Thursday, September 18

 We've fallen into a quite comfortable routine since moving into this unit.  I 'm in the habit of getting out of bed at around 7 o'clock. Marilyn likes to stay in bed for another hour at least but likes me to take her a cup of coffee as soon as the kettle boils. Until recently, I had made a habit of turning on the TV to see what is happening on Youtube; I avoided anything to do with news or current affairs although Trump's antics are rivetting and I generally found time for the reporting of one or two of his most ludicrous antics.  

I often used this time to catch up one of the better UK comedy programs like Have I Got News For You but lately I'm becoming bored with the predictability of these.  In fact, I've become disenchanted with the whole rigmarole of morning TV and often don't turn it on at all.  I'm more likely now to read a book while the house is quiet.

I don't like to analyse my actions and try to make them seem like they are based on some philosophy but I think it's fair to say that my desk is my 'safe space', the place I go when I want to be with my own thoughts and, perhaps, make sense of something which is bothering me.

I just wish I could keep my 'safe space' a bit tidier.  If my desk is supposed to reflect the state of my mind, I should be very worried.  Indeed!

Wednesday, September 17

 

Sometimes I come across a sentence in something I’m reading which stops me in my track.  It might be a reference to somebody I’ve heard about or a word that reminds me of a past experience.  Today it was a question asked, innocently by one character to another.  The question was, “What book have you read which changed your life?”

There’s an assumption there that everyone will experience that life-changing moment, or that people will recognize it when it occurs, and each of those assumptions , of course, is nonsense.  The avid reader of Mills and Boon novels or the devourer of Jack Reacher may never feel the sense of revelation implied by the original question but that’s avoiding the point.  It’s not just about the content of the book being read but it may be about the very act of reading.

If a person is not a reader, their life may be narrower and less invigorating than someone who can experience what it is like to be in someone else’s shoes.  When I read a simple detective story by someone like Stephen Booth, I can vicariously experience what it is like to be on the moors in England in a snowstorm trying to make my way back to my car without a torch.

So, I, of course, have tried to think of the book which changed my life and I can’t get past the book which I was given, I think, for my seventh birthday in 1950.  It was Rubbalong Tales by Enid Blyton.  I couldn’t put it down and I think that book, more than any other, sparked my lifelong love of reading

By the way, I saw a copy of the book for sale on the internet.  It was the 1950 edition with original dustcover and was only $78.  My copy, without dust cover, may still exist, in a box in Jamie’s garage.  I might go looking for it one day.

Tuesday, September 16

 Our Coles order has just been delivered.  The usual Sunday delivery man is a person of mature years with white hair and a very pleasant manner.  He always asks how we are and whether Archie is staying with us.  He's a great asset to the company and, if we were thinking of changing suppliers, we would probably not, juts because of the man who delivers the groceries.

It's a miserable day here.  I've been waiting for  Temu order and the last notification I had is that it arrived in Launceston on Saturday, and was expected to be in my letterbox on Monday or Tuesday.  The next think i should hear is that 'it is on the truck' and will be delivered today.  I don't have that message yet and I wonder what is going on.

Monday, August 15

 I've just dropped Marilyn off at her Probus meeting.  Unlike me, she enjoys them and looks forward to each one.   I think it's the fact of getting dressed up as much as the opportunity for a chat.  Neither of those things works for me so attending my Probus meeting is more of a chore than anything else.

This morning I'm waiting for a parcel from Temu.  The tracker tells me that it has arrived in Launceston so, with a bit of luck it might turn up at any moment.  There's nothing much of any significance in the order but there is a small piece of technology which I will especially enjoy.  It's a small music player which I can carry on my morning walk.  I've had ipods and other players in the past and, in fact, I dug the old ones out to see whether they still worked.  But, time has taken its toll and they've all gone to God.  I checked the local suppliers and nobody seemed to sell what I wanted; Temu gave me a choice of colours and only wanted $21 so the deal was done .I'm keen to see what I get for my money.  I had to make up the order to $50 to get free postage so there are a couple of other delights there as well. But, it's the technology which is the real prize!

Sunday, September 14

Jamie and Nera are in Hobart this weekend so we are baby-sitting Archie.  It's a regular thing and he seems to cope with it very well.  He has routines and favourite toys and sometimes it seems the whole household marches to his drum.  I suppose any dog-owner might say the same.  

The day started off sunny but the sky has clouded over and we might get rain.  We have no plans to do anything.  I can't help wondering what our lives might have been like if we had lived our lives in another environment.  I can't help comparing our lives with that of Steve Marsh whom we follow on Youtube.

Here is what we saw on his video this morning: he woke up on a particular morning in Montrose in Scotland where he lives.  He decided on a whim that he might go somewhere so he walks to the railway station, catches a train to Edinburgh and on to the airport where he takes a cheap flight to Copenhagen.  He arrives there early enough to take another train to Malmo in Sweden, crossing the famous Oresund Bridge on the way.  It's Spring in Europe and the weather is delightful.

A comfortable night in a reasonably priced hotel caps off a great day in which he has managed to visit two foreign countries.

I suppose if we lived near Sydney or Melbourne we could have a similar experience if we flew to Auckland, but I can't imagine it would be as exciting There certainly is a price to pay because we chose to live in Australia.

Saturday, September 13

 After almost 2000 posts to this blog, the program decided it didn't recognise me this morning and that meant I had to go through the rigmarole of remembering my password.  Except, this morning it was different.  Instead of asking for my PIN I was asked for my address.  Okay!  I started to type 2/40 Burghl.. and a list appeared of 5 or 6 possible options and I was surprised to find there were other places in the world where 2/40 Burghley St existed.  There were two in Lincolnshire, UK, for example, another in London and even one in Birchwood, New York.

It's getting harder to be an individual in today's world, isn't it!

I'm thinking about whether I should have a walk this morning.  The weather is cold and I seem to have strained my back.  Yesterday was our exercise class which is a strain in itself but Marilyn and I decided it would be a good idea to walk from there into town to a favourite coffee shop, and back to the car afterwards.  This morning the twinge in my back is telling me that I might have done a little too much.  Nothing is very far from anything else in Longford but we still need to be careful.   

Thursday, September 11

 I don't usually take any notice of the 'Australia's Best ...' competitions which pop up in the media from time to time.  After all, who needs to know that Australia's Best Icecream is found in a little shop in South Australia?  I'll never be there to try it.  But, my interest is piqued by a claim that Australia's Best Vanilla Slice comes from a shop in Campbelltown, Tasmania, just down the road.  Of course the locals call it Australia's Best Snot Block.

The claim is suspect, of course, as it's the proprietor of the shop saying it with no evidence of any procedure to measure one slice against another.

I did note one 'Best Of ..' in today's news.  Somebody has been looking at Australia's small towns and has tried to rate them against each other.  What a job!  And what criteria what you use?  And what an opportunity for corruption!

In any case, I was pleased to see that Deloraine in Tasmania came second.  I have a soft spot for Deloraine, of course, as it's the home of Giant Steps and the world-renowned Deloraine Craft Fair.  I don't know whether any benefits will flow from being chosen as second-best but one can only hope.

Oh, by the way, the winner this year is Fremantle.  My only memory of Fremantle is of Marilyn and i having coffee there when we stepped off a cruise ship many years ago, so I have no idea what sets it apart from any other small town.  Or maybe it was just Western Australia's turn to have a winner.

Wednesday, September 10

 I wonder what the process is for the Friends Request facility on Facebook.  Every morning, when I open Facebook, I find one or two 'requests' from people wanting to be my friend.  I haven't checked but my feeling is that most, if not all, are from females.  Perhaps, though, this is just wishful thinking.

This morning there was a request from a woman from Deloraine.   I don't know her well and probably wouldn't recognise her in the street, but I did know her husband and I can recall that he died a few years ago.  Mike was the only person I know who had the same birthday as me.

I've never responded to any of the 'requests' which come to me.  Clearly, I can't imagine what can of worms I might open if I clicked the OK button but I know I would not be a worthwhile Facebook friend to anyone.  I don't post anything nor respond to anyone else's post so it would be like befriending a picture on the wall.

But back to Sonya's (not her real name) request.  Is it legit?  Did Sonya do a search of Facebook until she found my name and, breathlessly, clicked the button to alert me she was keen to hook up?  Or did Facebook do a periodic trawl of all the other subscribers who matched some of the characteristics which might suit Sonya: locality, age, sex, 'click' history, and so on?  Who knows?

I'm sorry if Sonya is waiting breathlessly for a response from me. She might be a little disappointed but she would be more disappointed if I had said Yes.  I'm too old for all this nonsense.

Tuesday, September 9

 There's a sameness about life at the moment as each day seems to be just a reflection of the one before.  There are subtle differences, of course: we usually receive a Coles' order on Friday and I have to put out the bins for Wednesday morning, but in general terms one day is just like another.  Is there a song with those words?

This week, the stand-out day is Wednesday where we have, not one, but two events: the first is a luncheon involving my Probus Club where Marilyn will attend as my guest, and the other is that we will have to hurry away from the luncheon for our appointments with the podiatrist.

I've been giving serious consideration to the Probus Club.  I've managed to off-load the job of treasurer but I've been a member for about three years and still only know a handful of names.  Part of that is my lack of attention to such things but the rest is that we only meet once a month and don't do much else.  Most of the members have known each other since school and I still feel I'm the outsider.

Thinking about tomorrow's luncheon, I can't say that I'm looking forward to it.  Having Marilyn with me will make it more enjoyable but otherwise I'm ambivalent.

Still, if we weren't going, what else would we do?  Sit at home reading our books, no doubt!

Monday, September 8

I've been for my walk and the rest of the day is unfolding in front of me.  Unfortunately, I have no plans to fill those hours in any meaningful way.  At least the weather is promising: cold, of course, but the sun is shining.  

I look at the untidy mess on my desk and imagine what it would be like if I were able to make it tidy and more efficient.  The problem is that I have on my desk things that I like as well as things that I need, not to mention things that I don't need at the moment but might in the future, like a fan.  And, I don't have any drawers in this desk; only a narrow set of shelves down the left-hand side with several open baskets.  

It's things like cords for connecting the various drives to the computer that lie around and staplers, sellotape dispenser hole punch, plastic bag of USB drives ... the list goes on.

I need a plan to fix this ... so that will become my project for the next couple of days.  Isn't life tedious when you become older?

Sunday, September 7

 It's not a very inspiring day here in Longford.  The sky is grey, the air is cool and there's no sound of life from the street.  I'm not aware of any activities being organised in the town and, because it's Sunday, I don't expect any deliveries.  I suppose the only thing to do is turn the air conditioner to warm and curl up in the loungeroom with a book.

I'm re-reading a series of detective novels at the moment.  They're by Stephen Booth and are set in a rural area of England.  I don't know why I am attracted to this type of novel.  I'm no anglophile, I think the villagers depicted in the stories are unappealing and the outcomes are often predictable (who needs a happy ending every time?)

Maybe it's the fact that I've been brought up on this sort of stuff: Midsomer Murders on TV, for example.  Or maybe it's because the books are predictable and, yes, they do have a happy ending, or, at least an ending which confirms that right always triumphs in the end.

I've tried reading other, more worthy, books, but I've decided I choose to read for enjoyment rather than for edification.

I've just noticed that this s blog post number 1976: only 24 more to reach 2000.  If I were planning to call an end to the experiment, 2000 is a nice round number.  I'll have to think about it.

Saturday, September 6

 Marilyn is reading a book called The Chocolate Factory: a novel based around the establishment of the Cadbury plant in Hobart in the 19th century. We knew several families who worked there and, especially, one whose son played in Jamie's basketball team.  There were always chocolates at team barbecues.

On the ship which brought my family to Australia we met a couple who had worked at Cadbury's in Bournville in England.  Ray and Edna Sparks were not heading for Tasmania but settled in Sydney where they opened a cake shop at Five Dock. They seemed to take a shine to me and I spent a lot of time there, travelling by bus each morning to school at Drummoyne.  I would only have been eight or nine.  Later they moved to Wombarra and then Thirroul where we kept up the friendship.

Ray drove a delivery truck for Cadbury's and I really enjoyed being his off-sider, going with him when he made his deliveries.  Often, shopkeepers would return bars of chocolate which their customers had rejected, saying they were mouldy.  In almost every case they were bars of Treasure Island or Rum and Raisin with little blemishes which Ray said were caused by air bubbles formed in the manufacturing process by the fermentation of the raisins.  They were perfectly good to eat, of course, and I acquired a taste for them.  Which 10-year old boy would turn his nose up at free chocolate?

We had Christmas with them one year while they lived in Wombarra and, when we stayed with them at Thirroul on another occasion, Ray helped my brother and I build a canoe out of a sheet of roofing iron.

Great memories!

Friday, September 5

 I'm always up before Marilyn in the morning and I use that time when I am alone in front of the TV to watch Youtube.  Lately I've found myself drawn to clips which highlight the idiocy of Donald Trump and I wonder at the irony of the country which holds itself up as the epitome of freedom and democracy now being in the thrall of a de facto king.

There's no way, in any other democracy, that the leader of the government could make such demagogic pronouncements as Mr Trump makes on a daily basis.  Can you imagine the UK Prime Minister deciding to clad the Tower of London with aluminium sheeting, or Mr Albanese building a ballroom on to The Lodge, without getting the populace onside first?

When the US people overthrew the rule of the British King, it was because they wanted a say in who ruled them.  The wanted their leaders to be elected by the people. Wonderful!  A very noble and forward-looking undertaking. Unfortunately, they then gave to that elected person many of the rights and privileges which are totally inappropriate in today's society. The President became a de facto King and not a modern king, but more a king from the Middle Ages.  The leader of the country should never appoint judges, for example.  That's asking for trouble, as we can see every day in the USA.  Judges should be appointed on their merit and not on which party they support.  In Australia, I might guess that a particular judge would be a Liberal voter, but I wouldn't expect it to influence his judgement.  And, kif it did, his peers would soon deal with it.

I don't know how the US is going to get out of this mess.  Simply changing sides is not enough.  They almost need to draw a line under the Great Experiment and start again.

Thursday, September 4

 For years I've downloaded TV shows and movies to watch at our leisure and it's been suggested that it's become an obsession.  As if!  The fact that I download much more than we could watch in two lifetimes is irrelevant and, as I've been heard to say, everybody needs a hobby.  I store the stuff on two hard drives which I've had for years and like all animate and inanimate objects, they're showing signs of wear.

I wondered whether it was time to splash out and purchase a couple of solid-state drives but, even if I went to Temu, I'd resent the outlay.  Jamie is not a fan of Temu and would try to talk me out of it.  His suggestion is to store all my downloads on the hard drive of the computer and, when we want to watch something, transfer it to a decent USB stick and go from there.  Why didn't I think of that?  There's plenty of room on the hard drive and all my precious programs would be available when needed.

It will take organisation: setting-up and transferring files, so I had better make a start.  A trip to Officeworks to get some better-than-average USB sticks is on the cards sooner rather than later.

Wednesday, September 3

 I'm looking for a particular cable for an electronic gadget I've discovered in one of my baskets.  It's a tiny media player which I can clip on to my shirt and might be useful when I go for a walk.  Of course, it's a bit old and the required cable is obsolete.  Maybe Jamie will have one hanging around.

I might have had a whinge in a previous post about my problems with listening to audio on my walk each morning.  I've been using my phone and find that it switches itself off when I reach the corner where I turn for home.  And it won't switch on again.  I wondered whether it has a built-in mechanism to turn off after a certain number of minutes to save power.

Not so, says Jamie.  The problem is that you don't have your Gefooly switch on, so the 'phone is still connecting to your internet and that's why you can connect to podcasts.  When you reach a certain distance from home (and lose your internet connection) the 'phone detects the loss of  that link and switches off.  (The switch may not be called Gefooley!)

Anyway, he's now switched it on and I'll give it a go this morning.  As a backup, I need the cable for the media player. It's old technology and I'm more comfortable with that.

Tuesday, September 2

 I've never understood the reason why dish washers have become so ubiquitous in Australian homes.  Maybe I should clarify that I'm looking at this situation from the point of view of an elderly pensioner who lives in a two-person household.  I understand that this is not the norm but I suspect that there are fewer large households than there used to be as I suspect that people are deciding to have fewer children than was once the case. Or maybe contraception is better.

But what has this to do with dishwashers?  Even though there are just two of us in this household; even though we eat simple meals, even though we have lived in this unit in Longford for five years and have never cooked a roast dinner here, even though our normal meal is pre-prepared in another kitchen and re-heated in ours, we still have a dishwasher.

I had my cereal this morning, put my slice off thick-cut fruit loaf in the toaster and reached for a knife to butter it.  The knife drawer was empty, because all the knives were in the dishwasher waiting for it to look full enough that we could switch it on.  Madness!  I extracted a single knife, rinsed it under the hot tap and buttered my toast ... and then put the knife back in the dishwasher!

From a labour-intensive point of view, a dishwasher makes no sense.  A time and motion study would need to note that using a dishwasher involves loading it, unloading it and putting the washed items away.  All of that involves bending because the dishwasher sits on the floor.  Compare that with the energy needed to wash up today's breakfast dishes in the old-fashioned way.  Half a sink of hot water from the tap, a squirt of dishwashing liquid, swill around 2 teaspoons, 2 cornflake spoons, 2 bowls, a knife and a plate, and leave them to drain.  It's a no-brainer.

But, I'll never convince Marilyn.

Monday, September 1

 September already, and, as if to welcome Spring, the sun is shining and there is the appearance of warmth in the air.  Of course, that's the perspective from inside the house looking out through the window.  The reality is what I experienced when I had my walk at 8 o'clock: bright sunshine, certainly, but a real chill in the air.  However, it can only get better from here.

Jamie arrived ten minutes ago, realised he had left something at home and left again to collect. it. Marilyn has gone with him for a drive and a chat, leaving me to look after Archie.  I'm not surprised she has taken the chance; I don't have much to say and that must be frustrating for Marilyn,

We had news last night that a friend has died in Townsville. He was a few years older than me and we met when Marilyn and I arrived at Cathedral School in 1987.  Roy was the Property Manager and it was his job to get us settled in to our house on the school grounds.  H must have seen how shell-shocked we were after the long drive and invited us to have dinner with them that evening.  He and Marg became very close friends and we have kept in touch.

Sunday, August 31

 My computer was a bit reluctant to start this morning and, when I tried to open Blogger to record my 'thought of the day'. it downright refused to cooperate. It told me there was probably an internet cable unplugged, which was ludicrous as I have a wifi connection.

 Being a natural pessimist, I immediately sent my thoughts to having to buy a replacement.  But, should I go for another All-in-one desktop or would a decent-sized laptop be better?  Should I buy something from Officeworks or might I do better on Amazon or Kogan, on-line?

I spent an hour browsing on my tablet and came to the conclusion that, really, a local supplier like Officeworks would be better, but I would have to outlay several hundreds of dollars.  As Jamie often says, if something goes wrong, it's more satisfying to walk into the shop and throw it back at them.  You can't do that with Kogan.

I finally settled on a Lenovo all-in-one desktop.  It was white which would be a change and not too expensive.  Decision made, I went back to the old computer to have one more try at getting it to go.

Of course, it behaved itself and started without any bother.  Bugger!

Saturday, August 30

 Marilyn and I go to an exercise class every Friday at Toosey, the local Aged care facility.  It's part of our Care Plans.  There are about 10 participants altogether and the young woman who runs it has a very pleasant, professional manner.  We've had three or four sessions so far, and have focused on various activities.  Yesterday, we used rubber balls with knobs on.  We called in to Kmart and bought a couple of similar balls to practice at home. Youtube has lots of videos to keep us focused. 

It makes a change from watching videos of Donald Trump's lunacy, or Steve or Scott wandering around Europe.

Friday, August 29

 As I mentioned yesterday, Jamie and I had a visit to Officeworks.  I had in mind to buy a tablet for Marilyn as the one she has been using is a few years old and the screen is not as sharp as it once was.  In fact it was a Samsung Tab 8 which Jamie and Nera received as a freebie when they signed up for home internet.  It was passed on to me and I used it daily until I acquired my Lenovo, bought for $99 in a JB HiFi sale.

I love going to Officeworks.  Some men rhapsodise about visiting Bunnings but I just don't get it. I met a bloke once who told me the best Christmas present he received was a $100 Bunnings voucher.  I can visualise him now: running into the big shop, voucher in hand, to pick out a new shovel or punnet of seedlings.

On the other hand, Officeworks is like a fairy kingdom, with aisle after aisle of treasures.  I could spend hours there (and often do).  

Yesterday, we looked at the avalaible tablets and I selected a Lenovo Tab 10.  It's a beautiful machine with a very clear screen.  Marilyn has a number of favourite games that she likes to play, including jigsaws so a 10-inch screen gives her a big enough work space without being too ponderous.

I've already floated the idea that, if this purchase proves to be worthwhile, I might consider buying myself one too.  It doesn't hurt to lay the groundwork.

Thursday, August 28

 I got to the end of my book and there was no surprising denouement about the relationship of Alan and Dan.  I don't know how I feel about that; disappointed, I suppose, because it would have been nice to have my instincts proven right but also relieved that the author didn't give in to the temptation to play the gay card so blatantly.  Still, there are two more books in the series so there is time yet.  However, I've decided to move on to something else.

We're waiting for Jamie to arrive to take us into town.  Marilyn has a doctor's appointment and I plan to call into Officeworks to buy a 10-inch tablet for Marilyn.  We're finding that we are spending more time at home now and need to have more things to keep us occupied.  We can read or watch TV, of course, but Marilyn likes jigsaw puzzles and other various games and her 7-inch pad is just too small.  

Life does change when you get older and you have to make accommodations for that.

Wednesday, August 27

 I'm reading a book called A Study in Stone by Michael Campling.  It appeared on my ebook reader yesterday and I thought it might be about archaeology or something and I often enjoy books like that.  In fact, it's a fairly standard English village mystery with a local pub, a big house and a handful of typical local yokels.  The two main characters are Dan and Alan.  Alan has moved to the village because he has lost his job and Dan has befriended him.  They have coffee together and find themselves investigating the theft of some precious artifacts from the coffee shop.  There is a barista in the cafe who has 'an impressive set of whiskers'.

Perhaps my 'gaydar' is working overtime because I keep anticipating a development in the relationship between Dan and Alan. I'm on page 363 of 646 and I'm anticipating a development at any time.   Funny, I've never questioned the relationship between Captain Bigglesworth and Algernon Lacey or Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson but Dan and Alan seem to be heading in a particular direction.

Perhaps I'm reading my first LGBTQ  novel.

Tuesday, February 26

 I think there's a number somewhere which tells me how many posts I have written since I started this blog in 2010 but I can't remember where that is at the moment.  If I had nothing else to do, I'm sure I could find it or, at least, look back through the archives and work it out. But, does it matter?  Probably not; they're just trivial random thoughts for the most part and it's irrelevant whether there's a lot of them or just a few.

The blog was more relevant when we were traveling and, since we've retired from that pursuit and are living a more sedentary life, what I have to say is much less interesting.  Take today, for example.  If we were hurrying to catch a train from Osaka Sation to visit the historic town of Takayama in the Japan Alps, what I have to say might catch the attention of any readers who happen to notice it.

On the other hand, if I am reporting on the weather in Northern Tasmania (cold and wet!), and whether Marilyn will decide to go to her Craft group or stay home and read her book, the expected reaction might well be Ho, hum!

I think it gets to the point that the writing of the blog becomes the purpose in itself.  It's not what I say, it's the fact that I'm saying it, no matter how trivial.  The fact that there are still people who read it astounds me.  Of course, it may not be the same people each day.  With the vast number of people around the world browsing Blogger maybe a random half dozen happen to stumble upon jandme each morning, and they're a different half dozen each time.

Makes as much sense as any other scenario, I suppose.

Monday, August 25

 

"Are you going to write your blog?" Marilyn asked as I started to get up from my chair.

"Yes, I am," I replied.

"Good! Can you put on Brogan for me?"

There's not much we disagree on but Brogan Tate is one of them.  Brogan Tate is a young English blogger with an irritating voice and a gormless husband called Benjy who wears his baseball cap back to front.  Brogan is a blogger and makes programs about her shopping trips and plans for holidays.  I find them mind-numbingly tedious but Marilyn can see value in them that I can't.

Perhaps it's because I am jealous.  The idea of other people having trips to exotic places when I have had to put those days behind me, irritates me.  Although, for me, the joy of going to other places started when I got there.  For Brogan, the joy is in the packing, the selection of clothes and the innumerable little gadgets she packs to make her trip easier.  I remember when she and Benjy were going on a cruise on the Queen Mary, she was excited to tell all her viewers how clever she was in packing three little baskets to help her keep track of all the paperwork involved with the cruise.  Who packs baskets to sort out paperwork when they are going on a cruise?

That's enough of Brogan!  My blood pressure rises when I think about her (and Benjy!)

THE TIME MACHINE                                                                            MARCH 4, 2022

“He had blue eyes, you know,” Brian said, and looked at me to see my reaction.

“Who?” I asked.

“Him,” said Brian, pointing to the drawing of Mathew Brady on the wall in front of us.  We had popped into the Tasmanian Museum to get out of the rain and we were filling in time at the Bushranger exhibit.  The drawing was sepia in colour so you’d be hard-pressed to know if the eyes were blue or otherwise.

“Aren’t you going to ask me how I know?” smirked Brian.

Playing the game, I answered, “How do you know?”

“Because I met him last night and they’re definitely blue.”

“It says here that he was hanged on May 4, 1826.  How on earth can you say that you met him?” I asked, wondering whether I was making a mistake in prolonging this conversation.

Brian lowered his voice.  “Because my father has invented a time machine and, last night, we transported ourselves back 200 years and met Mathew Brady at the Rosevears Hotel.”

I think my mouth fell open.  I knew that Brian’s father was, supposedly, an aerospsace engineer and inventor, though I had never known him to work at anything but delivering parcels for Amazon.  To my knowledge he was currently unemployed.

Later that day, we were in Brian’s garage where he was showing me the so-called Time Machine.  The main part seemed to be a large bundle of copper wire coiled on the ceiling of the garage.  The centre of the garage had been cleared and there was a chalk circle about 3m in diameter drawn around it.  In the circle were 2 purple scooters lying on their sides.

“Are these …?” I started to ask but Brian interrupted, “Yes, we found them on a street corner in Launceston and my dad said that if they weren’t in the custody of some person, we were within our rights to believe they had been abandoned and we could take possession of them legally.”

I began to see why Brian’s dad was often unemployed.

“Why do you need scooters?” I asked.

“It’s a bit complicated,” said Brian, “But, as Dad explained it, we’re fiddling with the space-time continuum.  The time part seems fairly reliable so we can be pretty sure we’ll end up in the time period we choose.  It’s the space part that’s a bit tricky.  Last night, we were aiming for The Gorge but we ended up at Rosevears.  So we have to take some transport to make sure we can get home alright.  The scooters are not too big and not too heavy to carry.”

“Can we have a go at the time machine?” I asked.  I had been a nut for time travel as long as I could remember.  I had read HG Wells and even, Mark Twain’s Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court.  I had seen every episode of Dr Who and still had a photograph of my favourite companion, Amelia Pond, on my wall, the grown-up Amelia, of course, in her police uniform.

“I’m not sure,” said Brian. “I’ve never done it on my own.  Why don’t we wait until Dad gets home?”

He took some convincing but, eventually Brian sighed and agreed to give it a go.  We took our places in the centre of the chalk circle, each of us holding on to one of the scooters, and wearing the purple helmet just in case.  Brian had moved some dials on the wall which he told me would take us back to New Year’s Eve in 1989, when Launceston’s biggest-ever fireworks display had been held. It was a once in a lifetime event and, afterwards, thirty people had been taken to hospital and several dogs had run away from home, never to be seen again. Brian was holding a device which looked like the sort of thing you would use to open a garage door, and I think he was holding his breath as well.

The coil of copper wire on the roof of the garage began to glow red and there was a persistent humming coming from somewhere.  I clenched my fists.  Brian carefully pressed his button and, as we watched, the garage door rose noisily up to the ceiling.

Sunday. August 24

 Archie is with us this weekend and is keeping us on our toes.  He has a game which involves a small, soft, purple object which we call Monsieur Aubergine.  It's a disgusting, over-chewed, soggy excuse for a toy but Archie delights in keeping it away from us.  If we manage to get hold of it, we throw it for him to retrieve.  He will bring it back, lie not too far from our feet and chew it unmercifully; until he is tired of that and allows us to throw it again.

He would play that game for hours, but we have neither the energy nor the inclination.

Bertine from Number 5 dropped a cup of soup in for us during the week which is a nice neighbourly thing to do.  However, I feel I have to reciprocate although I haven't made soup for years.  When we were catering for ourselves, I was in charge of making the soup and I always based it on the broth that Mum used to make. It was great to have, especially in the Tasmanian Winter.

I asked the butcher if he had some beef bones but the best he could find was a lamb shank.  I boiled it up with soup mix which I had sitting in water overnight, grated carrot and turnip, and a couple of cartons of Beef Stock.  It's turned out pretty well and I'll be pleased to let Bertine have a taste.

Saturday, August 23

 When I bought my new ereader a couple of months ago it came pre-loaded with a few books.  I ignored them until yesterday when I had finished what I was reading and was looking for something else.  I saw that one of the pre-loaded books, Paying For It by Tony Black was set in Edinburgh and wondered whether it might be like Rebus.

It might very well be, but I'm afraind there is a language barrier that I struggle with;'

'I saw Mac the Knife was on edge.  I knew the signs.  The Weejie stride was in place, chest out, in a dead heat with the spacehopper guttedge,'

I know (or think I know) that Weejie refers to someone from Glasgow.  Maybe I understand 'Weejie stride' as a way of walking, but 'spacehopper guttedge'  Nope!

Friday, August 22

 Marilyn's new whizzbang tilting kettle arrived yesterday and it was used for the first time this morning to make our coffee; it works brilliantly. She chose black as her preferred colour and it certainly looks smart. A space was chosen for it to live.  The powerpoint is on the wall but, unfortunately it is in front of the kettle.  For safety, the kettle has to sit in front of the powerpoint. It's not ideal to carry a hot kettle past a powerpoint cluttered with a bulbous connector sticking out.

The easy solution is to use a powerboard with a flat connector and put it on the shelf behind the kettle.  Easy, and it took just a few minutes to set it up.

But, it's not right.  The problem is, the wall tiles are charcoal, the kettle is black and the powerboard is white.  You can see that it needs to be fixed so a trip to Bunnings will be on the agenda today.  Surely, they must sell black powerboards!

I'd forgotten I had written today's story which takes its inspiraton from a trip I did to the Snowy Mountains in about 1976 and that's more than fifty years ago.

ON TOP OF THE WORLD                                                            APRIL 21, 2023

Oliver stood alone on the rough path gazing at the barren Alpine plain, and holding a bunch of flowers in his right hand.  They were looking a little wilted now as he had been carrying them for a couple of days and the weather was quite a bit hotter than he had expected.  However, he hoped that Emily would understand the significance of what was happening and, in her usual no-nonsense way, say ‘It’s the thought that counts’.

The last time he and Emily had been together they had had a falling-out.  In fact they had a serious row.  He accused her of being too friendly with another young man and she had flown into a temper and yelled at him, saying she never wanted to see him again.  He hadn’t had a chance to speak to her to make amends before she left with some friends for a weekend in the Snowy Mountains, but he knew she was staying at a resort in Perisher Valley and she had been excitedly talking about going up to the top of the escarpment on one of the chairlifts, getting off at the top and going for a walk along the Alpine Meadows before taking another chairlift back down to the hotels in the valley.  Oliver hoped the surprise of seeing him up here, with a bouquet of flowers, would encourage her to forgive him.

He waited patiently, not knowing whether she was coming or not.  He had already noticed three or four other small groups coming over the rise from the chairlifts bur Emily was not among them.  He was surprised at how summery most of the people were dressed: light shirts, shorts and some even had thongs; most weren’t even wearing hats.  Oliver had long trousers and a long-sleeved shirt and his jumper and weatherproof coat were close by in his rucksack.  He’d heard stories about the sudden changes in weather here which could happen even on the sunniest of days.

Oliver had spent the previous night in a cabin at Blue Lake, not far away, where he had been surprised to find  a young couple already established there.  They said they were from Glasgow University and had a grant to study the straight-backed shrimps which lived in the mountain tarns.  ‘What a life,’ thought Oliver, ‘Being paid to travel to this beautiful place to collect specimens.’  Oliver, at first, presumed they were a couple but, as the evening went on, it was clear they barely tolerated each other.  Angus was a typical dour Scotsman who was difficult to involve in conversation; Elspeth was more bubbly and Oliver had really enjoyed her company.  He imagined they would still be at the cabin tonight and that would give him someone to talk to if his hoped-for encounter with Emily went sour.

Oliver realised he had not thought this through.  Assuming Emily listened to his apology and fell into his arms, what then?  He couldn’t expect to travel with her back down the chairlift and gate-crash her party of friends. And, anyway, his car was parked back down on the road not far from the Blue Lake.  If all went well, the best he could hope for was that she would listen to his apology, promise that all would be well, and he would then have to leave her while he returned to last night’s cabin, collect his gear and make his own way home.

Would Emily laugh at him for concocting this hare-brained scheme?  Would she think him selfish for intruding on her weekend with friends?  After all, she had pointedly not invited him to come with her on the weekend.  Would she be embarrassed having to witness his childishness in front of her friends?

Perhaps, I had better forget all about it, he thought.  But it was too late; a young woman walking along the path called out, “Look, it’s Oliver.  I wonder what he’s doing here.”

Oliver took a deep breath and walked towards them.

“Are you looking for Emily?” one of them asked. “She’s not with us.  She was very upset after your argument, but she got talking to another guest at the chalet last night and she’s spending today with him.”

Oliver was surprised at how he felt about this news.  Instead of being devastated, in fact, he felt that a load had been lifted from his shoulders. With his head filled with a vision of a pretty girl with red hair and a soft Scottish accent, and with his heart singing, Oliver turned on his heel and hurried back to Blue Lake, calling out “Thanks!” as he ran.  He was still carrying the flowers.

Thursday, August 21

 As a good Scotsman, I always try to be careful with my money and frugal in how I use stuff.  It really makes my blood boil when I discover I'm being ripped off by the tricks of the retail trade. One long-running issue is in the matter of foot cream, although this rip-off can apply to any soft product marketed in plastic tubes.  The same problem arises with toothpaste, condensed milk, hand lotion ... and so on.

I use a foot cream after my shower.  For many years I preferred a pump pack but it was a pain when the level dropped and there was always a little bit at the bottom which I couldn't get out.  I resorted to chopping the bottle in half so my fingers would reach.

Somewhere along the line I switched to a brand which packaged their product in plastic tubes.  They didn't seem to last as long no matter how hard I squeezed.  I decided to cut one supposedly empty tube in half to see just how much was left, and I was amazed.  I estimate that almost half of the original amount was still there but not accessible through the usual roll and squeeze method. 

What a con.  I suspect that a good proportion of the buyers of that particular foot cream would just chuck the 'empty' tube away and reach for another.  And that, of course, plays into the hands of the multi-national organisation which is behind the brand.

I wondered whether the internet had anything to say about this and found an organisation called B & C Guides who explain in great detail how to cut the tube in half, carefully open out the 'bottom' bit and use it as a lid or cover which can slide over the piece containing the remainder of the cream so it won't dry out.  It's not rocket Science; it's much more important than that.

Wednesday, August 20

 I hadn't realised that I've neglected to write in the blog for the last couple of days.  I had nothing to say, of course, but that's not unusual and, when that happens, I generally trot out some trivial words to fill a bit of space.  Maybe the current format has reached the end of its natural life and I need to look at a different approach.  Maybe a weekly report on what's been happening instead?

I'll give it some thought.

Brendan, Nera's nephew was very excited yesterday.  He's been getting a lot of work and has saved some  money; enough to buy a car.  He saw one advertised, a Hyundai Sonata, owned by a little old lady who rarely drove it.  She's now gone into a nursing home and the son is selling it.  True story!

Brendan is delighted and Jamie has suggested he call the car Frank.  Frank Sonata?  

Sunday, Augst 17

 I've been up for about three hours and realise I haven't yet achieved anything significant.  I don't regard having breakfast as worth counting because I do that every day; I'm talking about a real achievement like mowing the lawn or even something as trivial as making the bed.  As you get older, you inevitably set your sights lower when considering getting things done but you can't afford to let your standards drop too far.

So, let's have a think about what I might achieve today.  Making the bed will be a good start.  Mowing the lawn might be a possibility but it will have to dry up a bit first.  Should I set myself the task of writing a story?  I haven't written anything significant for a while so that might be a good challenge.  My desk is starting to get a bit cluttered and that's an on-going problem which really deserves a more permanent solution.

Should I attack my wardrobe and discard any clothes I haven't worn for a while?  It doesn't appeal but will have to be done sometime ... maybe not today.

Maybe I should involve Marilyn in coming up with a solution; she can always identify what needs some attention but if I ask her I'll feel obliged to do what she suggests and that might not be what I feel like.

Perhaps I'll have another cup of coffee and hope something occurs to me.

Saturday, August 16

It's a beautiful day although the air is cold.  I'm aiming for three walks so decided to set off early for the first one.  When I reached the corner and turned to head back, there was little old woman walking towards me.

'Good morning,' I said, always the gentleman.

'It's a beautiful day,' she replied.

'Yes,' I said and reached up to touch my ear. 'But, a bit nippy around the ears.'

'Oh, I'm sorry,' she said. 'I'll speak up.  I know what it's like; my husband has industrial deafness.'

'Enjoy your walk,' I replied, and continued on.

Friday, August 15

 We're always looking for new TV shows to watch, so when I saw a teaser on Youtube which promised to list 'the best new shows on Netflix', I couldn't resist a look.  To say I was disappointed is an understatement.  Clearly, their definition of 'best' and mine are radically different.  The first program mentioned was a re-make of Perfect Match.  Perfect Match?  It was rubbish when it was first made and won't be any better now. The next offering was anime; I stopped watching cartoons when I left Primary school.  Then there was a show about wrestling and a South Korean courtroom drama.  Who watches this stuff?

To cap it all was a show called Wednesday, apparently featuring the female child from the Munster Family.  Unbelievable!

THE BEST OF INTENTIONS                                                                                             5 NOVEMBER 2021

I like to think that I’m as well-intentioned as the next man but I’ve learned to be careful; even the best of intentions can backfire on you.  One of my mother’s friends from the Book Club was moving house and she needed someone to dismantle her bed so that the removalists could fit it into their van.  It would need to be done this weekend as the van was coming on Monday morning.  My mother offered that I would do it.  She is like that: always prepared to offer a helping hand especially if the hand is mine.

Oh, well, it’s not too much of a hardship and I had no other plans for the weekend.  I scribbled the address on a scrap of paper and promised to be on the doorstep by 9 o’clock on Sunday.

Armed with my Allen keys, I presented myself to the friend’s house at the agreed time and was shown into the bedroom where I was surprised to find that the bed was still covered with sheets and blankets, and there was an elderly man lying in it.  Mum’s friend was very apologetic and whispered that her husband was still asleep and hated to be woken up.  She had learnt early on in their marriage that, if she was up before her husband, she had to creep around the house, and woe betide her if she made too much noise in the kitchen.

I started to speak but the woman became agitated and signalled me to shoosh.  She pulled me into the hallway where I could ask her, under my breath, what she wanted me to do.

“Could you come back in a couple of hours?” she pleaded, apologetically.  “He’ll probably be up by then and you could get on with pulling the bed apart.”

I wasn’t very happy about being mucked around but it would only take me ten minutes to loosen the screws and I had no other plans.  A cup of coffee helped to fill in that time and I duly returned to the house ready to fulfil my promise.  I found the woman wringing her hands and clearly upset.

“He’s still in bed but I don’t think he’s asleep: I think he’s passed away,” she wailed.

“What, dead?” I said, stupidly.

“Yes, could you have a look?” she asked.  I wasn’t very happy about it but what else could I do?”

“Have you rung an ambulance?” I asked.  “Maybe he’s ill and needs some help and, if he really is dead, the ambulance people will be able to confirm it.”

“Oh, alright,” she muttered and went to the ‘phone.

I, reluctantly, returned to the bedroom where the old man certainly looked to have departed this life.  He was grey in the face and didn’t seem to be breathing, so I gently drew the sheet up over his head, patted his hand and quietly left him in peace.

Back in the loungeroom, Mum’s friend told me that the ambulance was on its way and asked me if I would like a cup of tea.  With the taste of my recent coffee still on my lips I began to say No, thanks, but instinct told me that she probably needed an activity to take her mind off her loss and she was looking to occupy her hands.

I don’t normally drink tea, especially if it’s weak and milky, but I managed to finish my cup, all of the time listening to her tell me about the life they had led: over fifty years of marriage, not always happy.  He was a very dominant individual and she had had to give in to him at every turn.  He had never wanted to do anything she enjoyed.  She had always wanted to travel but he said it was a waste of money.  He was so awful, even their children had abandoned them.  It would be different without him, she said, and the first thing she would do was re-build her relationship with their children and the friends he had insulted over the years.

We heard the doorbell ring and a couple of paramedics hurried into the loungeroom.

“Where is he?” they asked but, before they could be directed to the bedroom a loud voice could be heard.

“What’s all the noise?  Can’t a man have quiet in his own house?”

The woman put her head in her hands and cried.  “I just knew it was too good to be true.  He’s too rotten to just die in his sleep and leave me in peace.”

The paramedics and I left together.  I had given up my morning with the best of intentions and look how that had turned out.

Thursday, August 14

There was an interesting post on Facebook this morning.  Giant Steps, where I worked my last job before retirement, is celebrating its 30th anniversary later this year and there will be a barbecue to mark the occasion  Reading that brought back vivid memories of the decade I spent as principal there and how coming back to Tasmania has worked out for us.  I'm certainly looking forward to going to the celebration and meeting up with old faces.  I left at the end of 2009 so it's been a while.

We've had as slow start to the day.  It's overcast and pretty cold so we'll probably spend most of the dat indoors but that's OK.

Wednesday, August 13

 I'm dressed and ready for going out this morning.  It's Probus today; we meet monthly and the meetings usually consist of a little but of business, followed by morning tea and a guest speaker.  Because we live in a country town, the speakers are usually local farmers or the CEO of some multi-national installing a new power grid in the area.  They're not often within my sphere of interest but that's OK, I know I'm in the minority.  I've been the Treasurer and that obliges me to attend every meeting but I've managed to off-load that job so there's nothing stopping me from resigning.  I'll keep my powder dry and see how things turn out.

Tuesday, August 12

 As I typed the date above, I realised that it was significant.  The 12th August!  The Glorious Twelfth!  But why is it glorious? I have to check.  Grouse. of course.  Today is the official star of the hunting season of Red Grouse in the UK.  I should celebrate, of course, but it's too  much trouble.

I'm home alone with just Archie for company. I'm baby-sitting because Jamie is busy all day, Marilyn is at her Craft group so I'm left to my own devices with just a sleeping dog for company.  In fact, I'll appreciate the little bit of time to myself. I've just started reading a series of novels by DS Butler. The protagonist is DS Karen Hart and the fist book is shaping up to be interesting.  A couple of hours absorbed in a story without interruption will suit me fine.

Monday, August 11

 It's another sunny day in Longford but we have no plans to get out and enjoy it.  Marilyn has a couple of thigs to pick up at the local supermarket and I might find the energy to mow the lawn but, otherwise, it will be another day on the couch.

I started the morning as I usually do; browsing Youtube in search of something to watch with my first coffee of the day.  I avoid the increasingly strident videos of Trump's latest idiocy and ones made by middle-aged couples boasting about their travels, looking for something different.  Major concerts in the UK, like the Royal Command Performance are always worth a look but can become a bit same-y.  Too many conclude with Eric Idle singing his heart out to Always Look on the Bright Side of Life.  I've seen him singing with a host of ballerinas, a Welsh choir, and members of the royal family.

It's a great song and the Poms have taken it to their hearts.  I love lines like ;

'when you're chewin' on life's gristle,

Just give a little whistle' 

and 

Forget about your sin,

Give the audience a grin,

Enjoy it; it's your last chance anyhow.

I think it must sum up the British view of life.

THE WINDFALL                                                                                             JULY 17, 2020

It’s not true what the Beatles say, that ‘All You Need is Love’.  We had plenty of that but, in the early 1970s, it didn’t pay the rent or the grocery bill.  We had a new baby and, because of that, my wife’s contribution to the family income had been cut back; with a baby, there’s always more expenses: baby blankets, and nappies and so on.  We had moved away from our families when I took a new job in Sydney so we couldn’t ‘drop in’ on our Mums and Dads, or even our friends, for a free meal.

My brother was very vocal about his friends who happened to drop in on Thursday nights when they were getting a bit short, and they would hang around until good manners insisted that he had to invite them to stay for dinner.  I sympathised with the friends and their plight the night before pay day because we were struggling as they were.

My mother was probably wiser than the Beatles because one of her sayings was, “You can’t live on love.”  She used to say it if she caught us buying something she thought was trivial, like new wallpaper for the baby’s room or a bottle of cheap wine.

Luckily, I did some private coaching on one afternoon a week with one my students.  His parents had a fish and chip shop and never let me leave their home without a parcel of their choice fillets and best chips.  That was always our most anticipated meal of the week.  Coaching opportunities came up from time to time but this source of income was unreliable and I needed something more regular.

Several times I approached my principal to ask for a raise but he always told me solemnly that it was just not possible before he drove away in his BMW to his million-dollar home on the foreshore at South Coogee.  Just when I was thinking I needed to look for a change of occupation, into something which paid better, the principal approached me with an interesting offer.

“The local Presbyterian Church is looking for a part-time caretaker,” he said.  “It won’t interfere with your teaching and, in return, they will offer you a rent-free flat and a few dollars a week for looking after the cleaning and maintenance of the property.” 

Maybe, in my own way, I had been praying for a windfall to get us out of our predicament but, as the old saying goes, “God helps those who help themselves.”  Instead of sending me a win in the lottery or the death of a wealthy aunt who had remembered me in her will, God sent me an opportunity and, as the mafia used to say, it was an offer I couldn’t refuse.

Without rent to pay and a few extra dollars in hand each week, our lives changed for the better.  Within two years, we were able to move into our own home and, although we have never been wealthy, we have never again been in need.

As a postscript, I have discovered recently that one of the regular attenders at that church during those years was a young Malcolm Turnbull who was a boarder at the Sydney Grammar Boarding House just around the corner.  I polished the pews on which young Malcolm would have rested his bottom and I wonder if it ever passed through his mind that his comfort depended on my diligence. 

Sunday, August 10

 It's not unusual for me to sit in front of my computer in the morning bereft of ideas about what to write in the blog.  I'm envious of people who live lives full of adventure and with no two days being the same.  If your life is packed full of excitement it would be easy to find 100 words or so about each day.  I was watching Steve Marsh on Youtube this morning and he is a good example of someone who does something different and exciting each day and can tell others about it. The most exciting thing that will happen to me today is that I will pick up next fortnight's Webster packs from the pharmacy.

Clearly I need to make some changes.  Should I only write the blog when something interesting happens, or limit it to a weekly rant?  Perhaps I should read other people's blogs and repeat bits of their ideas.  Maybe limiting it to three days a week might be a good start.  Or, try harder to dredge up some nuggets of interest each day.

Who knows? Anyway, that is about 150 words I've written and that will be fine for today.

Saturday, August 9

Jamie and Nera have gone to Hobart for the weekend so we have Archie staying with us.  It's always a pleasure to have him here as he knocks us out of our comfortable rut, demanding we play with him and so on.  I don't know whether I would like to take on the responsibility full-time but the occasional mid-week or weekend visit is terrific.

The weather is cold again, a typical grey Tasmanian winter day but we have nothing planned so we won't feel obliged to go out.  The house is comfortable, we have good books to read and we'll find something interesting on TV if we need to.  I was reading about a couple who are celebrating their 80th wedding anniversary.  I can't believe it; we're looking to out 60th in January and complain about how slow we're becoming and there's a couple who have twenty years on us.  I suppose it's a challenge for us but it's an unlikely one.

I can hear my 'phone dinging in the background but I'll ignore it as it will just be one of those annoying messages from someone I don't know or even want to know.  I don't get involved in the modern 'keep in touch every minute of the day' culture and don't feel deprived if I miss out on the latest 'reel' about a cute chihuahua.  I might be turning into a grouch but that's OK.

Friday, August 8

 There's not a lot to write about today.  Sandra, our cleaning lady arrived a little while ago and Coles has promised to be here between 10 and 11; otherwise the day is shaping up to be uneventful.  

I've been looking around for decent stuff to watch on TV.  In the past, we've had Acorn and Britbox. Stan and Netflix, at various times but I really object to paying for something that we might get for free, so one by one they've been cancelled.  I've tried downloading with varied success and still persevere with that even though it's a pain in the neck.  Jamie says we should forget everything else and stick to free-to-air, using things like SBS On Demand, and that might be the next move.

However, I enjoy the thrill of the chase, the delight in finding some overlooked program which has never been shown in Australia, ... not that there are many of those around.  But having got that anxiety off my chest, I feel better.

Here's another story inspired by a song:

THE FIVE O’CLOCK WHISTLE                                                         March 10, 2023                                                                  

The five o'clock whistle's on the blink
The whistle won't blow and whadd'ya think?
My pop is still in the factory 'cause he don't know
What time it happens to be ….

The familiar words always give me pleasure when I hear them.  It’s the voice of Ella Fitzgerald, of course, and I still often turn to Youtube to find the original recording.  I know I heard the song first on an old wind-up gramophone belonging to my grandmother who lived next door to us when I was very young.  The words also dredge up a memory of a time in my life when the world was very different to how it is now.

I’m an old man now and have lots of time to sit with my memories and, more and more, I find myself back in those days when I was just a boy.  It’s back in the Old Country and it’s wartime, 1943 or 1944; I’m just a kid who has never experienced anything different.  I go to school in the daytime and everything is normal and the air raid sirens and searchlights at night are just part of our existence. We don’t even bother going to the shelter anymore.  “What use would it be?” says my mother.  “If a bomb has our names on it, no shelter will stop it.”

My dad works at the munitions factory just around the corner.  He goes off to work in the morning before I get up and comes home after the whistle blows in the afternoon: at five o’clock sharp, he tells me.  He makes shells for big artillery guns which will help us win the war.  Every day, lines of trucks drive out of the factory gates with load of shells which will find their way to the front line in Europe.

Dad tells me that all the shells they make in one day will only last a couple of hours on the battlefield.  But there are other factories making shells, so the army won’t run out.

One day, I don’t hear the whistle.  But I don’t know what time it is so it makes no difference to me.  Mum is worried, though.

The five o’clock whistle didn’t blow

The whistle is broke and whadda’ya know

If somebody don’t find out what’s wrong

Oh, my pop’ll be workin’ all night long.

“Your Dad should be home,” Mum tells me, “But I didn’t hear the whistle.  I hope everything’s all right.  I suppose they’re having to work a longer shift.  We’ll have our tea and he can have his when he gets here.”

After we’ve had our dinner, Mum reads me a poem from A Child’s Garden of Verses, a book I was given for my last birthday.  My favourite poem is The Lamplighter and I can almost say it off by heart.  It’s not dark yet but Mum tells me that it’s past my bedtime and tucks me in and goes off to sit in her chair by the fire, waiting for some news about my Dad.

I think she is starting to get a little bit worried, so I start to worry too.  Why haven’t we heard what is keeping him?  Mum is sure he’s just working a bit longer shift but I can tell she worries that something might be wrong.  I think the whistle is broken and nobody has noticed so they’ve just kept working.

Oh, who’s gonna fix the whistle?

Won’t somebody fix the whistle?

Oh, who’s gonna fix the whistle?

So my poor old pop will know it’s time for him to stop.

I don’t remember going to sleep, but you never do, do you?  One minute you’re awake, and the next you’re asleep.  When I finally wake up, my first thought is, “Did Dad come home?” and I listen to see whether anyone else is awake.  I sneak out of bed and look around and my heart gives a jump when I see Dad’s cap and lunch bag on the kitchen bench.  He must have come home after I had gone to sleep.  Mum would have been relieved.

I check the kitchen clock and it’s still early.  Even though he worked late, I know Dad will still have to be at the factory gate by 7 o’clock ready to start his next shift.  Mum is always telling me, if we want to win this war, everybody has to make sacrifices.  At least he’s not over in France.  Some of my friends from school have fathers who are in the army or are sailors in ships and they never see them.  I suppose I’m really one of the lucky ones.

Thursday, August 7

 We had Archie staying with us overnight.  This usually happen if Jamie and Nera are away for some reason but that usually occurs only at the weekend.  Still, it's probably not important that I know the reason; I should just enjoy his visit.  Archie always has a few toys left here for him to play with.  One of them is a purple, egg-shaped, felt object which Marilyn has decided looks like an eggplant, so it's been dubbed Monsieur Aubergine.   It's pretty disgusting as Archie chews it unmercifully.  Still, it's the first thing he looks for when he comes here.

This morning it's missing.  We know he had it last night but now it's nowhere to be found; I just hope I don't find it when I'm making the bed.

It looks like being a quiet day.  Jamie is at a meeting in town so we won't see him and the only thing on our schedule is a trip to the hairdresser this afternoon

Wednesday, August 6

 As is my wont, I started my day by browsing a few clips on Youtube.  I know it's indulgent but it reminds me that's there's a great big world out there and Youtube makes it possible for me to experience it. I'll never travel to Europe or Canada, for example, but Scott or Steve can show me what it might be like to do that.

The problem is that I'm not choosing to watch Scott or Steve at the moment.  My first instinct is to open the clips made by US commentators regarding Donald Trump.  I normally couldn't tolerate the smarmy, pretentious style of these highly-paid commentators but the fact that they're exposing the lunacy of Trump is irresistible. 

This morning, though, I felt the first twinge of realisation that I've heard it all before, so maybe I'm cured.  Tomorrow morning, I'll try to resist the temptation to get another 'fix' and see what other normal people are up to.

Longford Weather Report:  sunny, light breeze, cool.  A great day to have a walk, or maybe two.

Tuesday, August 5

 I'm looking out of the window as I write this and it is clearly a day to stay indoors.  The skies are grey, it is persistently raining and the wind is icy.  My mind turns to thoughts of a roaring open fire, hot cups of cocoa and toasted muffins covered with melting butter, maybe with soothing music in the background.  However, Marilyn is determined that she will be attending her Ladies' Craft Group and Bingo Experience no matter what.  She's getting ready as I write this and we'll be heading off soon.  She's left me instruction on what to give Archie if he arrives (some leftover scrambled egg) and suggestions for my morning tea.

I can quite easily fill my morning with interesting experiences and I'm quite looking forward to it.  

Monday, August 4

 I like to browse through a program on my tablet called Quora.  It's a US-based 'thing' and subscribers are encouraged to respond to questions submitted by others.  I'm astounded often by the naivety of the questions and by the arrogance of some of the replies.  When you look back at the last century and how particular countries have improved the lot of their population, notwithstanding two world wars, you have to question how the US has missed out on that, particularly in areas like healthcare.  And yet, they still claim to be the best country in the world.  I think I'll stick to Tasmania, thank you very much.

Having said that, I need to point out that Tasmania is freezing today. I woke at the usual time and put on the heating but it's taken quite a while to bring the room to an acceptable level.  Marilyn usually waits until the air is warmer before she emerges and she's up now.

Jamie has popped in with Archie for a visit.  He happens to know a fellow who lives nearby and he had to drop something in to him so took the chance to come here as well.  He usually brings some treat for our morning tea but this morning all he is carrying is a dozen eggs.  Let's hope it's doughnuts next time.

THE CLOCK STOPPED AT MIDNIGHT                                                      JUNE 7, 2024

The family that I’m writing about was, in most respects, fairly typical.  They were a Mum and Dad, and two children, a boy and a girl, and they lived in a nondescript street in an Australian country town.  Dad worked at the meatworks, Mum did the occasional shift at the milk factory and the two children attended the local school where they were regarded as about average, reasonably hard-working and no problem behaviour-wise.

The only thing about them which might be thought somewhat unusual was their surname: it was Marple.  In Australia, there are not many Marples on the electoral roll.  If anyone bothers to check Google, they’ll be told that there are just 63 people in Australia who have that surname, although there are over 3000 in the USA.  But, the rarity of the name is not the issue here; it is the Christian name which Mum and Dad Marple bestowed on their daughter which has led to the issue that we are exploring today.

Mum, not being attracted to the normal leisure pursuits of an Australian country town: CWA, the Bowls Club, and so on, was an avid reader, and her favourite author was Agatha Christie.  Mrs Christie, apparently published 75 novels in her lifetime, and no fewer than 12 of these, in addition to some 20 short stories featured a particular heroine; Miss Jane Marple.  It’s not surprising that when the time came to choose a name for her first-born, female, child, Mrs Marple immediately thought of ‘Jane’, so, for better or worse, the child was christened Jane Emily (Emily being Mrs Marple’s mother’s name.) 

Young Jane was probably about 8 years old when, sitting with her mother one day watching a re-run of an old program on the TV, she became aware that the elderly woman on the screen was being addressed as Miss Marple and, occasionally as Jane.  She was Jane Marple, too!  Young Jane was shocked to hear this.

“Mum,” she shouted. “That old woman who’s solving the crimes has the same name as me.”  Mum gently explained that this was just a made-up story and that the actress, Geraldine something, was just playing a made-up character who happened to have the same name.  The show was based on a novel by Agatha Christie called ‘The Clock Stopped at Midnight.’  Who would have thought that, at that moment, a seed was sown which would have life-long repercussions for young Jane.

Jane never forgot that exciting moment when she discovered that other people might share her name and that their lives might be infinitely more exciting than her own.  Through her high school years, she became used to people commenting on her name and, when she finally left school, she thought seriously about trying, perhaps, to use her middle name instead.  Emily Marple had a nice ring to it but, unfortunately it didn’t feel right, so Jane she remained.

On Jane’s 21^st birthday, when the cake, a large banner, several balloons and innumerable cards, all trumpeted her name, she succumbed to the inevitable, and decided that having a  famous name was a privilege and, from that point on, she would celebrate the name in whatever way she could.  Perhaps, she thought, I could become a novelist, like Agatha Christie and continue to write novels featuring an amateur sleuth called Jane Marple.  No, she realised,  that didn’t make sense: books about Jane Marple written by Jane Marple!  Maybe, she thought, I should call my amateur sleuth Agatha Christie.  Think of that: books about Agatha Christie, written by Jane Marple.  That would attract some attention, but her enthusiasm was short-lived.  She discovered that writing a novel, even just a short story, was hard work and she had to accept that she had neither the interest nor the aptitude to persevere.

It took Jane a long time, and many changes of direction, before she finally found her niche in life.  On her 23^rd birthday, she was inducted into the Tasmania Police Force and within a year had been transferred to CID where she is now addressed as Inspector Marple and leads a Criminal Investigation team which is regarded as second-to-none.  Unlike her namesake, she seldom investigates murders, as there are relatively few homicides in the Apple Isle but, as Miss Marple might say, through pursed lips, you can’t have everything.

.  

Sunday, August 3

 One of the first things I do each morning is open my 'phone to see what activity there has been overnight.  Inevitably, there is a request from someone to be my friend, or a suggestion from Facebook that I accept their recommendation of someone I don't know to be added to my list of friends.

I suppose the first listing makes some sort of sense; Facebook is, after all, geared to keeping friends in touch with each other.  If one of my genuine friends had, somehow, missed being connected to me, I'd want to remedy that as soon as possible.  But, the vast majority of suggestions are nor real friends, merely people I have come across in passing.  Unless you subscribe to the nonsense 'a stranger is just a friend you haven't met yet' then these acquaintances are unlikely to ever make the Friends' List.  In any case, I don't ever make comments on Facebook so there would be no advantage for anyone to have access to my facebook account.  It would make very disappointing reading.

The other listing of 'Suggested Friends' is a lot more interesting.  It raises the question of whether Facebook is monitoring the activity on my account and has decided that I am clearly a friendless misfit who needs all the help he can get to re-join the human race.   And, who are the people who have been tagged to help me in my recovery?  Browsing the last few days, they seem to me mostly female.  I don't know whether they have volunteered to help in this charitable act or whether their names have been siphoned up in some random way; in any case, the chances of my hitting OK is virtually nil.

I just want to be left alone but how do I tell Facebook that?

Saturday, August 2

 Marilyn needed a blood test so Jamie took her into Launceston where there is a facility that opens at the weekend.  One of the benefits of lending him my car is that he will take on some of the responsibilities that I used to shoulder.  It gave me a chance to catch up on my reading although I can remember a time when I might have been tempted to browse through some Youtube videos.  Although there is still good stuff to be found there, there's also a lot of rubbish and I prefer not to be bothered by it.  It seems that everyone is a Trump-critic and I can only stomach a little bit of his stupidity.

We've got into the habit of making two or three small orders from Coles each week rather than having one big supply delivered.  Because we pay a regular amount for delivery it makes no difference whether we have one weekly order or a smaller amount more often when it occurs to us.  It will be here tomorrow and, by that time, we'll have thought of something else we need.  I suppose it's keeping someone in work as well.

We had a new fellow deliver our meals from Toosey yesterday, a typical country Tasmanian with an Akubra.  "I hope they've given you what you asked for," he said. "They're all Nepalese in the kitchen and I don't know whether any of them can understand English."

There's nothing like a bit of casual racism to help with your digestion.

Friday, August 1, 2025

 Our cleaning lady has arrived and that's my cue to remove myself to the desk to keep out of the way.  I don't recognise her so she's not a regular.  Marilyn seems to think her name is Holly but she tells us it is really Jordan.  Marilyn says, "You look like a Holly." and I can't resist muttering "All green and prickly" but, thankfully, no-one hears me.

Jamie has an appointment to have his hair cut at a place here in Longford so we're expecting him at any time; he'll drop Archie off here before heading to the barber's.  He'll want to talk to us about an interview Marilyn had yesterday with someone from Aged Care Assess.

I had my assessment a few months ago and yesterday was Marilyn's turn.  The idea is to assess your needs looking forward to make sure you can stay in your own home as long as possible.  Depending on the level you achieve, a certain amount of money is allocated for support. I was assessed at Level 1, which is the lowest.  Once my funding is approved, I can spend it on whatever is needed to make my life at home easier: a new chair or an electric blanket, and so on.  The local aged care home controls the expenditure so I can't spend it all on whisky!

During my assessment it was agreed that I was losing dexterity so I was provided with a knife, fork and spoon set with fat handles - gratis.  Very nice, I thought!  One of Marilyn's issues is that she was finding it more difficult to lift a full kettle of water when making coffee.  So, she's being provided with a $140 state-of-the-art tilting kettle.  No wonder the country's going broke.

THE BOOKSHOP

I was feeling footsore and weary after a day exploring the backstreets and alleyways of Cambridge, guided by a friend who had made this beautiful city his adopted home.  I looked forward to a comfortable chair and a cup of good coffee but Brian insisted on one more stop before we headed for home. 

We turned off one narrow laneway into an even narrower St Edmunds Passage and there was our destination: The Haunted Bookshop.  This gem of a bookshop specialises in children’s books and the window is cluttered with ancient leather-bound and cracked volumes with faded gold lettering.  Inside, in the cramped, musty space, books are both on shelves and stacked in teetering piles on the floor.  A friendly lady sits quietly behind a till.  It is very quiet.

There seems to be no order to the chaos but, on investigation, I see that an attempt has been made to alphabetise those on the shelves, and the piles of clutter appear to be organised in some sort of thematic way: fairy stories together, boys’ own adventures in another pile.  My eye is drawn to a vintage copy of Enid Blyton’s Rubbalong Tales, a favourite from my childhood and I wonder whether I am enchanted enough to part with the 60 pounds asking price.  There is so much more to see and I drag my eyes away to editions of Biggles books by the yard.  I remember parting with the last of my Biggles books just a few years ago.  Charles Kingsley’s The Water Babies seems to be in mint condition, certainly not like the copy I pored over as a child.

I hear a man and his young child enter when the floorboards behind me creak.  They are directed upstairs, via a tiny staircase in the corner I hadn’t even noticed.  Following them, we make our way up the narrow stairs, with more piles of books on every step, and where more delights await.  My friend and I play the game of throwing out a remembered name and seeking it out among the cluttered shelves: Robert Louis Stevenson, Jules Verne, Lewis Carroll: they are all there in various editions and of varying qualities.

I would have liked to have found an illustrated Oliver Twist like the one I received for my 7^th birthday and which disappeared in one of my moves, but it never occurred to me at the time.  Perhaps I was so enthralled with the variety that I couldn’t think of what I might take as a reminder of my visit.

I did remember my childhood comic books: the Dandy and the Beano, and The Eagle, each new edition awaited eagerly and read avidly from cover to cover.  There they were, some tattered editions going back to the 1940s and 50s.  Of course, comics such as these were strictly rationed when I was young and If I had had more access to such treasures would they have been so appreciated?

My friend introduced me to the lady behind the till who was the proprietor.  I congratulated her on her initiative in providing such a business and asked why she had chosen the name The Haunted Bookshop.  She said that, in her mind, all bookshops were haunted: by the voices of the living and the dead, voices that are trapped until we release them.  These voices can be smiling, laughing, whispering and screaming.  They live in the dry remains of dead trees, and only we can animate them.  And each spirit, when it is released into our mind becomes inseparable from our own – no two persons can be haunted in precisely the same way.

I wondered what it would be like to live in a town where such treasures were there for me to delve into whenever the itch came upon me.  Picking up one comic from the year I turned 8, I found that I was disappointed with the clumsiness of the prose and the banality of the story. I put the volume back on the shelf, unwilling to spoil the warm memories of childhood by a dose of reality.

I left the Haunted Bookshop empty-handed.  I suppose I imagined I would return there another day and could buy a book then, but I don’t need a tangible reminder of my visit.  The memories of the unruly piles of books, the faint, musty aroma and the olde-world ambience stay with me always.