 8, 2024

“Blast!” said the king.  “In fact, Bugger!”   He was clearly upset.

“Don’t swear, dear,” said the queen.“  It’s unseemly.”

“That’s all very well, but it’s this note,” Charles moaned. “It’s the last thing I need.  As if we don’t have enough to worry about with Harry and Meghan … and Andrew, of course.  Do you think it’s too much to hope that this is a hoax?”

“Oh, I don’t know, dear,“  Camilla was sympathetic. “You know what they say about Diana in her later years.  Anything in trousers …”

“Oh, don’t!  You know it upsets me just to think about it.  Now, what are we going to do about this fellow claiming to be Diana’s offspring?  And, if it’s true, how do we tell William and Harry they have another brother?”

“Let’s not cross that bridge until we get to it, dear.  The first thing we have to do is to make sure that we know the truth.  Is he, or is he not, a previously unknown brother to William and Harry? And how on earth did Diana carry it off: being pregnant for months and having a baby without anyone finding out?”

The king put his head in his hands and moaned.  Camilla rang the bell to summon the King’s private secretary and, when she heard the discreet tap at the door called for him to come in.

“Good morning, your Majesties,” said the suave, well-dressed personage who entered the room.

“Good morning, Sir Clive.  Are you well?” said the Queen. “I’m afraid we’ve had some rather upsetting news and hope that you can lend a hand to sort it out.”

“Of course, your majesty, I will do whatever I can to assist.”

The king was still moaning and had started to rock gently from side to side, so the Queen quickly filled Sir Clive in with the details of the message they had received, including the fact that it had not come in the mail but had been found on the King’s bedside table when the footman had woken him that morning.  How it had been placed there overnight was just another mystery.

“Hmm!” murmured Sir Clive. “This is certainly a puzzle.  May I ask, sir, whether you believe there may be any truth in the accusation?”

“How the deuce would I know?” the king burst out. “She was a blasted mystery to me from Day 1.  For all I know she could have produced a whole cricket team of children, with a couple of reserves, and the umpires as well.”

“Calm down, dear,” murmured the queen soothingly.  “Remember your blood pressure.”

“Blood pressure, be damned.  I waited 70 years for this job and all it’s giving me is blood pressure.  I’ve a good mind to chuck it all in and take up stamp collecting.”

Ignoring this childish outburst, the queen turned again to Sir Clive.

“I think we need to handle this situation very carefully, Sir Clive.  The first thing we need to find out is whether Diana had any opportunity to hide herself away for several months while she produced a child. I would be surprised if she did; she was a great lover of publicity.  Second, we need to consider who might be the child’s father.  Dodie, perhaps?   Though there might be any number of potential sires.  I’m sure if you cast your net widely you would identify several candidates.

Then, of course, we need to look at the management of the crisis.  It’s imperative that we keep this from the press as long as possible.  Who knows what damage any leaking of this issue will do to the future of the monarchy.  For goodness sakes, don’t let the Daily Mail find out.

Oh, and the colonies!  What will Australia and Canada and all those other hangers-on think?  I’m told the republican movements in those countries are gearing up and this might just be the very thing to tip them over the edge.  It would be a disaster if Charles lost some of his dominions in the first year of his reign.  What are we going to do, Sir Clive?”

“Yes, your majesties, I can understand your concern.  However, might I draw your attention to today’s date?  As you can see, it is the first day of April, traditionally designated as April Fool’s Day.  I fear that the note you found on the king’s bedside table is no more than a foolish prank, instigated by some insignificant chamber maid.”

“Oh, Sir Clive, I knew we could depend on you.  Thank you!  On your way out, could you tell the maid that the King and I will have strong, black coffee this morning, instead of tea.  We need to steady our nerves.”

 

Thursday, June 26

 I thought I had more time but Marilyn has just called, 'Are you ready?'.  I'll have to go and will try to write something else when we get back.

It was only a quick trip into town and we managed to get back before lunch.  The sun is shining and a good time to have morning tea on our back patio.  No sooner do we get settled down than the bloke next door decided to do some burning-off.  What a stink.  We had washing on the line so there was a scatter to get it in before it was totally polluted by the filthy smoke.  Nobody burns off any more!  If he comes by, he'll get an earful; I'm usually your standard mild-mannered. wouldn't say boo to a goose kind of person but the line has to be drawn somewhere.

Wednesday, June 25

 Over the years I've wondered whether I should adopt a personal motto.  The Christie clan badge we have says our family motto is Sic Virilis (Thus I flourish) although a better Latin translation might be Sic Viresco.  The Christie clan is, apparently a part of the Clan Farquharson whose motto is 'Touch not the Cat Bott a Glove' (bott means without), which I rather like.

But I've always liked the wise words of Julian of Norwich, a mediaeval monk, 'All shall be well and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well'.  I like the optimism of that.

Of course, I'd have to translate it into Australian - She'll be right!

It's a miserable day outside.  I'd like to be staying indoors for the day but we have an appointment this afternoon to get our Covid injections, so we'll rug up warmly and brave the elements.

I had a 'phone call yesterday morning from a fellow who said he had been instructed to install some grab rails in our bathrooms.  I agreed to a time and he arrived.  "Who's paying for this?" I asked, cutting to the chase.  "You pay for the rails and Aged Care pays for the fitting."  He was quick and efficient and the rails look great.  I expect I'll eventually receive a bill but I'm not holding my breath.

I'm still waiting to hear what is happening about the electric lift chair and bed that were recommended.  I'm assured that I will be contacted 'in due course'.

Tuesday, June 24

 Marilyn set her alarm this morning to make sure we were up at a reasonable time.  After years of early-rising I think I can be relied upon to have my eyes open by 7 o'clock but there have been too many cases recently when I snored until later.  My bladder is a pretty reliable alarm clock but not such a great time-keeper.  After all, who would choose to get up sat 3.17 am as I did this morning.

Today is Marilyn's day for going to her Craft group.  It's more of an excuse to meet up with some other ladies for a bit of friendly gossip.  This group also raises money for charity by having what they call a Trade Table.  Everybody donates something and buys something else back.  Marilyn might come home with jelly crystals or home-made chocolate slice.  Who knows?

A few months ago we tried ordering Meals on Wheels but it wasn't successful, so we cancelled it and went back to preparing our own.  When I had my Aged Care assessment the young woman recommended ordering meals from Toosey, the local Nursing Home, and our first try was great: good serving, plenty of meat and tasty vegetables.  So, we've decided we'll order a week's menu to see whether it might work for us and save Marilyn the drudgery of being in the kitchen.

Every little bit helps.

Monday, June 23

Looking out of the window, I think today will be spent at home: the air is cold and there's a persistent drizzle; typical Tasmanian winter weather.  I've watched a couple of videos on Youtube before breakfast  but didn't find them particularly satisfying.  Perhaps I need more stimulation than watching Scott stumble along the streets of some town in Germany or an unshaven Steve looking for another ferry trip.  Maybe I need to do some research and see what else is out there on You-tube.  But, where do I start?  I will have to draw up some parameters: no Americans, for a start.  Maybe limit the selection to travel, or even narrower, travel by train.  Will that be too limiting?  Who knows but I can only try.

 Today's story was written in 2021, one of the first I produced for the Writing Group I belonged to.  I can't claim it is one of my best.

THE ONE WHO CAME BEFORE                                                                                                     2021

Liam knew from an early age that his parents had high expectations of him.  His mother had taught him how to make his bed as soon as he was tall enough to pull up the blanket, his father gave him chores to do in the garden and, on his 6^th birthday he was allowed to steer the electric mower around the lawn, under strict supervision, of course.  His parents often said they wanted him to be able to look after himself.

There was vague talk that one day he would study to be an accountant and eventually be able to take over the family business.  Liam watched his father go off to work each morning, always dressed in a dark suit and striped tie, and carrying a briefcase.

As he grew older, he became aware that there were some things in the house which seemed not quite right but were never talked about.  There was a bedroom which he wasn’t allowed to go in, there was a shed in the yard which was always locked.  He never seemed to get any new clothes; when he needed another singlet or pair of shorts, his mother would look in a drawer and find what he needed.  All his toys had a ‘used-before’ look about them and he was never allowed to ask for a particular present for Christmas. His presents didn’t even seem to come from a shop, they seemed to have been in the house all the time.  At first, Liam didn’t think this was odd; as far as he knew this was normal but, when he became more aware of how his friends’ lives differed, he started to wonder.

One time he found some picture books in the bookcase with the name William inside the front cover.  I wonder who William is, he thought.  Another time, he found his mother crying in the kitchen.  He had never seen his mother cry before, but she never laughed either, or even smiled.  “Don’t worry, William,” she said. “I’m only thinking about someone that I used to know.”

Why is she calling me William, Liam thought.  That’s not my name.

On his 12^th birthday, his parents sat Liam down and said. “Now that you are 12, there is something important that we have to tell you.  Before you were born we had another child, your brother, William.  Sadly, he died.  All our hopes and dreams rested on that little boy and, when he was gone, we decided to have another child as soon as possible.”

That night, Liam thought about this for a long time.  From what his parents had said, he was only a replacement for the one who came before.  Even his name was just a shorter form of William: a bit like William, but not as good. Everything I have, he realised, was William’s first.  William is so important, Liam thought, that, even now he is dead, he still has a bedroom in the house and a special locked shed in the yard.

It was William, Liam understood, who was supposed to train as an accountant and take over the family business.  Well, I’m not going to be just a substitute for William, he decided.  I’m not going to spend my life stuck in an office.  I’m going to follow my own dream.

I’m going to be … a Lumberjack!

Sunday, June 22

 The Coles man has been so the pantry is stocked up and we have what we need for the next few days.  he was saying that there is fog on the highway but I don't suppose we can expect anything else at this time of year. It made me think of driving on the Maddens Plains near Wollongong and the fog which seemed to hang around there.  One time I remember I had to get back to Sydney on a foggy Sunday evening.  I had borrowed my brother's car (I think mine had been stolen) and I ran into the back of a car which some fool had stopped on the highway while he got out (I think) to relieve himself.

He came back and saw the damage to his car, claimed to be a policeman who had stopped to investigate a suspicious vehicle and threatened to arrent me.  Not a happy memory.

I have another memory which is a bit more intriguing.  When I was 3 years old I had my tonsils out.  It was not in a hospital but in my Aunt Jenny's bedroom in my grandparents' house.  Sheets were hung on the walls and all concerned wore hospital gowns.  It would have been 1946.  Later, in about 1948, I remember having my tonsils removed again, this time in a proper hospital.  I remember the long rows of beds down the walls of the ward and having icecream afterwards on the way home.

It's never made sense to me: why was the operation at home the first time and in a proper hospital the second?  And, the answer came to me this morning as I browsed the internet.  Something happened between 1946 and 1948 which made going to hospital the norm: it was the introduction of the National Health Schene in Britain.  I'm glad that's cleared up.

Saturday, June 21

 I've just been watching a Youtube video about a fellow taking a trip from Darwin to Adelaide.  Of all the possible ways to do it, he decided to take the bus. He might have enjoyed the luxury of The Ghan but that was a bit too expensive, or he might have flown for a few hundred dollars but, instead he opted for many hours on a Greyhound coach. The coach took 40-odd hours to get to Alice Springs where he had an overnight stop at a motel, then another 40-odd hours to Adelaide, and it still cost him nearly $800.  Madness!

Why does anybody do it?  

It's overcast here today but we have nothing arranged so it doesn't matter.  Marilyn says we have to order a few things from Coles and that might end up being the highlight of the day.

Friday, June 20

There's nothing much planned for today.  Our cleaner will be arriving shortly and that's my cue to change the sheets on the bed but, otherwise, it will be stress-free.  We had a call yesterday from a fellow who has been given the job of putting grab rails in our two showers.  We already have the removeable ones you can buy at Bunnings but, apparently, they're not reliable.  However, they've been there for the nearly four years we've been here and haven't let us down yet.  Not that they've ever been used.  Still, what we can do today isn't necessarily what we can do tomorrow,  

As the young lady from Aged Care said, they'll do anything to keep us at home. The full list of recommendations of what we need is out there on the internet and various suppliers will be in contact with us.  I'm not sure who pays what but I'm sure all will be revealed

Today's story was after a challenge to write about something mundane, like a cup of coffee.

I understand that the Flat White coffee was invented in Australia and has become a favourite choice in the US, UK and other places frequented by Aussies.  If this true, it is a cause for national celebration, for the Flat White is an invention to stand alongside the Hills Hoist and the Victa Mower.

The sad thing is, though, that the Flat White is so poorly regarded in its home country.  I would have thought that the defining feature of a Flat White is that it is flat – no froth nor foam, just a warm coffee- and milk-flavoured drink with no frills.  Those of us who now order Flat White are usually escapees from the days when the best you could hope for in a café was a poorly frothed latte.  The introduction of the Flat White was as important an event to us as the arrival of the first cargo of coffee beans to Australia.

Those of us who choose to wear a moustache, and I apologise to my female friends if they think I am being sexist (but you could have a moustache too if you worked hard enough at growing one), are particularly disadvantaged by the café owners’ confusion between a Flat White and a Latte. They are not interchangeable!  There is nothing worse than having the constant reminder of a sub-standard coffee trapped in the hairs on your upper lip.

You might say I should complain to the barista, or send the inappropriately named coffee back.  But I don’t blame the hapless, lowly paid employee. No, I blame the greedy multi-national who owns the coffee shop and is saving money on staff training.   In the meantime, I’ll keep recording the delinquent cafes on my black list and continue to frequent the patriotic little coffee shops where they take pride in their work.