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 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.

Thursday, July 30

I suppose as you get older your mind tends to look more often at the past and focuses in on tiny details of things that happened.  A couple of times recently I've found myself musing on one particular day.  It must have been a school day in September, 1948.  The three people in the scene were my mother, me and a girl who lived in same tenement building as we did.  I knew it was a school day because the girl was on her way home from school and was bringing a (verbal) message from the headmaster of the local school to my mother.

Clearly my mother had been in touch with the school about my possible enrolment and the message in reply was that, yes, there was a place available for me at the school and I could start immediately. I suppose I remember the circumstances so clearly because it was big day in my life and going to school was something I had been looking forward to.

I had always understood that I started school when I was 4 years and 7 months old and, as the school year in the UK starts in September, the dates fit. It's always reassuring when aspects of memory fit with the known facts.  I'd hate to think I was making things up.

Tuesday, July 29

 I turned to Youtube this morning and found Scott, one of my regulars, was visiting Liverpool.  I was interested to see that he was staying at the Brittania Adelphi Hotel which sparked a memory.  I turned to the blog for confirmation and found that, on Monday, 29th April 2013, I had booked in to that same hotel on my brief visit to the home of the Beatles.  The hotel was opened in 1914 to coincide with the launch of three new ships by the White Star Line> the Titanic, the Olympic and the Britannic.  

Of course, once I had opened that Pandora's Box a flood of memories came back

That, I think is the most valuable aspect of keeping a blog (or any kind of diary, in fact).  It's a permanent record of what you did, and what you were thinking about, at a particular time and place.  I was reminded that, on the same weekend I was in Liverpool, there was a coachload of Glaswegians staying at the same hotel, and the Liverpool Tattoo Convention was also being hosted there.  And I never heard a sound from either of those parties.

I'm writing this post a little later than I might have otherwise.  Once I started browsing the comments I had written all those years ago, I was lost and couldn't put it down, even when Marilyn was reminding me it was time for breakfast.

Monday, July 28

 It's a bleak day in Longford; the sky is lowering and there's neither sound nor sense of any life in the vicinity.  Our inclination is to 'batten down the hatches' and avoid going out for any reason.  I love that world 'lowering'.  The first syllable is pronounced like 'cow' so the word has more to do with frowning than dropping down.  It's one of the words which has nearly disappeared from English because people misunderstand its true meaning

Jamie and Nera drove back from Hobart las night and, as always, popped in to pick up Archie,.  Again, as always, they brought back some of the particular goodies which we can't get in Launceston.  Some of them are particular filipino delicacies which Nera relishes.

While they were away, I was able drive my car for the first time for weeks.  Having Brendan staying with them has put a real burden on Jamie to drive him to and from his study and the ever-increasing jobs he was being offered.  Many of Brendan's jobs were in Deloraine so it was a 100 Km round trip, twice a day, to get him to and from.  It wasn't sustainable so Jamie agreed to let Brendan take his car and he, Jamie, would borrow mine.  I agreed, knowing that Jamie would always make sure that Marilyn and I would be driven to and from wherever we needed to go.  This past weekend, when Jamie and Nera were in Hobart, my car was in its garage for the first time in weeks.

It was strange to get behind the wheel again but I know it won't last.  Until Brendan can save enough money to buy himself a vehicle, mine will always be common property.

POSSESSED                                                                                    JUNE 19^th 2020

I was a bit of a loner at school. I was shy and not very sporty and found it difficult to make friends in the rough and tumble of the playground.  I did try, though, making a special effort with any new kid who turned up but, as soon as they had found their feet, they were off to the more satisfying social life with the in-crowd, although I didn’t hear that term until years after I had left school.

There was one exception to this pattern.  A new girl appeared one morning.  The headmaster brought her to the classroom door and I thought he looked a little more flustered than usual.  He told us the girl’s name was Amy and we were to make her welcome. She was not wearing school uniform, I noticed and her dress was a bit too long and she had laced-up boots on.  Her dark hair was in two pigtails and she didn’t smile, even when we all chorused, ‘Hello, Amy.”  I also noticed, through the window, her mother as she left after her meeting with the headmaster.  She was not like any of the other mothers.  She also had very dark hair, and was dressed in dark clothes and she didn’t look, well, motherly.

I don’t want to suggest that Amy and I became friends but we were both misfits in that particular school so we did find ourselves spending a bit of time together.  I think Amy was only at that school for about 6 months and she didn’t seem to get into a lot of trouble in that short time. But, she certainly had the teachers spooked. For some reason, they were very wary of Amy, and often suggested she might like to have a break, or visit the library or go for a walk during a lesson.  Her mother also came to the school a lot.  I don’t know whether she chose to come or was called in by the headmaster but she certainly spent more time talking to him than any other parent.

We also had more visits from the police around that time, and often we saw important-looking people in Department of Education cars coming in to the school.  There seemed to be an outbreak of illness among the teachers who more often took days off and one of my favourite teachers took early retirement.  After school one day, I saw a Catholic priest arriving to attend the staff meeting.

I didn’t understand what was going on; it was all a bit strange but I suspected that much of the discussion was about Amy.  Nobody told me anything, of course, but if they had asked me I could have told them a few things.  Like the fact that cats seemed to be attracted to Amy and would follow her down the street, rubbing themselves against her legs.  Or that dogs seemed frightened of her and would cower when she passed by.  Or that I had seen her in the distance one afternoon with a crow sitting on her shoulder.

I could tell them about the time that one of the other girls told Amy she was weird and Amy just stared at the girl and, as I watched, the tyres on the girl’s bike went flat. Most importantly, I could have told them that there seemed to be something odd about Amy’s eyes.  It was like looking through the window of a house and seeing something moving behind the curtains, like a cat or a bird.  But something slimier and sneakier than a cat or a bird – more like a rat or a snake.

But they didn’t ask me, because I was only a kid.

Sunday, July 27

 I see that Donald Trump is in Scotland, visiting his golf courses and he's unhappy with the 'welcome' he is receiving from the locals.  What does he expect?  The Scots are the last people in the world who would treat him politely just because he's the US President.  You would hope that he would be self-aware enough to realise intelligent people, even from another country, might take exception to his behaviour.  But, apparently not.    I can't work out whether he understands the reasons he is so universally reviled or genuinely believes he is being unfairly treated.  And I still can't believe a country which so often claims the moral high ground in world affairs can elect such an inappropriate leader, nor just once, but twice with the threat of a third term still being bandied about.  'He,. whom the gods would destroy, they first make mad.' 

Jamie and Nera are still in Hobart this morning and will be driving home later today.  They will call in to collect Archie and, no doubt, will have a supply of goodies from Hobart to leave with us.

Otherwise, not much is happening today.  I'm close to finishing the Deborah Crombie book I have been reading but I think there are another dozen or so in the series for me to get on with.  We're watching a series on TV called the Madame Blanc Mysteries; a bit lightweight but they help to pass the time.  In last night's episode a character appeared played by Tony Robinson who I remembered as Baldrick in Blackadder' and was also in a series called, I think 'The Time Team'.  He visited Launceston a few years ago and I bumped into him in one of the local parks.   One of my very rare brushes with fame.

Saturday, July 26

 It's taking us a while to get going this morning; it's almost 11 o'clock and Marilyn is just now heading for her shower.  Of course, we're both struggling with a head cold, the weather outside is awful and there are no pressing engagements to prepare for,

Jamie and Nera have gone to Hobart for the weekend.  It's the closest we have to a cosmopolitan city and they go there regularly to experience the feel of something more than Launceston can offer.  They always bring back treats from a favourite Vietnamese Bakery or other gourmet delight.

At some stage we have to brave the weather and head to the local shopping centre.  We're OK for food, but the chemist doesn't deliver on the weekend so there is nothing for it but to head there in person.  We're becoming very spoiled with everyone trying to make it easy for us but, every now and again, we have to make just a little bit more effort. It's a shame it's on such a miserable day.

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.