Saturday, April 5

It's after 11, we've both had a walk, the Coles order has been completed on-line and Marilyn has just put on the kettle ... all's right with the world.  We've stopped watching the news but, even in our self-imposed bubble, we're aware of the fact that there's an election coming up.  I resigned from the election workforce a couple of years ago but Marilyn has still been involved.  She's been encouraged to work again this year but I'm pleased that she has seen sense and refused.  The TV ads are for both Federal and State elections so I suspect the state is going to save some money by tacking a local by-election on the main show, although it's only for the Upper House in a couple of electorates and I don't think it includes us. No doubt somebody will tell us in due course.   Jamie has dropped off some application forms for postal votes in the Federal Election to save us lining up; he must think we're getting old.

It's very overcast here today but that's typical of the weather pattern at this time of the year.  I've already watered and hung stuff on the line and I think that is the extent of my day's work.

Friday, April 4

 I bought my first ebook reader in, I think, 2009.  It was a Bebook, manufactured in The Netherlands and used the epub format.  The Kindle had been released a year or two earlier but had a pricing structure which I suspected would prove to be too costly in the long term.  The whole idea of ebooks was new and I remember being on a plane to New Zealand in 2010 when a young woman leaned across and said,

"Excuse me, my husband suffers from gadget envy and wants to know what you have in your hand."  We had a pleasant conversation and they played with my bebook and were determined to rush off and buy one.

Later that year we were in Nepal and I introduced the gadget to the other members of our party.  They all headed off to duty free to see what they could find.  It's a good feeling to be in the forefront of a trend.

Since then, Marilyn and I have had several ereaders, mostly Kobo brand.  We found they were particularly useful when we wanted to read when we were out in the sun, like on the deck of a ship.  They were great when we were travelling but I found we were not using them as much now that we are back on shore.

Until ... We have become particularly sedentary and spend an inordinate amount of time sitting outside in our new gazebo.  What better time to read.  I dug out our old Kobos but they had died of old age and neglect.  Marilyn was quite happy to find something else to do but I was itching for another ereader.  Jamie wanted me to have a Kindle but, over the years I've downloaded hundreds of books in the epub format so I needed another Kobo or something similar.

"Don't buy a cheapie." he said. (He knows me too well.)  I investigated - nearly $300 for a Kobo but there was a cheapie on Kogan for $105.  I couldn't resist.  It came, beautifully packed in a presentation box .  The font was a bit small but my eyes aren't that bad.  I've had it a few weeks now and it was OK, although not as satisfying as a Kobo.  Still, I remind myself , it was cheap!  

Two days ago, it stopped working, refusing to accept a charge. It has died, gone to God, joined the choir invisible, turned up its toes, it's an ex-reader. It's so tiny I can't even use it as a paper weight. Jamie has resisted saying, "I told you so" but, of course, I should have bought a Kobo in the first place.

Thursday, April 3

 It was another trip to the doctor yesterday to have my toe checked, and it was all fine.  I was tempted to ask him whether I would be able to resume my career as a professional dancer but I suspected he wouldn't get the joke.  Fair enough, it's not really funny. 

I was watching Scott on Youtube this morning while he was wandering around Scotland looking for old wells.  I suppose if you lived in a place with such a long history it would be interesting to see the remains of the past.  In Longford, we only go back a couple of hundred years and the closest we come to ancient relics is the evidence of the car-racing track which existed her until the 1970s.  Interesting enough, I suppose but just scratching the surface of history.  He stopped at one stage to point out that there used to be a well at Balgownie. Balgownie?  Not the one near Wollongong, of course. The original Balgownie has been there for thousands of years.

Then he mentioned there was another well at Glennifer Brae.  That was the name of the big house in the paddock near our house in Gwyneville which became a posh girls' school, but that's not where he meant either.  

Later on, he found a site where the bricks were marked Blantyre Ferme and Blantyre is the name of the village where we began our lives before coming to Australia.

It's not unusual to have a connection to some of the things we discover on Youtube but to have three from one program is certainly strange.

Tuesday, April 1

 I've almost forgotten how much I hated April 1st when I was a school teacher.  Kids of primary-school age delighted in the freedom that the April Fools' Day tradition gave them to be obnoxious.  It was rare for them to play tricks on me; moving some things around on my desk or leaving something unpleasant on my chair might be as far as they would go, but some children became the butt of too much nastiness.  The rule was always that April Fool's Day finished before lunch, no exceptions.

Nowadays, of course, as a happily retired senior citizen, nobody tries to play ricks on me ... and that's the way I like it.

We have nothing much planned for today; I've watered already and had a walk, so the rest of the day is mine to enjoy.  I notice in my diary that I see the doctor tomorrow regarding my big toe and Daylight Saving ends on Sunday but there are no other plans until Probus next week.

As Marilyn would say, "All Good!"

Monday, March 31

Jamie arrived early to drop Archie off.  Apparently he has a busy day and doesn't like to leave Archie at home on his own.  Of course, we enjoy having him..  We're waiting for the Coles man to arrive with our order but, otherwise, we have nothing else planned.  The weather is staring to become colder and I think Summer is fading fast into the background.

I had an email this morning reminding me that there is a probus meeting next week so need to sort out the financial statement.  It's the time of year when we pay our annal subs and these can come by cash or cheque, or deposited directly into our bank account.  I tried to resign from the Treasurer's job at the last meeting but without success.  You'd think it would just be a matter of throwing the books on the table and saying Goodbye but I'm a mug and tried to be accommodating.  Of course, the club took advantage of my good nature and I'm stuck with the job, probably until I kick the bucket. That'll show them!

MRS MINIVER                                                         JULY 9, 2021

Old Tom was in his ninetieth year.  He couldn’t remember when people started to attach the ‘Old’ to his name but it was probably a good while ago.  He felt as if he had been old for most of his life and now he wondered whether great slabs of his memory were disappearing.  He could still remember days of his childhood in great detail and could even recall the smells of rotting seaweed on Blackpool Beach or the reek of stale fat in the bins outside the chippie on Scorton Avenue. But when it came to remembering what he had for lunch yesterday, his mind was a blank.

Funny, that he could remember so clearly  the smell of Blackpool Beach but not something as important as what he had for lunch – even though he didn’t eat much these days and all the food tasted the same.

His mind wandered back to the days when food tasted better and he thought of the newspaper-wrapped fish and chips his mother would allow him to have on special occasions.  The fish was always cooked in crisp batter and the steam that came out when he stuck in the knife would tickle his nose.  The chips were fat and soaked in vinegar. 

Tom’s mum sometimes helped out in the chip shop when it was busy and, on those days, there would be nobody in the flat when Tom came home from school.  That was OK.  Tom’s mum would leave him a glass of milk and two ginger biscuits and he would read a book or get on with his homework until his Mum or Dad came home.  One day, when he came home, he discovered that his mother had forgotten to leave him the door key under the mat.   Settling himself down for an uncomfortable wait, he heard someone come up behind him.

“Hello, Tom,” the person said. “Are you locked out?”    It was Mrs Miniver from upstairs.  Well, it was the lady who called herself Mrs Miniver.  Mum said it was a made-up name and the real Mrs Miniver was in a film starring a famous film star whose name started with G.

“Yes,” said Tom, “and Mum won’t be back for another hour.”

“Oh, that’s a shame.  Would you like to come up to my flat and have some hot cocoa and maybe a biscuit?”

Tom didn’t know what to say.  He knew his mother didn’t like Mrs Miniver and he had overheard her telling his father that “she was no better that she should be.”  He thought that his mother wouldn’t like him to go but it was cold on the landing and he didn’t want to be rude so he said Thank you and went upstairs.

His mother was upset that Tom had gone with Mrs Miniver but, because she had forgotten to leave the key, she couldn’t say very much. Tom visited the flat upstairs more and more as time went on.  He liked Mrs Miniver’s flat.  It was always a bit untidy, unlike his place.  His mother was always angry with him if he made a mess and he was frightened to even leave a book lying about.  One day, Mrs Miniver had left the door of her bedroom open and Tom saw her unmade bed.  It had black sheets!  Tom thought all sheets were white and these ones were much shinier than the ones on his bed downstairs.

Occasionally, Mrs Miniver would ask him to leave a little early as she had a friend coming around to see her.  Sometimes, Tom would pass the friends on the stairs.  They didn’t look like the sort of people Mrs Miniver would know: sad little men in shabby coats, big men in fishermen’s jumpers, frightened men looking at him furtively.  Tom wondered what was going on and then realised that Mrs Miniver might be something like a fortune-teller and that would explain why she had so many visitors. Tom’s mum had been to a fortune-teller once and she was told that, when Tom grew up, he would wear a white coat.

“That means you’ll be a doctor,” she said excitedly. 

“More likely he’ll be selling ice-cream on Blackpool Pier,” his father had replied, grumpily.

When you’re a child, you grow up very quickly and Tom soon realised what was really taking place in the bedroom upstairs.  Like all boys he was fascinated by the frequency of the visits and struggled to reconcile his impression of Mrs Miniver as a kindly woman much like his Mum with the femme fatale image conjured up by the lurid language of his mates.

Of course, that was a long time ago and Mrs Miniver must be well and truly dead and buried.  Tom has always hoped that she passed away peacefully and is mourned by someone who loved her.  He can’t forget her, like he has forgotten so many people from his past.  One of the young women in the nursing home, by chance, wears the same perfume as Mrs Miniver wore and, like the smell of stale fat or rotting seaweed, the faint aroma of her perfume in the air takes his mind straight back to his home in Blackpool and the warm memories of Mrs Miniver, the lady upstairs.

Sunday, March 30

I have a routine which I always follow on a Sunday morning: give Marilyn a cup of coffee so she stays in bed, have a cup of tea myself while watching Steve or Scott on Youtube, replenish my weekly medicine container and have a shower.  By this time Marilyn has wandered through and we can get on with breakfast and the rest of the day.

 

It's comforting to have a routine like that because there are usually no surprises to upset the apple-cart.  Recently, I've noticed another thing which seems to occur about the same time every Sunday: Paul, the fellow next door sets off for his walk, baseball cap on and ear buds stuck in his ear.  I hope he keeps it up; I don't like changes.

Saturday, March 29

 I'm waiting for Jamie to arrive to drive me to Westbury to see the doctor about my foot.  I'm old-fashioned, I know, but it seems strange to me that a doctor's surgery will be open on a Saturday.  It makes sense, of course.  We don't live in a Monday to Friday world but I'm just a bit slow in keeping up.

It's not my usual doctor and I was told he will just be checking 'how things are going'.  I hope that means the dressing can be removed and I can get back to my normal life: showering and so on.

The other thing on my desk to be dealt with is a form entitled 'Medical Fitness to Drive Assessment' and I'll have to deal with that at some stage.  It's not because of my advanced age that I have to do this, apparently; it's some medical condition that I suffer from, probably diabetes.  The list to be checked includes Blackouts, Epilepsy and Sleep Disorders so I suppose it's worth doing.  The trouble is that if I had any of these problems, I might be tempted not to tell anyone in case they took my licence away.

A good thing then that I am a responsible adult but I wonder how many people out there are slipping through the net.

Friday, March 28

I'm a bit late writing this today.  Sandra, our cleaning lady always comes on Friday and, when she is here, Marilyn and I retreat to the patio to let her get on with it.  I call it a patio. It's outside, it has a concrete floor and a laserlight roof, with a glass table and four chairs.  Others might call it a lanai but that sounds a bit pretentious.  Anyway, she's gone now so I can get to the computer.

Marilyn and I had her trip to the doctor yesterday and, just as I had done last week, she sat in the waiting room for an hour before the doctor called her in.  The waiting room was empty so what's going on?  Jamie patiently explained to me that it's all the fault of Tele-Health.  I've heard of it of course but had never realised that its purpose was to make my life miserable.  Apparently, you can make an appointment as if you were going to actually visit the surgery. You don't, of course.  Instead, the doctor rings you while you are sitting at home in your pyjamas.  Like all appointments, they can run over and that means the poor folks who have taken the trouble to get out of bed, get dressed and driven miles to see the doctor face-to-face are forced to sit in an empty surgery wondering what is going on.

Is this the way of the future?  Will seeing a doctor face-to-face become a thing of the past?  Who knows?  But I suspect I'll continue to get dressed, drive for miles and confront the man because that's how I've always done it.

I'm really going all nostalgic with todays's story: First Date.

FIRST DATE                                                                                           23 May, 2020

At the beginning of the 1960s, my friends and I had all left school and were getting involved in our new careers.  For the first time in our lives we had a little money to spend on social activities and we certainly enjoyed it.  The highlight of our week was the Saturday night dance at the local Surf Club.  There was a dance held on most Saturday nights but we were careful to choose the ones which suited us.  The nights which involved the surf life-savers were pretty raucous and the girls who frequented those were not the ones our mothers would approve of.

On the Saturday afternoon before the dance, the boys knew we couldn’t expect any female company.  The girls were too busy ironing their petticoats and titivating their hair so they would look their best.  Very few of our group had paired off as boyfriend and girlfriend by that stage and the Saturday dance was a place to meet the opposite sex and ponder the possibilities. 

I remember the girls always looked spectacular and the boys looked pretty good too.  We had nothing but disdain for the wannabees at the Surfie dances with their DA haircuts, their bodgie manners and their crepe-soled shoes.  We had sharply-cut suits, with 19-inch cuffs, white shirts and narrow ties.  We wore Julius Marlow shoes, highly-polished with chisel toes and proper leather soles.  We were probably the last of the short back and sides, brylcreemed generation.

There were always some parents at the dances to keep order, and one self-appointed father would arrange the program for the night.  He always prepared the floor by sprinkling around some dried wax flakes.  I think the brand was Taps.  Our regular ‘band’ was a local pianist, with his sister on the drums.  We had the full range of old-time dances; my favourite was the Progressive Barn Dance because it gave you the chance to dance with all the girls, even the ones you were too shy to ask.  We had Spot Dances, Ladies Choice, and something called a Paul Jones which encouraged everyone to change partners.  There were no wall flowers.  If a girl was left sitting on her own, one of the parents would grab the nearest spare man and instruct him to do his duty

The girls all brought a plate so that we could have supper towards the end of the evening.

One of the girls who attended regularly caught my eye.  I discovered she worked at the Anthony Horderns' Store in town and caught the bus home each afternoon, so I contrived to be at the same bus stop at the right time each day and would strike up a conversation.  I planned my strategy carefully: I knew there was a trip being organised to Luna Park in Sydney, so I asked whether she was going.  “I haven’t been asked,” she said coyly. Seizing my chance, I said, “Consider yourself asked.” Suave as ever! 

As I worked  at the Bus Company, I knew that the romantic vehicle which took us on our first date was a Leyland Albion bus, painted orange.  It had 41 seats and registration number MO6304.  Its nickname at the depot was Cigarettes and it cost 16 pounds to hire for the trip

The Luna Park date was a great success, apart from a mishap with my watch.  The band broke, so Marilyn put it in her purse for safekeeping.  On a ride called The Octopus the purse slipped out of her lap, hit the concrete and a small bottle of Electrique perfume in the bag smashed, dowsing my watch.  The watch survived, but for many months I carried the scent around with me as a reminder of that first date.

By the way, we have now been married for 54 years. (Update: 60 years in January next year!)

Thursday, March 27

It was Marilyn's turn for the doctor today and it gave me a chance to try out my repaired toe.  Would I have problems driving or would she be reliant on the Community Car to get her there and back.  It's about 55 Km return to Westbury so not to be undertaken lightly if one's big toe is playing up.  As it happens, we travelled without a hitch and all is well.

Marilyn had quite a long wait to be attended to and that's not great so we'll have to address the matter. Our latter years are too precious to waste them sitting in a doctor's surgery.

Nothing else is happening today and we spent the afternoon dozing in our comfortable chairs.

Wednesday, March 26

 I've just come back from the doctor who has performed an operation on my big toe.  The podiatrist told me I needed to have the nail removed from that toe but the GP, who is also a surgeon suggested he take a slice from the edge instead of a wholesale removal.  Today was the day.

He gave me a couple of injections into the toe to deaden the pain - quite painful.  I waited a while and he set to work.  He sliced, cut away with scissors, put in five stitches and applied a bandage. All the while, his nurse patted my hand and told me I was very brave.  In reality, the only painful part so far has been the first injection of painkiller.  It's been ninety minutes since he did the deed and I'm starting to feel some twinges in the toe.  I've been warned: it will get worse so I have some Panamax on standby.

It was handy that Jamie could drive me there and back so that I could have the full effect of being an invalid.

Saturday, March 22

 The weather is starting to change: it's a beautiful, sunny day but the air is cold and I've had to put on a jumper.  We have no plans for the day; we'll probably spend it in our comfortable chairs, reading and having regular cups of coffee.  Probably, Jamie will bring Archie over for a visit and that will be fun.

If you were trying to describe a typical day in the life of a couple of octogenarians, here would be a good place to look.

I have one job which needs some attention: we've just finished a series on TV and I need to find something to replace it.  I've identified a few possibilities on Netflix and Prime, and downloaded some others but the decision has to be made on what to watch first.  Marilyn always leaves it to me to make the decision then whinges if it's not to her liking.  In fairness, it's often hard to tell how a show will turn out but, at our age we can't afford to waste time on rubbish. A UK drama called The Crow Girl is looking like the front-runner at the moment.

Friday, March 21

 We've started watching the latest series of the UK show, Unforgotten.  We've always had a preference for TV from the UK , although there's some good stuff from Canada and New Zealand.  Most of the shows from the US are rubbish and some of the Australian offerings make me cringe.  We saw a couple of familiar faces in this series of Unforgotten: one was Michelle Dotrice who played the long-suffering wife, Betty, in Some Mothers Do 'ave 'em.  That show was made in 1973 so she's a bit older now and the part she played was a long way from the young, attractive wife of Frank Spencer.  In this series, she is fat, ugly and shabby.  However, I suppose it pays the bills, although, as she was born in 1945, she should really be retired and drawing her pension.

The other familiar face we saw was a fellow who played a policeman called Dave in The Bill, first launched in 1984.

Today's story is one I wrote as part of a series influenced by the life of Marilyn's father and his early life in Sydney.

MRS ROBINSON                                                                            23 APRIL 2021

 

Barbara sat in her usual spot, on a packing crate outside the corner of a shed on the Finger Wharf in Woolloomooloo.  She came here most afternoons, sometimes sitting for an hour or two, but more usually just for a few minutes.  Somehow, the visits gave her a sense of peace and a new resolve to carry on.  The wharfies who were working there, always acknowledged her, tipping their caps and muttering ‘Good Afternoon, missus.’

 She thought, as she often did, that there was something ghoulish about this habit of hers.  After all, the Finger Wharf was the place where her husband had died, in a careless accident when unloading a ship.  They had been married less than six months, hardly time to get used to each other’s ways.  She remembered how she had felt when Jack had asked her to marry him, and how embarrassed she had been when her students had found her writing ‘Mrs Jack Robinson’, in her best cursive script, over and over on the blackboard in the Plunkett Street classroom where she was teaching at the time.  The memory made her smile.

Barbara knew that she would have to give up teaching when she married Jack; the rules were strict: married women would not be employed by the Department of Education, but Barbara would have paid any price to be married to Jack. And now, less than six months later, she felt that her life was in ruins and she was faced with the dilemma of how to re-build her future without Jack beside her.

Perhaps, she thought, I’m being too pessimistic. There was one very bright ray of light which she could hardly believe.  The headmaster of the Plunkett Street School had taken her aside at Jack’s funeral and, twisting his cap in his hands, had whispered, “I’m sorry if this is the wrong time to ask you, but do you think you might be interested in coming back to Plunkett Street to teach?  The young woman who replaced you has not proven to be satisfactory and has decided to seek other employment.  The Department’s rule regarding married women, of course, does not apply to widows.”

Barbara was, on one hand, delighted with the offer but, on the other, was unsure whether she wanted to stay in Woolloomooloo.  It had always been a working-class suburb although more recently, struggling artists and writers had been attracted to settle here by its bohemian atmosphere.  Unfortunately, criminal gangs had also moved in and there were frequent fights as they fought for supremacy.  The police seemed powerless and the newspapers were filled with stories of the vicious fights between the Razor Gangs, led by notorious madams, Kate Leigh and Tilly Devine.

Perhaps she would be wiser to start her new life in one of more genteel suburbs being developed along the coast south of the city.  However, the decision that she would stay in Woolloomooloo was settled after an invitation from one of the school parents who had come to offer her condolences.  Barbara knew that Mrs Lofting was a well-known author of novels and articles, under her pen-name, Margaret Fane, and was delighted when she was invited to attend a meeting of the Sydney Poets, Essayists and Novelists Club, which was being held later that week.   Barbara was interested in literature and had even written several poems of her own which she had shared with her students, although she was sensible enough to realise that she had no particular talent in this area.

Barbara arrived early at the Lofting household to meet the rest of the family. There were five or six children but Mr Lofting pointed out that only the youngest two were his; the others had been fathered by the Editor of The Bulletin whom she would, no doubt, meet later.   This casual acceptance of what, in her mind, was bordering on scandalous, surprised Barbara and she realised that perhaps her outlook on life was a little too narrow.

At the meeting, Barbara was introduced to the father of the older children, Mr David McKee Wright, who did work at The Bulletin but she also met, drank coffee with, and conversed with people she had only ever read about: Ethel Turner, Mary Gilmore, and Banjo Paterson among them.  Even Dorothea Mackellar was there, travelling from her home in Point Piper by chauffeur-driven car.  It was a wonderful highlight in Barbara’s rather sheltered life

Barbara was grateful for the gesture of friendship and sympathy which had led to her invitation but was under no illusions that she would be invited to be a regular attender at the PEN Club.  However, the realisation that Woolloomooloo was home to such creativity gave her optimism for the future.

Barbara Robinson, accepted the position at Plunkett Street Primary School, she continued with her writing of poetry and even submitted one or two pieces for publication in the NSW School Magazine.  She devoted the rest of her life to her students and took a special interest in those who had lost a parent.  In later years, many of her ex-students would talk, in glowing terms, of their favourite teacher, Mrs Robinson.

Thursday, March 20

 Soon after we arrived in Longford I joined the local Mens' Probus Club.  I thought it would be a good way to meet locals and give me something to do.  Marilyn and I had both enjoyed our time with the Deloraine Probus Club and thought that it would be much the same in Longford.  However, we discovered there is one significant difference: Deloraine was a mixed club but Longford has 2 clubs, separated by gender.

Marilyn has joined the Ladies' club and is very happy but I'm finding the Men's club is not necessarily what I expected.  If I had to put my finger on it, I would say it's not social enough.  We meet once a month but it's rare to meet between times for coffee, for example, and we haven't done much else.  Still, I persevered and even volunteered to take on the role of Treasurer, and I've regretted it ever since.  Probably because of my lack of enthusiasm I've not been comfortable in the role, so I made a plan.

With the AGM coming up, I announced I would not continue as Treasurer.  Having ditched that responsibility, I would then cut down on my attendance at the regular meetings and, eventually, I would just stop going.  But, what do they say; "the best laid plans ....'

Nobody would agree to take on the role and, eventually I had to agree that I would continue in the job, working in conjunction with the Secretary.  He and I met yesterday to work out a strategy and I've decided I'll just have to bite the bullet and make it work.  It would be good if I could justify buying some new piece of technology to make the job easier but even Jamie can't think of a way for me to justify that.

Tuesday, March 18

 Jamie has downloaded something from the internet called Dad, I Want to Hear Your Story!  It's from the US of course and is a series of questions designed to tease out memories and thoughts from the past.  There are several sections so it's pretty detailed.  I reminded him that I had already written a memoir but this new outline covers a bit more ground.

The first section is called It's Your Birthday and has question like 'Were you named after a relative or someone of significance? and What is your earliest childhood memory?  The first one is easy:  I was named after my father and all of the other John Christies who went before me, in an unbroken line of at least nine generations.

And the earliest childhood memory?  Well, there are a few: going to the outside toilet at night, at the back of the tenement building in Clark Street, scabbling around on the ground for a piece of stick to poke in the hole to lift the latch of the toilet door, or the day the girl upstairs brought a message from the headmaster at the local school that I could start the next morning.  That would have been in September, 1947.

The problem with the program is that it is from the US with questions like 'Did you get an allowance? and What was your favourite candy?.  I'll just have to ignore those.

Sunday, March 17

 We're experimenting with buying most of our groceries from the local IGA and avoiding Coles as much as possible.  There are pros and cons, of course.  Coles is generally cheaper but is further away.  We've been getting deliveries but there is a cost to that and we don't always get what we asked for.  The IGA is part of the Hill Street Grocer chain which is quite a step above Coles in quality.  It's handy, too, and I can combine a shopping trip with a trip to the chemist, or the post office or Banjos.

It's a no-brainer, really but I have suggested we have an order from Coles every month or so when we can stock up on stuff we just can't get at Hill Street.  

This morning I had to pick up some prescriptions from the chemist and found we've reached the limit and all our future prescription for 2025 are free.  What's not to like about the PBS.

I watched Clive Palmer on TV this morning touting for votes for some organisation called Trumpet of Patriots.  Could he be more obvious?  TRUMPet?  He sees himself as Trump Downunder and, no doubt there will be some dills who will vote for him.

Sunday, March 16

 It's been a few years since we travelled to the mainland on the Spirit of Tasmania.  The ship leaves from Devonport each evening and arrives in Geelong the next morning. It used to travel to Melbourne but driving off the ship and being faced with the morning traffic in Australia's second city was less than ideal.  The Tasmanian Government has to replace the ships from time to time and, in fact, a new one is on order at the moment.

I don't bother with the details but, apparently, one is on order from some ship-builder in Europe and is expected at any time.  It won't be this week though because, on a Youtube video this morning, I saw the ship tied up in the Port of Leith in Scotland.

It seems the ship is completed but they are waiting for new port facilities to be built in Devonport before it can be brought here.  There was some talk that the UK Government was keen to charter it as a floating detention centre for illegal immigrants but nothing came of it. Some local pollies were keen s there could be a few quid in it but the premier has said No.

In any case, I was one of the first Tasmanians to see the new ship and I can say that it really exists.

Saturday, March 15

 I'm in the habit of checking the weather forecast each morning, mainly to see whether I need to water the garden or not.  However, I'm starting to lose faith in the accuracy of the forecasts, especially as the forecasters are starting to get a little cocky.  This morning, I checked it at about 7 o'clock and it confidently predicted that Longford would have rain at 7.45am. Maybe it said 70% chance of rain by 7.45 but I didn't read the fine print.  Needless to say, there was no rain at 7.45, nor 8.45.

I've just checked the forecast again (at 9.44am) and it tells me that it is currently raining in Longford but a quick glance out of the window reassures me that it is not. Are the forecasters trying to cover for their mistakes by falsifying the report on the website? It doesn't matter to me but what about the farmers who depend on accurate forecasts?  Do they trust the highly-paid forecasters or do they turn on the irrigators and pay for the excess water?

Being lazy, I haven't watered the garden this morning, hoping that the forecasters will be proven right in the end.  If the rain stays away all day I can always catch up this evening.

Friday,

Marilyn went out for her walk earlier this morning while I had breakfast.  I've had my walk too, but a little later.  We don't go out for our exercise together any more; Marilyn likes to walk a little further than me and I tend to walk a bit quicker so it suits us to be independent.  We walk for exercise rather than pleasure so there is no value in trying to accommodate each other's preferences.

When I set off, I left her watching someone called Brogan on Youtube.  I think I have written about her before and highlighted how much I can't stand her, nor he gormless husband, Benjy.  I had hoped the clip would have been finished before I got back but Marilyn had turned it off while she tidied the kitchen after breakfast and turned it on when I returned.  I think she does it deliberately.  I'm sitting at my desk writing this rubbish, trying to close my ears to Brogan's twittering, 'Oh, it's so cute!'

Am I becoming intolerant in my old age?

A TREE IN A MEADOW                                                                                      24 March, 2023

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Tuesday, March 11

Madeleine's flight back to Brisbane last night was delayed until about 11 o'clock so think of her waitimg at the airport with three kids, then arriving in Brisbane in the early hours of the morning.  Mums need a medal.

We've had a change in the weather: very hot yesterday and much cooler today.  We're heading in to town to sort out my credit card. I've moved away from transferring my account to Longford.  In 50 years, I've had no trouble and the current problem is because of my inability to deal with modern technology. I should have waited until Jamie was around and get him to deal with the 'phone-help.  At least he understands the language and the thought of a QR code doesn't send him into a spin.

I was scrabbling around on one of the shelves on my desk looking for a note I had written myself and I found a referral notice for some medical procedure.  It's dated 12 December 2024 and I can recognise the word haemotology; otherwise it is a mystery.  Which doctor did I go to in 2024?  Should I act upon it, or just chuck it in the bin?  Life gets too complicated sometimes.

Monday, March 10

 When I went to Hobart in 1975, I joined the Teachers' Credit Union. I had been with some other bank but the TCU offered a better deal and I suppose I liked the idea that all the Board members were people like me rather than Castlereagh Street fatcats.  Today, fifty years on, I've decided it's time for a change. Over the years, the TCU has morphed into Mystate Bank, a full-service institution which seems to have moved away from its chalkie roots.

I had a problem with my credit card on Saturday afternoon.   Normally, I would ring the hotline and sort it out.  But no, the hotline has limited hours and closed 15 minutes ago, and will not open until 8 am on Monday.  Not good enough!

I rang this morning and got a pleasant young man on the 'phone.  'We need to confirm your identity so we'll send you a QR code.  OK, the code arrived telling me to take a picture of it with my 'phone.  Yes, then what?

I rang back and got a young woman this time with a USian accent.  She said I might need a QR reader and I could download it from the App store.  Then what, I asked.  It's all on the screen, she said.

Only it wasn't. So, I'll have to get dressed, go into Launceston tomorrow, pay for parking and stand in line to sort out the problem.  Or not.

It's a public holiday here but I'll be in on Tuesday to withdraw my (measly) funds and dump then in the Commonwealth branch which is in the Main Street, here in Longford.    At least they're handy.

Saturday, March 8

The house is quiet this morning.  Robyn has flown home, there's no sign of Madi and the kids and Archie is, apparently, having a day at his place.  Peade, blessed peace!

Marilyn always on Saturday. Sandra, the cleaning lady comes on Friday and changes the sheets so they're now on the line taking advantage of the sunshine I've just opened my briefcase to start getting organised for the next Probus meeting.  As Treasurer, I don't have much to do but I've been asked to work out a budget to cover for a couple of unexpected increases in costs.  I've told them I won't be doing the job next year and they'll have to find someone else. Nobody has put their hand up yet.

I notice that it's after 10.30 so it's probably time for another coffee.

Friday, March 7

 The expected cyclone in Brisbane has certainly caused some consternation.  Madeleine's flight has been cancelled and she's not sure when she'll be able to get home.  Her main worry concerns her work; she is involved in property management and one of her buildings is a high-rise with lifts.  Too much rain can get into the lift shaft and cause al sorts of problems, and Madi won't be there to sort it out.

They came over to visit yesterday morning and I had arranged a Treasure Hunt for them: nothing too complicated, just simple clues to find where I had hidden chocolates.  They worked as a team and worked through the twenty clues efficiently.  I remember I had to always provide some game like that when Madeleine came to visit us when she was young, making them progressively harder as she got older.

I have found something I wrote during a previous cyclone which seems appropriate today.  I called it Floods:

I remember one day in about 1954, sitting in my classroom at Gwynneville Primary School, watching the teacher, probably Mr Fuller, drawing a diagram on the blackboard. On the left-hand side was a blue line, representing the sea, above was a bright yellow sun; on the right was a green representation of fields with a brown mountain looming over them.  Mr Fuller used white chalk to draw arrows showing how the sun draws water from the sea to form clouds, how the wind pushes the clouds across the land and how the water from the clouds drops as rain on the fields below and eventually makes its way back to the sea.  A very simple representation of the water cycle. I used a similar diagram many times when I was teaching.

Last week, one newspaper tried to describe the amount of rain which fell on NSW by saying there was the equivalent of several thousand swimming pools of water in the clouds which gathered over the flooded areas and dumped their load, causing all the damage. 

A clumsy description, I think, but essentially accurate.  I remember Mr Fuller also telling us that floods are more prevalent in tropical areas because the sun is hotter and draws up more water.  I’m not sure the interaction is as simple as he made out but, of course, he was talking to naïve 10 year-olds.  No doubt there are climate scientists trying to get the reality of the water cycle into the heads of decision makers in every country in the world.  They’ll be trying to make the same point that Mr Fuller was trying to impart to us all those years ago.

As the climate gets hotter, more water will be drawn from the oceans and more will fall on the land.  If more water falls on the land, there will be more ‘flood events’ (as modern nomenclature has it).  It’s not rocket science: it’s much more important than that.

Thursday, March 6

Yesterday we took Madeleine and the kids to the raspberry farm, and it was a delight.  They wanted to pick strawberries so grabbed a basket each and set off.  The strawberries are planted around the Yelow Submarine and, although the kids didn't understand the significance, they thought it was interesting.  I picked a box of blackberries while I was waiting.  The farm has a caravan where you can buy snacks; soft-serve icecream, pancakes and so on.  While we were enjoying that, they dug into my blackberries almost eating the lot .. and I hadn't paid for them.  When we finally reached the till I had to apologise but the farmer, who knows me by now, said it happened all the time and they don't worry about it.  They probably build it into the price.

They all fly home tomorrow and we hope we'll see them again before they go.  Madi tells me she always used to enjoy the  puzzles and treasure hunts I arranged for her when she was young, so I've put together a treasure hunt for her three if they manage to get here.  It's hard when the next generation live so far away but I suppose it's just a repeat of what's happened before.  My parents took my brother and me away from the family and they missed out on watching us grow up and having an input to our lives.

Swings and roundabouts.

Wednesday, March 5

 I'm waiting for Madeleine to arrive with the kids.  Jamie is at work so Marilyn offered that I would take them to the Raspberry Farm.  However, they have slept in!  I hope they come soon because the farm will be closed this afternoon and I was looking forward to showing them the Yellow Submarine!

It's starting to look a bit overcast but the sun is still holding its own.

Tuesday, March 4

 Jamie arrived early to drop Archie off.  He's taking Madeleine and the kids on an excursion today and most places don't like dogs.  Mole Creek is becoming attraction central with the Salmon Farm, Raspberries, Truffles and so on.  It's a highlight on the 'Tasting Trail' which is geared towards tourists who enjoy good food.

Marilyn has taken Robyn to her Craft group and doesn't expect to be collected until 2.15, so I have a few hours to indulge in whatever my heart pleases; it will probably be a binge-view of a couple of Youtube videos, a few pages of a book and a browse of the internet to see what Donald Trump is up to.  I'll have lunch somewhere in there, and that's about it.  Ho hum.

Monday, March 3

 Marilyn's birthday was a great success.  There were about 40 people there including friends from both Deloraine and Longford.  Madi flew down from Brisbane with her three kids and Robyn was there from Wollongong.  We had the party at the local bowling club and the ladies provided a fabulous afternoon tea.  I organised a Pass the Parcel game which was very popular.  Even adults like to let their hair down occasionally.

We have a huge bunch of balloons in the corner of the lounge: a large 8, a 0, and a bunch of ordinary balloons in various pastel colours.  Apparently, they come from Spotlight and are designed to match the occasion.  We'll have to put up with them until they deflate naturally and then we can throw them out.  Does that mean that the helium gas is escaping into our lounge-room?  And isn't there a world shortage of helium?  Maybe we could take them back to Spotlight who could re-sell them.  They've only been used once and are 'as new'.

Today, we can afford to relax.  Marilyn and Robyn are watching a Youtube video of someone called Brogan but I can't stomach it so I'm keeping out of the way.  I have a Probus Executive meeting this afternoon which will get me out of the house for an hour or so.

The weather is not great.  We've been having very hot days but today is overcast and chilly.  I've already done the watering so that's out of the way.

Sunday, March 2

 It's Marilyn's birthday today - her 80th, as it happens.  We're celebrating it at the local Bowls Club and are expecting about 40 people.  However, it's not the biggest show in town; today is also the Annual Northern Tasmanian Truck Run.  The showground will be packed with eager enthusiasts keen to see the big rigs.  They're already lining the streets to welcome the machines and I hope it's all clear before we have to set off.

Jamie has been the main organiser of Marilyn's party and my part has only been to prepare the "Pass the Parcel'.  I remember when I was given much more responsibility but, sadly, those days seem to have passed.  Madeleine and the kids have travelled down from Brisbane for the event and we're expecting them to pop in this morning to see us.

Friday, February 28

 

We changed to this new doctor because we were finding it difficult to get an appointment at the Longford Practice.  Also, he was a mate of Jamie's and a personal connection is important.  He's been good, setting us up with a regular monthly appointment so he can keep an eye on how we are doing.  Also, he's still building up his practice so there's no problem in getting an extra appointment if necessary.  Yesterday was the day; I had to talk to him about an in-growing toenail which my podiatrist wanted to remove.  He's also a surgeon, by a happy coincidence.  

We arrived early, there were a couple sitting but the waiting room was very quiet.  Our appointment times came and went and I kept glancing at my watch.  One old duck must have been in with the doctor for forty minutes.  Another couple of people arrived and sat down.  Eventually, Marilyn was called in.  I looked at my watch: I'd been there for an hour!  Marilyn came out and the receptionist gave me the nod.  My turn!  Then the doctor appeared, "Would you mind letting Russell go before you, John?  He has to get back to work."

What could I say?  Russell took 16 minutes; I was there less than five.

Life's not always fair, is it?

BACK ON DRY LAND                                                                              13^th NOVEMBER, 2020

Now that we can see that the influence of the Covid Pandemic is starting to wane, many of us are looking at the possibility of overseas travel and are starting to wonder whether there may be bargains to be found as operators desperately  attempt to attract paying customers.  Favourite venues like Bali, Thailand, and New Zealand will no doubt recover well but there is a serious question mark hanging over the Seniors’ Favourite: Cruising.  Pre-Covid, cruise operators could pretty well guarantee filling their enormous ships with elderly passengers who were not too demanding, didn’t insist on entertainment 24 hours a day, went to bed early and didn’t eat much.  It was a relatively easy way to make money and if the crews had the inconvenience of dealing with the body of an occasional ninety-year old who had passed away, so be it.

However, when Covid has, in its turn, passed away, I want to suggest that the thoughts of would-be holiday-makers will not be on the high seas but will come back to dry land, and the more adventurous will be looking beyond the old favourites to see what else might be available. 

We don’t have to fly to the other side of the world to find an enjoyable holiday.  Right on our doorstep is a vast, almost untapped tourist mecca, whose people, mostly, speak English, where a pretty good hotel bed might cost $AU50 and a decent meal can be had for $20.  I’m talking about the Philippines.  Don’t be concerned about the newspaper reports regarding the crime rate and the murderous policies of the President.  If normal care is taken and you take advantage of local guides, your holiday will be one to remember.

First-time travellers will want to see the capital city.  Manila is a sprawling hotch-potch of a city, with enormous slum areas but also some of the world’s best shopping precincts.  Choose a hotel in Makati and employ a local company to show you the sights.  There is plenty to see around Manila Bay, and don’t miss the town of Tagaytay and shopping at the Mall of Asia.

Better still, though, avoid Manila entirely and take a connecting flight from the airport to one of the thousands of islands.  Cebu, with its perfect white sand beaches is always popular with international tourists  but has always been particularly attractive to younger people who enjoy showing off their tanned bodies so, for older people, I recommend Palawan as a much better option for an unforgettable tourist experience.  It’s only a ninety-minute flight from Manila in a modern aircraft but be aware that locals flying home from Manila always take the chance to stock up on Krispy Kreme donuts which take up too much room in the overhead lockers.  You’ll be asked to check in even your cabin baggage for storage in the plane’s hold and it’s a good idea to comply.

Make sure you’ve arranged to be collected at the airport by your guide.  Whole families turn out to welcome back people who’ve been away, and the crowds at the airport can be quite daunting.  You might find yourself booked into an excellent hotel in the capital, Puerta Princesa, or one of the many, cheaper, resorts along the highway leading out of town.  Either is OK.  The resorts are of a lower standard but clean and comfortable for a couple of nights.

There is lots to do but don’t miss the famous Underground River tour. The river flows through limestone so, over the centuries has carved a huge cave which enters the sea not far from the capital city.  You’ll be taken in a traditional outrigger canoe into the cave and navigate a couple of kilometres along its length.  There are bats and other creatures, and the usual features of limestone caves.

Life in these out-of-the-way places in the Philippines hasn’t changed much in hundreds of years and the people haven’t been tainted by the excesses of modern life.  You’ll feel refreshed after your time here and astounded by the beautiful places you have seen.  You can be satisfied, too, that your Australian dollars have made a difference to the lives of people who normally survive on very little.

Thursday, February 27

 We're both off to the doctor this morning.  Since we've moved to this new surgery at Westbury we've been put on a regular plan; no doubt, the doctor is trying to build up his practice but we always have something to discuss with him.  Today, it's my feet.  The podiatrist, after insulting my toenails, advised me to have the nail on my right big toe removed.  It seems a bit drastic just so I can wear my Asics shoes again so I want a second opinion.

Dr Kidmas is a surgeon and, if he thinks it's a good idea, I'll get him to do it.  It will cost me a few hundred dollars apparently so I'll need to be sure of the benefits before going ahead.  Robyn had decided not to come with us but when she heard that we always go for coffee afterwards, and the coffee shop sells jelly slices, she changed her mind.  Jamie will drive us and take Archie for a run at his favourite park while he's waiting

And it looks like itmight rain.

Wednesday, February 26

 We had our first trip to the Berry Farm for this year.  I've been a bit slack but it's getting close to the end of the blackberry season so I had to make the effort.  Jamie was determined that Robyn needed to be involved so the three of us set off.  Yes, the blackberries were prolific but won't last much longer.  I'll try again on Saturday but that might be the last gasp for the year.  Robyn and Jamie concentrated on strawberries and picked heaps.

The farm is looking good with a new addition to the decor .. a large yellow submarine. We knew the farmer was a Beatles fan with occasional references around the farm: signs for Abbey Road, Penny Lane and, of course Strawberry Fields.  He told us the story of the submarine - EMI had two built for the release of the Yellow Submarine album (or maybe the movie); one ended up in Sydney, owned by a fellow who lived on Sydney Harbour.  Apparently, he needed rid of it and advertised it on the Beatles Appreciation internet site, asking for expressions of interest.  Apparently, the berry farmer from Longford wrote the most appealing application and 'won' the sub.  The problem was getting it to Tassie so it's been an expensive operation, but I'm delighted that we have this little slice of Beatle memorabilia in our backyard.  You can see what it looks like by checking the cover of the Yellow Submarine album.

Tuesday, February 25

 I have a couple of letters sitting on my desk, waiting to be dealt with.  One is a reminder that my car registration is due but I don't have to deal with that straightaway; March 23rd is the due date.  The other is a reminder from Specsavers that I'm due for a check-up of my hearing.  I'd like to think that the company is genuinely concerned about my well-being but I know they are anticipating a little pay-out from the government for the cost of the test and the possibility of on-selling some flash, new hearing aids. 

I don't know what to do.  I already have perfectly-working hearing aids but I never wear them.  I seem to be coping without them and have stopped saying "Eh?" when I miss something in the flow of conversation. I used to use them regularly when I was going to the gym: I could listen to podcasts when I was on the treadmill without having earphones with their dangling cables; but I don't go to the gym anymore.

Still, it won't cost me anything to go and I'm at the age when I should have my bits checked regularly.  Our friend, Robyn, is here this week so I'll leave it 'till after she's gone.  It'll be nice to have a trip ntothe big city and I might squeeze in a visit to KMart if Marilyn is amenable.

Monday, February 24

 I've been watching a couple of fellows on Youtube for years now.  Steve lives in Montrose in Scotland and has a Polish wife and she travels with him on many of his adventures.  His videos show the whole gamut of his life.  Scott, on the other hand, is more of a loner.  In one series, his son travelled with him to Australia, but in almost all of his videos he is alone.  This morning, though, he showed us where he lived (in Paisley) and, to my surprise, he had a wife who lived in the same house!  I had seen her before, on a camping trip with Scott, but had always assumed she lived somewhere else.  Oh well, it shows how wrong you can be if you try to make up stories about people's lives.

The Passengers is one of my earlier stories, written when I first joined the Writing Group.  It's bit trite, if I'm honest.

THE PASSENGERS                                                                            April 17^th 2020

Roger sat up in the comfortable bed on the cruise ship.  His ‘phone told him it was just after 2am but he couldn’t sleep.  An inside cabin on a cruise ship is probably one of the darkest places on earth, he thought.  The only glimmer of light he could see was the tiny red glow from the fire alarm.  There was no porthole, and not even a gap under the cabin door to allow light to infiltrate.  In his bedroom at home, even on the darkest night, the yellow numbers on his clock radio made a difference and there was always light from outside elbowing past the curtains.

This was certainly not turning out to be the cruise he and Andrea had planned.  Things hadn’t been going well at home; the kids had all moved on and the spark had well and truly disappeared from what had become a fairly pedestrian marriage.  He and Andrea rarely spoke and a sharp word was never far from their lips.  They’d tried marriage counselling but both agreed that a well-meaning but glib young counsellor had no appreciation of what they were experiencing.

In a desperate attempt to salvage something from the thirty years they had been together, Roger had suggested a cruise.  All those years ago, they had planned a cruise for their honeymoon, but that had not eventuated so the idea of a cruise around Asia had a lot of appeal.  Unfortunately, Roger had allowed his prudent nature to prevail and he had ended up booking the cheapest cabin on the ship: Inside on Deck 5. Andrea had said, as she often did, that he was just mean.

The first few days had been fine.  They left Singapore in good weather, the cabin was comfortable enough and they had made a few acquaintances at their dining table.  Still, Andrea would always choose to go off alone each day, to the Spa or the Gymnasium, or to a Cooking class or some mindless Trivia competition, leaving Roger to twiddle his thumbs.  In some ways, it wasn’t much different to being at home.

But, of course, things had changed as they approached the end of the journey,  They were a bit out of touch with international affairs but they had heard talk of some mysterious disease coming out of China.  They couldn’t imagine they would be affected until the captain informed the passengers that no port would allow them to disembark and they would be quarantined on the ship for fourteen days before they could head for home. In effect, that meant solitary confinement, in their tiny cabin, with one fifteen-minutes supervised walk on the deck each day, meals being delivered to the cabin by their steward and no real contact with other human beings.

As was her nature, Andrea began to complain bitterly, blaming Roger for everything that had gone wrong but Roger’s nature was to take stock and plan what needed to be done to survive this unpleasant situation.  The television was there as a back-up but Roger knew they would need plenty to read.  He began to download to their iPads the sorts of novels which would grip their attention for hours at a time.  Andrea hadn’t read a book since High School but she enjoyed detective programs on TV so Roger downloaded samples from various authors for her to try. 

Their daily routine became comfortable.  Andrea had become surprisingly cooperative. They read, watched the TV news with their breakfast, read a bit more, exercised as best they could in their small cabin, walked on the deck when possible, watched a movie or two in the afternoon, had a glass or two of wine delivered by the masked steward, and  read some more.  Andrea found she enjoyed playing various games on the iPad; the cabin steward brought them some board games and they played them together.  Roger, after being accused several times of cheating , was delighted to hear Andrea laugh, a sound he thought he would never hear again.

One night he woke to find Andrea snuggling into his back, for the first time in years, and the next day she took his hand when they were walking on the deck.

The day came when it was time to go home or, at least, to Christmas Island for another fourteen days of enforced solitude.  Many of the passengers were whinging about it, but Roger was finding it hard to conceal a little smile.

Sunday, February 23

 There was a strong burst of wind and rain this morning at about 5.30 which woke us both.  Wide awake, I got up to check that all was well, especially with the new gazebo, made us a cup of coffee and took it back to Marilyn in bed.  I stayed up to watch some rubbish on TV but Marilyn has rolled over for a bit longer.  Once I'm disturbed I can't get back to sleep so I'm better occupying myself another way.

I'm not reading much at the moment,; I'm finding that I lose focus on stories and have to re-read a bit when I pick them up again. Now I understand where the phrase 'losing the plot' comes from.  I'm better with non-fiction now than the detective stories which were my main interest but I'm more likely to occupy myself with a crossword puzzle than a book.  I like the giant puzzles like Mr Wisdom's Whopper and, somehow, my brain has retained the ability to cope with these.  It's funny how someone's memory can recall that another name for 'witchdoctors' is 'shamans' but can't remember that I'm supposing to be getting my haircut today.  It's just as well that Marilyn isn't 'losing the plot' just yet.

Saturday, February 22

I have quite a comfortable routine in the morning.  Marilyn stays in bed for an extra half hour, leaving me to watch a couple of Youtube videos with my first coffee of the day.  I have some favourites: Steve, Scott, Ken, and so on, but this morning I was attracted to a snippet about Donald Trump.  How can the USian people tolerate this person?  Nothing he says makes any sense.  The clip I watched showed a public meeting where the audience attacked the moderator who dared to ask questions about Trump's competency.  

There seems to be a whole new understanding of right and wrong.  I don't know who coined the term 'post-truth' but we are certainly living in a world of 'alternative facts', where we can all make up our own mind about what 'true' means.  

Stop the world, I want to get off.  At least I know that Anthony Newley had something to do with that phrase, and that's the truth.

Yesterday, Marilyn had to go in for her check-up following her eye operation.  I dropped her off, found a shaded spot in the carpark and opened my book.  After a while I found myself getting peckish but there were no shops nearby and I had brought nothing to eat with me.  I scrabbled around in the glovebox and the little console between the front seats .. and found a little packet of jellybeans.  They looked a little the worse for wear so I checked the Use By date.  2018.  That's alright: jellybeans are full of sugar and that doesn't go off, so they should be OK.  I chose a red one ... not my favourite colour but it looked to be the most appetising. 

But it was horrible .. hard and with a strange flavour.  I decided to spit out the last little bit and spread the rest of the packet on the grass near the carpark.  I hope they don't affect the local rabbits who are scrounging for a feed.

Friday, February 21

 I think we can call the construction of the gazebo a success.  Jamie put the final touches to it this morning by fitting some rubber grommets into a couple of holes and it is now there for us to enjoy.  We had talked about some refinements but have decided not to spoil what is clearly a good thing.   Bertine from Number 5 popped in to check it out and we sat around the table with a glass of wine contemplating the future.

Nothing much is happening today.  Sandra, the cleaning lady is expected; I plan to have two walks to add a couple of thousand steps to my daily tally, and I need to tidy up some TV programs I have downloaded.  Marilyn has an appointment at the Eye Hospital this afternoon and that will give us an excuse for a coffee in town.

I think I might have posted The Missing Postman before but I haven't ticked it off.  No matter: it's one of my favourites so deserves another airing.

THE MISSING POSTMAN                                                AUGUST 27, 2021

 

If anyone asked what he did, Wayne would tell them he was the Missing Postman.  Sometimes, people would ask him what he meant because, in their simple understanding, he was there in front of them so, clearly, not missing at all.  Wayne would just smile and change the subject.

It wasn’t surprising that people came to think that Wayne was a little odd, if not seriously disturbed.

In fact, Wayne was employed by the Post Office to make enquiries when postal items went astray.  He was the man who looked after the Post that was Missing.  He was the Missing Post Man.

If you knew Wayne, you would wonder how he kept his job.  He was certainly no intellectual giant and he had an irritating habit of constantly singing old Everley Brothers songs in a low monotone voice.  More than one fellow-employee had asked for a transfer after one too many choruses of Bye Bye Love.

But, Wayne was always neatly dressed; his mother ironed a fresh shirt for him every morning, and he was generous in helping out when anyone needed an hour or two off for personal business.  Most importantly, no one else was prepared to take on the job of Missing Post Man.  It was a thankless task with little hope of promotion.  The incumbent had only a tiny cubby-hole to work from.  Some wag once dubbed this the Dead Letter Office and the name stuck. 

The general feeling among the staff was that the job of Missing Postman was the end of the line, the job you were given when Head Office thought you should be put out to pasture.  And, of course, no one can be sacked from the Public Service; it is a well-known fact that every Public Service Department has a designated number of positions which are so mind-numbingly boring that their sole purpose is to make life so miserable for the incumbent that a resignation will inevitably follow.

Somehow, Wayne thrived in his hovel of an office.  He always had a tiny vase of fresh flowers and his desk was the tidiest in the whole department.  He brought polish from home and every Monday morning, all the furniture was treated to a spruce-up.  Wayne was held up to the other staff as a model employee, whose example others should follow. 

Perhaps, his supervisors should have looked at how successful he was in discovering the whereabouts of missing postal items before holding him up as a shining example of what a good employee should look like.  In short, his success rate was appalling.  Apart from the odd letter from the bank or electricity bill, he found almost nothing that had gone astray. 

Wayne was not very bright, but he was certainly sharp enough to know when a good scheme should come to an end.  One Monday morning, Wayne didn’t show up to work.  No one was worried; he wasn’t a vital cog in the wheel and everyone assumed his mother would ring at some stage to say that he had a cold.  Another day passed, and another and someone thought, perhaps, a ‘phone call to his mother might be a good idea.

His mother was surprised to receive the call. Didn’t they realise that Wayne had been sent off to Canberra for special training before he took on his new job as Controller of Misplaced Parcels?  This announcement caused much consternation in the office.  Surely, it couldn’t be true.  Even the public service wouldn’t be stupid enough to promote Wayne to any position of authority.

The wheels of the Public Service grind slowly but, eventually, an investigation was launched to inquire into the matter. A panel of eminent retired senior officers from the department was charged with finding out what had happened to Wayne and were there any extenuating circumstances which should be taken into account.  The matter was certainly helped by the arrival of a postcard from Wayne, now resident in a South American country which, as it happens, has no extradition treaty with Australia.

A picture was emerging that Wayne had been up to no good, and diligent digging unearthed the truth that, for years, Wayne had been stealing parcels and other mail and, as the Missing Postman, he had been able to cover up the theft quite easily. He focused on birthday and Christmas cards which might have a banknote tucked into them, and parcels from ebay and other mail order companies, which were all covered by insurance so nobody would make a fuss if they didn’t arrive.

Few people in the Post Office had ever given Wayne a second thought but now the Legend of the Missing Postman will live for ever.

Thursday, February 20

It always takes longer than you think, doesn't it?  After working all day, the workmen abandoned the job and said it would take a couple more hours  Mick and Jamie have been at it now for an hour or so, there's been a rush trip to Bunnings for some more brackets but the end is in sight.

Wednesday, February 19

Today is the day that our gazebo is to be built.  Mick has arrived and all the steel has been unloaded from his truck.  He has pre-cut it to length and constructed the two main supports, it's been painted and the next step is to fit it all together and attach it to the concrete.  He and Jamie are discussing how many sheets of laserlite they need and are off to Bunnings to buy it.  I'm keeping out of their way; my knowledge of construction is minimal and I'm happy to leave it to those who know what they're doing.

Archie is loving all the excitement.

Tuesday, February 18

 There's a tradesman here at the moment, fiddling with the blind on our front window. Typically, of Tasmania, we have a personal connection with his family.  I met his father first when I had blinds installed at Giant Steps, probably 20 years ago; it was a big order and gave the blind man's business  a boost.  Since then, he's installed blinds here and at Jamie's and for many of our friends.  Daniel, the son, had to tweak a couple of places and replace a clip or two - no charge.

I've been to pick up Archie.  Jamie has a busy day and it's better for Archie to be here than moping around in an empty house.

Monday, February 17

 A sign went up at the front of our units announcing that Unit 4 was for sale.  It is rented at the moment and I imagine it will be difficult for the current tenants to deal with their home being sold from under them.  I'd be interested, though, to learn what is the asking price. 

I had the house to myself this morning as Marilyn went off to her Probus meeting. I had just settled down to watch something on Youtube about Donald Trump's latest folly when Bertine from Unit 5 came around to talk about the implications of the sale of the unit and she was disappointed that Marilyn was not there to share her wisdom.  I'm not comfortable about entertaining other women when Marilyn's not here but she soon arrived to rescue me.

Jamie has just messaged to say that our pergola outside the back door will be erected on Wednesday.  It should have been last week but Mick had come down with Covid and was isolated.  All the steel has been cut and painted so it's only a matter of assembly.  Can't wait!

WAITING FOR ROBERT                                                                 MAY 8, 2020

 

We’re not a close family. Oh, as children, we were well looked after and were never neglected but, looking back I get the impression our parents saw nurturing as an obligation rather than as something they enjoyed.  It’s not surprising, I suppose, that we became very self-centred, thinking only of ourselves and only considering how situations would affect us personally.

Even as children, we followed our own paths, finding our own friends and our own individual interests. One of my sisters became obsessed with ballet, another wanted to be a musician and experimented with one instrument or another until she settled on the clarinet.  Robert, my older brother, played football.   I was the studious one, absorbing myself in books, and I joined the local Cub pack after reading The Jungle Book.  

On winter evenings, when it got dark early, my parents decided that I shouldn’t walk home from Cub meetings on my own, so it was arranged that I would go to the local football ground where Robert was training and wait for him to finish so that we could walk home together.  It wasn’t unusual for me to be left in Robert’s care; my parents didn’t see that their responsibilities extended  to going out of their way to pick me up.

I didn’t really mind but I had learned very early that Robert had no concept of good time-keeping. Like everything else he was involved with, his training sessions never seemed to finish on time so I found myself, night after night, sitting for what seemed like hours in a cold and draughty football ground, waiting for Robert to decide it was time to go home.

As we became older, we moved gradually away from the heart of the family.  A couple of us went off to different universities, others moved into their own places as soon as they could afford to.  We got together, of course, on significant but rare occasions, and a pattern started to evolve.  No matter what the occasion, Robert was always the last to arrive.  My wedding was delayed because Robert was late in picking up my parents.  He showed up late for the christening of my first child even though he was to be a god-parent.

The only regular occasion when the family invariably met together was for our mother’s birthday.  I have no idea when this day took on special significance but on the Sunday closest to April 16^th each year, the four siblings and their own families would gather with my mother and father for the celebration of the anniversary of her birth.  I suspect that everyone there would have preferred to be elsewhere but we were dutiful enough to accept that it was reasonable to set aside an hour of our time if it gave our mother some little pleasure.  But, of course, bloody Robert was always late and none of us could leave until at least an hour after he arrived. 

Our lives might have continued for years in this stilted way, each of us in our own little silo, meeting only on rare occasions, but the day came when we received news that Robert had died.  He had been running to catch a train, late again; he tripped and cracked his head on the platform, dying in the ambulance on the way to the hospital.

We gathered as a family in the church to say our farewells, then set off for the local crematorium.  We should have anticipated what would happen next.  The hearse carrying Robert’s body broke down on the way to the crematorium and there was a delay while a replacement vehicle was sent.  We had always joked that Robert would be late for his own funeral, and he was.

Sunday, February 16

In April or May, 2012, I stood at the entrance to Edinburgh Castle after walking along the Royal Mile.  There was a booth where they asked you to pay a few pounds for the pleasure of roaming through the grounds. However, we had other things to do and our train was leaving in a couple of hours. It was a missed opportunity because I knew, even then, that I would never return to that spot.  However, this morning I found a video on Youtube made by Steve Marsh who explored the castle and put it on the web for all to see.

It was a fascinating exploration and one of the highlights for me was seeing the ritual of firing the One o'clock Gun.  This has been going on for years, and was originally set up to alert the ships in the harbour of the right time before reliable clocks were in common use.  In one scene, I noticed a map which showed other places in the world where a One o'clock Gun is still fired regularly.   This included Fort Denison in Sydney Harbour, Hobart and Fremantle in Western Australia.

The current Edinburgh gun looked like a fairly typical field gun, but a previous gun was preserved elsewhere in the grounds.  It's called Mons Meg and was cast in 1449 and presented to King James in 1457.  Everything in the UK seems to have a long history and it's great that it's being preserved.

Saturday, February 15

 I spent yesterday fretting about shoes.  I remembered that I had bought a pair of Asics a few years ago and, although I complained about the price, they fitted me very well.  I still had them, in a corner of the garage, set aside for gardening purposes.  They fitted me very well so I think that's the answer.  They're too expensive at the local sports shops but Jamie has found them on-line for a more reasonable price so they're on their way.  I sometimes need firm direction or I wouldn't buy anyrhing.

I understand that my life is made much more complex because I hate to spend more than I need to. I'll happily spend hours in research if I can save $20 because I can't accept that a pair of brand-name shoes can cost 10 times the price of a pair from Kmart.  Both pairs are probably made in Vietnam or Thailand and any differences in the finish will be un-noticeable.

When they're on my feet, you can't tell whether they're Adidas or no-name and that suits me fine.