Saturday, February 1

 I noticed I didn't post any message yesterday.  Clearly, I had nothing to say in the morning and that situation didn't change during the day.  I've always thought of this blog as being a daily journal and that's fine if we're travelling somewhere like Nepal and every day brings a new experience, but, when you're living in a nondescript suburb of a small city in Tasmania, reportable experiences are hard to find.  

Anyway, that's my excuse, and I'm sticking to it.  Here's the story I would have posted yesterday if I had bothered to write a blog.   It's called Suzanne.

SUZANNE                                                                                                     26 MARCH 2021

Suzanne was the only person she knew who had that name and she never understood what her mother was thinking when she decided to inflict her only daughter with such an unusual appellation.  It was unlikely her mother had read it because she couldn’t read so she must have overheard it somewhere.  It may have been part of some obscure hope that people with influence might be impressed with the name and give Suzanne special attention.

One never knew with Suzanne’s mother; she may have lacked education but she was cunning and was forever thinking of ways that her daughter could have more opportunities than she, herself, had enjoyed.  

Suzanne never went to school because her family would have been expected to pay a shilling a week for the privilege, and there was never a shilling to spare for such frivolity.  Instead, she occasionally visited the local Church minister along with half a dozen other under-privileged children for some basic tuition in reading and writing.

When Suzanne was twelve years old, her mother died and her father said it was time that Suzanne contributed to the family income.  He had arranged for her to meet the housekeeper at the Big House and warned her to be polite and say, “Yes, ma’am” and “No, ma’am”

With her heart in her mouth, Suzanne dragged her heels through the town and up the long driveway to the Big House.  She had never been close to the house before and couldn’t understand why just one family would need so much room.  Her own house only had two rooms and everybody in the street shared one lavatory.  She had been warned not to go to the front door so made her way to the back and timidly knocked.  The door was opened by the grandest individual Suzanne had ever seen: he was tall with glossy dark hair and an immaculate uniform.  “Yes?” he enquired.  Suzanne was speechless but the man beckoned her inside and pushed her along a corridor to a little room where she could see, sitting there, a severe-looking woman dressed all in black.

This was the housekeeper, who said, “You must be the girl who needs a job.  What is your name?”

  “Please, ma’am, it’s Suzanne.”

“That’s a most unsuitable name for a servant.  We will call you Susan.   You may call me Mrs Hodges.”  You will begin work here as a scullery maid and, if you are satisfactory, you may be selected to become a chamber maid.  You will work from 6 o’clock each morning and you will be allowed one afternoon off each week.  Because you are just twelve years old, your wages will be paid to your father. Report to Cook who will find you more suitable clothes and explain your duties.”

From that moment, Suzanne’s life changed forever.  Vaguely, she had thought that she might marry and have a small home of their own where she could bring up her own children.

Instead, her own dreams had to be set aside and all her energies and attention must now be on fulfilling the desires of the members of the wealthy family who owned the Big House.  Susan (as she now must call herself) didn’t even know the name of the family who owned the house and how they had come to own it.  Were they aristocrats, or did they make their money some other way?  Susan knew that ‘real’ aristocrats looked down on people who were making their money ‘in trade’ and she hoped her new employers were not members of that grubby bunch.

Days passed and Susan’s life fell into a dull but reassuring routine.  There was one other scullery maid, a cheerful girl called Beryl who took Susan under her wing and helped her through the difficult early days.  Mrs Hodges was strict but was seldom seen by the younger staff who worked assiduously to keep out of her way.  There were a couple of boys on the staff about Susan’s age and she enjoyed their cheeky banter.  She shared a bed with Beryl but the sheets were always clean and the food from the kitchen was more than she expected.  The best part of her day was when all the staff sat together around the large table in the kitchen for their evening meal. Her life might have improved if she had a little money to spend on her afternoon-off but it was all given to her father who never thought to pass any on to her.

Susan, if she thought about it, would have agreed that her life was surprisingly happy.  Certainly, she was working hard and had very little free time but she enjoyed the friendship of the other servants and Beryl was almost like a sister.  Also, one of the young men who worked in the coach house was showing an interest in her and they were walking out together on their afternoon off. 

We can only imagine how Susan’s life might have evolved but, sadly, she died in the 1918 Spanish Flu epidemic.  To his credit, her father insisted that her headstone should show her true name, and it is still there in the churchyard of her village.  Her young man visited her grave for a time but finally realised he needed to get on with his life and his visits ceased.  Suzanne is now all but forgotten, just a girl with a slightly exotic name who trod lightly on the earth.

 

Thursday, January 30

 I don't find much to interest me among the random posts which pop up on Facebook but there was one yesterday which caught my eye. It said something like 'If you were born between 1937 and 1946, congratulations, you are part of a very exclusive group of just 1% of the Australian community.  I am fascinated by the implications of that statement but I have to rush.  Marilyn and I both have an appointment at the doctor's.  I will post this now but come back later and add to it.

It's now 4.00pm.  What a marathon at the doctor's.  Jamie had to go as well so he drove.  We have taken on a new doctor who has just opened at practice at Westbury, about a 15-minute drive away.  Jamie knew him years ago at a different practice and recommended him.  We were quite happy to move as we couldn't get the doctor of our choice at the local practice unless we booked weeks in advance.

Today was to be a full-blown annual check-up for each of us.  I went in to the nurse first.  'Take off your shoes, loosen your belt, lie on the bed!'  She wrapped electrodes to my ankles and wrists, switched on the machine which went 'beep' and wrote something on a bit of paper.  She weighed me, took my pulse, measured my height (I'm 5cm shorter than I thought I was!) and asked me to 'repeat after me'.  

Then I waited to see the doctor.  He takes his time and records everything that happens on his computer.  He didn't have a dozen patients waiting outside so was happy to string the consultation along.  Multiply all that by 3 and it took until lunchtime for the three of us to be sorted.  I was delighted to get home. 

Apparently, we're as well as can be expected for our age and that's about as good as it gets.

Looking again at the Facebook post above, my first thought was 'What proportion of the country's social services budget does that very fortunate 1% consume?  Might it be more than they deserve?

Wednesday, January 29

 We had an early start this morning; Jamie's mate, Mick, was coming to measure up for a pergola we're erecting over the concrete slab at the back.  Mick is one of these handy people who can turn his hand to anything; attaching some steel posts to a concrete slab is well within his capabilities.

Marlyn has decided she would like to have i in place before her birthday on March 2nd and that gives Mick a deadline.  I headed off to the closest ATM, at the Commonwealth Bank, to get some cash for Mick to buy the steel, etc, but the ATM retained my card.  Because it's not a CBA card, the bank can't give it back to me so I have to contact Mystate to get a new card issued.

I think they make these rules to upset older people so we'll die earlier of frustration making the world a better place for the young and fit. 

Anyway, Mick has been, the measurements are taken and he's gone off to purchase the materials.  It could happen anytime soon.

Tuesday, January 28

 Marilyn went off to her Craft group this morning, leaving me to find something to do.  I made the mistake of opening up Youtube to see if there was anything worth watching and stumbled across a mass of stories about the Trump lunacy in the US.  I started with the commentators who took delight in rubbishing all he is doing, but there were some which were much more accepting of his policies.  Then I noticed the Sky News logo on the bottom of the screen.  No doubt they were just trying to offer some balance to the debate.

It must be hard to make his ramblings seem sane but I suppose that's what they're paid to do.  I'm glad we live in a different hemisphere; Canada is already starting to feel the heat.

Anyway, I quickly shut the TV down and went back to my book.

Monday, January 27

We watched a bit of the Australia Day concert on TV last night and had fun trying to put names to the long-forgotten faces that popped up.  It reminds us how far we are from the centre of the world here in Longford.   The highlight for me was the performance of Dragon.  They must all be as old as me but  to hear April Sun in Cuba was a delight.

Longford is starting to wake from its long Summer sleep and our regular activities will return this week, with Marilyn's Craft group.  She's looking forward to getting back into routine.

THE WRONG SUITCASE                                                                        18 AUGUST 2023

We all know what it’s like at the airport, especially one of the larger ones like Sydney or Heathrow.  The suitcases come around the carousel in no order.  Some are lying flat, others stay upright but, unless you have made prior arrangements to make it stand out from the crowd, they all look too much the same.  Sensible people attach coloured ribbons to the handle or plaster the side with stickers but, mostly, there’s no way of identifying the suitcase until you actually have it in your hands.

Miriam, like most of us, had a generic suitcase with no individual markings.  It was red, like so many others, and a popular brand.  She was surprised when she came late at the carousel after her trip to find that most of the bags had already been collected but was pleased to see her red suitcase making its weary way around the loop.

Being tired herself, she just dumped the suitcase in her hallway and fell into bed.  It was the next day before she bothered to open it, knowing that the dirty clothes it contained would not be the worse for waiting an extra day or two before finding their way to the washing machine.  But, when Miriam finally got around to opening the bag, she didn’t recognise any of the contents.  Where were the dirty socks and items of underwear?  What were these brown-paper wrapped parcels?  Slowly, it dawned on her that she had collected the wrong suitcase from the carousel. 

Miriam  was intrigued by the parcels and could not resist opening one to see what it contained.  Inside, she found some pencils, origami paper, other stationery, and a couple of children’s picture books.  Was it a present, she wondered, for a child?  Intrigued, she opened another parcel; the contents were similar, although probably aimed at an older child.

It wasn’t too late now to do something about it so Miriam carefully sorted through the contents of the suitcase to make sure there was nothing that might be dangerous, closed it up and put it back in the car to be returned to the airport.

She wasn’t sure where she would deliver the suitcase but a friendly airline employee directed her to the lost luggage office.  Here she explained her dilemma to the person behind the counter.  He smiled and said, “I have your suitcase here.”  Then he gestured to a young man sitting on a bench against the wall.

“Here’s your bag,’ he called out. “This young lady picked it up by accident.”

A visible smile of relief passed across the face of the young man who hurried forward. 

“Thank you,” he said. “That suitcase was on its way to Nepal to an orphanage we support in Kathmandhu.  I didn’t know whether anyone would take the trouble to bring it back so you can’t imagine how relieved I am.  It’s taken us months to collect all that material and the children would be so disappointed if it didn’t arrive.”

Miriam was intrigued and, when the young man suggested he would buy her a coffee to say thanks, she was pleased to accept.  Over coffee, he explained that he was part of a loose organisation which gathered donations for children in Nepal.  Several companies helped but most of the donations came from private individuals.  When they had accumulated enough, a volunteer would travel to Nepal at their own expense to deliver the bounty.  It was his turn to make the journey and he was devastated that he had misplaced the suitcase containing the gifts.  He had managed to postpone his flight and, now that the gifts were back in his possession, he would be able to travel that afternoon.

It was as if a light had turned on in Miriam’s head.  What a wonderful thing that this young man and his colleagues were doing.  There were, literally, hundreds of charities crying out for assistance but there was something about this particular program which appealed to Miriam’s sense of adventure.  She had always thought she might become involved in some charity work and here was an opportunity to do something special and the thought of Nepal stirred her imagination.

Over the next thirty years, Miriam worked tirelessly for Nepal.  She made countless trips there, had an audience with the King in Exile, and with Kumari, the Living Child Goddess. In 2022 on her sixtieth birthday, she received the Award of the Order of the Star of Nepal.  And all because she picked up the wrong suitcase at the airport. 

Sunday, January 26

 In the days when I was a full-time worker, I often used to wonder how I would fill mt days when I retired.   Being at wok took up at least one-third of five days and I managed to find time for socialising, membership of several organisations, keeping the house in order and, at various times, studying.

Nowadays, most of those things have gone.  I don't go to work, don't study, the house is low-maintenance, Probus is in recess until February and my social life is paltry.  I might spend 15 minutes a day on this blog and, apart from an hour in the morning with our breakfast, we don't switch on the TV in daylight hours.

And, it's 1.30 and I've achieved nothing..

Isn't retirement wonderful!

Saturday, January 25

We're making a rare trip into Launceston this morning.  Usually, we'll only go there for medical reasons: a scan of some kind or an appointment at Specsavers, but today we're going to visit an actual shop.  Marilyn has started to order more and more 'stuff' online; not just from Temu or eBay, but from other businesses as well.  Her latest purchase was two blouses from Suzanne Grae.  One is a bit big and the only way to deal with it is to take it back to their actual shop.  I'll drop her off, loiter around the block and pick her up again.

The weather is a bit overcast and, in olden times we might have enjoyed a browse through the town but those days are gone.  

Friday, January 24

 Friday, January 24

Sandra, the cleaning lady, is coming this morning. I've removed all the linen from the bed to leave it clear for her to remake and made a pile in the laundry to be washed.  We have two QS beds in the unit but the one in the spare room is seldom used.  I often look at the beds and think that they are just a little too big for the rooms they are currently in.  They were bought, of course, when we lived in roomier premises but our retirement unit has been built to different specifications.

When we married, fifty-nine years ago, we had a standard double bed, like most couples had at the time but we must have succumbed to an advertising campaign and changed it for a queen-sized model.  There was no reason why we needed bigger; clearly we just went along with the hype.  And now, when a smaller bed would fit better in the room, we have too much invested in the right-sized linen to change.

To compound the problem, we invested in new bedside tables about 10 years ago, and we went for roomy ones, wider than the ones they replaced.  So, in our bijou bedroom, perfectly suited to a retired couple, we have a 150cm wide bed flanked by two 57cm bedside tables.  That's a total width, with some allowance for spacing, of around 270 cm.  

If we expended several thousand dollars on a new bed, bedside tables and linen, we could save as much as 30cm in the total width; 30cm of extra space to make moving around more convenient. 

A double bed is also shorter than a QS bed so there would be more space-saving in that dimension, toom if we changed.

And I realise, of course, that that is the reason we changed.  I'm too tall for a 180cm long bed and sleep better if it's 190 cm, that is, queen-size.  I'll have to think of something else to worry about.

POETRY – THE KOOKABURRA’S CALL                                                       DECEMBER 2, 2022

In the wilds across Australia you can always hear the chatter

Of bush birds loudly arguing about things that really matter.

There are magpies, wrens and lyrebirds all clamouring fit to burst

Demanding our attention: I don’t know which is worst.

 

The magpie, called the flautist, is beautiful to hear,

His lovely perfect melody is pleasant to the ear.

The lyrebird is different, a mimic through and through

Copying the bush sounds, it must be hard to do.

 

And then there is the kookaburra …..

Early settlers to Australia, we are told, were unnerved by the sound of the kookaburra.  ‘It’s the devil,’ they said when they heard the call in the morning or the early evening.  Of course, we now know it’s simply the territorial call of the adult bird, letting other kookaburras know that he is still in charge of his territory.

When the local aboriginals were asked what was the bird that could make that unearthly sound, they replied, in their own language, ‘Gugabarra’, and that was misheard, of course, and it has become Kookaburra. The Aboriginal name and the European corruption are both onomatopoeic. There was a time when Laughing Jackass was preferred but that epithet seems to have been consigned to history.  I’ve also heard it referred to as ‘The Bushman’s Alarm Clock’ because of the regularity of its call but perhaps Australia is becoming too sophisticated to hold to those reminders of our untutored past.

The kookaburra is a member of the Kingfisher family; in fact, the largest member.  However, they rarely eat fish, although they have been known to take goldfish from artificial ponds.  They seem to prefer lizards, snakes and other small prey.  The largest of them can grow to 47cm.

The kookaburra’s distinctive call has been co-opted for use in movies and TV shows as a representative call of any jungle scene, whether it be Australian, African or South-East Asian. A Johnny Weismuller movie of 1938, set in Africa, had a kookaburra’s call in the background.  Even today, Disney uses the distinctive call in the various jungles of its theme parks.  The popular UK show, I’m a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here, which is set in the Australian jungle near Murwillumbah, makes great use of the kookaburra’s distinctive cackle.

It’s an unlikely export for Australia but plays its part with our other iconic animals: Skippy, the Bush Kangaroo and Tas, the Tasmanian Devil.

Tuesday, January 21

 I had an early start this morning; I was expected at the hospital for a scan and they needed me there a couple of hours early to take some sort of preparation for 'contrast'.  Parking at the hospital is impossible but, luckily, Jamie was able to drop me off and come back for me later.  It's not something I look forward to but the staff at the hospital are always cheerful and efficient and things could be a lot worse.

It meant, of course, that I couldn't watch Mr Trump's inauguration.  I scratch my head and wonder what brought that particular corner of civilisation to choose Donald Trump to be their leader ... again..  I often read through the Quora website and am regularly amazed at the narrow focus many USians have on their  understanding of the world.  I know their education system is sadly lacking, especially in the more rural states, but surely anyone of normal intelligence could see the flaws in the country they call the greatest.

It makes me glad that I live in this boring corner of the world - Australia.

Sunday, January 19

 I was musing yesterday about not having any plans for the day and hoping that it might be another day with not very much happening.  But, Jamie turned up with a new whiz-bang piece of gardening equipment and announced we were going to trim the various bushes and hedge-like plants that we have in the backyard.  The implement looked like the sword that a swordfish might be very proud of.  There was a handle and a place where the keen gardener could attach a Ryobi 18v battery.  Jamie's mate, Chris, had acquired it with some gardening package he had bought and could see no use for it in his new yard.

I was happy enough to go along with the exercise and was very impressed with the efficiency of the operation.  Marilyn involved herself in the excitement too so it was a family affair.  There was a bit of cleaning up to do and that involved a lot of bending over so I couldn't stand up straight when I got out of bed this morning.

I know .. I know, you can pay people to do those sorts of jobs but there's a real shortage of gardeners for hire in our area.  We do our best.

Saturday, January 18

 It's not warm this morning and the forecast says it won't reach 18 until mid-afternoon.  I'm dressed in shorts which is my usual attire in the so-called summer months, but I'm also wearing a long-sleeved jumper.  Both Marilyn and I are feeling lethargic about doing anything today.  She mentioned the other day that she wanted to browse through a particular dress shop in Launceston but that idea has been shelved for the time being.

I always like to have some thought in my mind about what I might do each day but I'm drawing a blank.  Perhaps a bit of Watching (TV), Reading (a book) and Cuppa (coffee) is the go.

Friday, January 17

 Friday, January 17

A few years ago, when we were travelling quite often, I bought myself an e-reader.  It seemed a good idea as I could finish a book in a couple of days and normal books were too bulky and heavy to carry in my luggage.  The big seller was the Kindle but I bought the cheaper option, the Kobo, and was very happy. I downloaded more books than I could read in my lifetime and was never without something to occupy my time.

Years later, my last Kobo reader has 'gone to God' and I now read mostly on a little tablet.  This is fine but it doesn't work in sunlight.  

Now the weather is better and we have more time than we know what to do with, we've taken to sitting outside in the morning.  I'm conditioned to want to read whenever I sit down and, of course, my little tablet doesn't cope with bright sunlight.  There's nothing for it but to buy another ebook reader.  Jamie wanted me to buy a Kindle but it would be at least $318 and all my downloaded library books are in the wrong format.

A new Kobo might be $259 so I had to look elsewhere and I found one called High-clear on Amazon for $124.15 and all my books would be compatible.  What could go wrong?

It's quite a nice-looking machine although the font is a bit small.  No matter, I can cope. It works well in bright sunlight so I'm reasonably happy.  However, today, after just a few weeks, it's stopped working.  I haven't even read one book on it.  A quick message to Amazon who palm me off to some shady company in China and I'm waiting for satisfaction. Didn't the Rolling Stones sing a song about this?

COLD AUGUST NIGHT                                                                                          MARCH 1, 2024

August nights in Longford are always cold.  Hamish pulled his coat more closely around his body, pushed his ungloved hands more deeply into his pockets and trudged wearily to where his car was parked.    There was no one else in the streets and, apart from a bit of noise from the last revellers leaving the hotel, all was quiet.  Hamish was enjoying his job at the Blenheim Hotel but the late finishes were proving difficult.  Maybe he should talk to the manager to see whether a different shift might be possible.

He crossed the deserted street and trudged slowly towards the park where he had earlier eft his car; as he passed Ernesto’s Coffee Shop, a flash of light in his peripheral vision caught his eye.  “OPEN” the flashing sign announced to anyone watching.  Open? Hamish wondered.  When has Ernesto’s ever been open at this time of night?   He was tired and might have continued walking but his curiosity won out and he pushed at the door.

A bell tinkled as the door opened and Hamish groped his way into the gloomy room.  He had enjoyed coffee here many times and was familiar with the bizarre collection of furniture: mismatched tables and chairs and stools fabricated from the cast-iron seats of vintage tractors.

“Hello!” Hamish called out. “Is anyone there?”

A curtain swished as a hand pulled it aside and a very odd-looking individual appeared from a back room and appeared before Hamish.  He was dressed all in black and wore a tartan scarf around his neck.

“Good evening, Hamish,” the strange person enunciated, in a gloomy voice. “How nice of you to call in.  I suppose you are wondering why Ernesto’s is open at this ungodly hour.  But I am forgetting my manners.  Would you like a coffee, before I explain the situation?”

Hamish accepted gratefully and took a seat.  Soon, a coffee appeared before him and the strange individual sat down opposite him, took a deep breath and intoned, “Pardon me for being abrupt but there is no time to waste.  I know you’ll agree we live in interesting times and there are some of us who believe that, unless action is taken, we are all going to be surprised at how badly things will turn out.  Politicians are letting us down appallingly and more and more people are living in desperation.  Something must change.”

He paused as if waiting for Hamish to say something.  Hamish hesitated, unwilling to commit himself to an opinion but, eventually, he murmured, “Hmmm, life’s not always easy, is it?”

“Exactly!” exclaimed the other, “And wouldn’t it be great if something could be done about it?”  He paused, as if re-considering what he was about to say. Drawing a deep breath, he pressed on.

“For too long, Tasmania has been the forgotten child of the Australian nation.  For too long, we have been treated as the rather simple young brother, content to be given the leftovers from the grown-ups’ table.  Well, that is all about to change.  A new coalition of a number of active groups is being formed.  There is intelligence in this group, and integrity and energy.  Our objective is to secure the independence of Tasmania from the oppression of the mainland states.  Without the dead anchor of those monoliths holding us back, we can be sure of a bright future.  Here, in the Apple Isle, we have the resources, the energy, the drive to become the Pearl of the Pacific.  We’re in discussion with a local politician to become our new president.  He’ll be only a figurehead, of course, as all the decisions will be made by a committee.  I won’t tell you who he is but you will know of him.”

“Now that I’ve explained the future, will you join us?”

Hamish thought for a moment.  “Where are you from?” he said, at last.

“Sydney,” replied the man.

“Nah, sorry, mate, not interested,” Hamish drawled and headed for the door.

“Wait,” the man called. “You haven’t paid for your coffee.”

What’s he thinking? thought Hamish as he headed for his car.  Who in Tasmania is going to listen to some blow-in from Sydney.  He must be dreamin’,

Thursday, January 16

Marilyn had an appointment in Launceston yesterday but, before we could leave, Jamie arrived to announce he would take her 'to give me a break'.  While I was musing on this turn of events, I heard the garbage men trundling up the street.  I started to wander out to collect the bin but met Bertine from Number 5 bringing it in for me.

"I thought I would save you the bother," she said, gaily.

I thanked her, of course, but I can't help feeling just a little miffed at the way things are turning out.  Do I look like I need looking after?  Do people think I have reached the stage in life when I can't be trusted to do anything?  

Am I becoming redundant?  I've read about how Eskimos put their old people out on the ice when they become too old to contribute.  The polar bears deal with them.  At least in Australia we are a bit more civilised and the worst thing we do is shove them into a nursing home for their twilight years.

Certainly I'm getting older but I'm not decrepit yet.  Although, it's nice when I can use the excuse of getting older to avoid doing something I would rather not.  It's a matter of getting the balance right.

Wednesday. January 15

 I've hung out the washing but the weather forecast is for ... thunderstorms this afternoon.   I put in the three dots to signify a pause.  This is when I sprinted to the clothes line to bring in the washing as quickly as I could.  You won't notice but I'm now wearing a different shirt to the one I had on when I was typing the first 50 or so characters. The navy blue one is hanging in the laundry to dry and I'm now sporting one in a tan colour.

The problem with these summer storms is they are all sound and fury and very little action.  The splash of raindrops stopped as soon as I had the washing.  in.  Do I put it out again, or is it better to use the dryer?

(That phrase 'sound and fury rang a little bell in my head so I had to look it up.  It's from Macbeth and the full quote is 

'It is a tale

Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury

Signifying nothing.'

Pretty appropriate, actually!

Tuesday, January 14

 We've fallen into a comfortable routine since moving into our little unit.  In 2020, beset by the COVID epidemic, we knew we had to make decisions in our lives which would reflect that we were getting older, slowing down and reducing our involvement in outside activities.  We were still fit enough to go walking every day, work at elections, do the weekly shop and even travel a bit.  But we knew the day was fast approaching when all those activities would fall by the wayside. The move to Longford was in anticipation that our lives would be different and we knew too many people who hung on to the home they loved even though it no longer fit their needs.

And it all came to pass as we anticipated.  We worked at one more round of exams, Marilyn did one more election, we took one more trip to Sydney, and we still took pleasure in going to the shops.  But, all those elements of our past life have been confined to the dustbin of history.  I still pop into the local supermarket a couple of times a week for fresh fruit and bread, but the big red Coles truck brings almost all of our groceries.  We still try to walk each day but our 'travel' is now limited to watching Youtube videos and enjoying the adventures of people we have never met.  If they happen to be in a part of the world we have visited in the past, we take pleasure in the vivid memories evoked.

All in all, we're content with our lives.  And, having just celebrated our 59th wedding anniversary, we're now looking forward to Marilyn's 80th birthday on March 2nd.  The party will be on Sunday, 3rd at the Longford Bowls Club (there was an important match to be played on the Saturday so the Club couldn't take us on the right day) and we are expecting a crowd to attend.  

Monday, January 13

 I didn't post anything yesterday.  That's not particularly unusual but the difference this time is that I don't feel guilty about it. Normally, if I fail to post something, I feel I have let the side down.  That's why some of my posts are absolute rubbish; I'm working on the basis that anything will do.  The important thing is to keep up the momentum, build up the numbers, keep the site ticking over.  But that's in the past.  From now on I'm going to aim for quality over quantity.

Or maybe not.  Do I have the strength to lift the energy level?  As my life is slowing down and my range of experiences is becoming narrower, how on earth can I hope to improve the quality?

The best I can do is to have an on-going aspiration to improve.  That's it; I'll make it my goal to improve.  I'll even make a sign to put on the front of my computer: 'Each day, in every way, my blog is getting better and better.'

That should fix it.

IS PROMOTION ALL THAT IT’S CRACKED UP TO BE?                          AUGUST 4, 2023 

There was a chart that Brian had drawn up when he was at school.  It was a sort of timeline setting out the milestones that Brian expected to achieve in his life, starting with ‘Leaving School’ at age 18, ‘Graduating from University’ at 22, ‘Marrying the Right Girl’ at 23, and so on.  There were also entries for his progress at work but they were a little less-defined, more of a statement of steps he would have to go through in his career: ‘Starting work’, ‘Getting promoted’, ‘Achieving financial stability’ and so on.

The important thing about this timeline was that it was flexible enough to be amended or added to as circumstances changed.  So, if Brian found himself, perhaps, with the opportunity of changing jobs to something more challenging, he could add a new element to his timeline.  Or, if his wife announced she was pregnant, he could build in his hopes and expectations for additions to the family.

One day his boss at the company where he worked took Brian aside and suggested they have a chat about his future.  He wanted to reassure Brian that he was a valued employee and that he was regarded as someone who could, one day, aspire to a senior role in management.  Brian pressed his boss to be a bit more specific.  Two years?  Three years?  How could he build this hope into his planning if he didn’t know when it might occur?

But the boss was not going to be pinned down.  ‘Keep your nose clean,’ Brian was told, ‘And we’ll look after you.”

It was frustrating for Brian who was very reliant on his timeline for reassurance but, as luck would have it, his immediate superior in the company, suffered a heart attack and had to take some time off.  To his delight, Brian was offered a promotion, starting immediately.  It never occurred to Brian that his promotion had come at the cost of a colleague’s good health and he neglected to even wish him well.

Brian spent some time bringing his timeline up to date and teasing out some potential future directions and knuckled down to his new job, assuming that it would be just a bit more of the same type of work that he had been doing for the past few years with just a slight increase in intensity.  He was shocked to find out, before too long, that he could not have been more wrong. 

After he had re-arranged his new office to better suit his needs, he was approached by one of the young women who helped with the secretarial work.  She had a complaint about another staff member whom she said was gossiping about her and making her life miserable.  Brian was taken aback.  How on earth did one deal with this sort of nonsense?  Writing himself a note in his diary, he put off having to sort it out to another day.

He had just settled down to his work when there was another knock on the door.  A male member of staff wanted to arrange a couple of days off to travel interstate to watch a football match.  A football match?  Where were his priorities?  Brian knew that company policy was that employees could ask for leave for anything which they regarded as important but, really, a football match!  Promising to get back to him, Brian scribbled a note to himself and settled back hoping to enjoy his new office at last.

But, it was not to be. 

There was another, rather tentative knock at the door.  It was Janet, one of the younger and newer employees.  She wondered whether it would be appropriate for her to bring in some of her home-baking to sell to her colleagues.  For goodness’s sake, Brian thought, and promised to give it some thought and get back to her.

Is this how it was going to be, he wondered?  Dealing with the trivia of everyone’s lives?  It wasn’t that he was concerned about making decisions but, surely, there was more to this promotion than that.

Another tentative knock at the door disturbed his thoughts.  Who would it be this time, he wondered – the janitor selling raffle tickets or someone wanting to set up a staff chess tournament.  It was, in fact, another of the male employees with a suggestion that it might be fun if one Friday each month was designated ‘Wear a Funny Hat to Work Day’.  He had the idea that this might help to boost staff morale.  Brian was at the stage of pulling out his hair.

There was another peremptory knock at the door and, without waiting for a response, someone walked in.  It was his boss.  “I’ve just popped in to see how you’re getting on,” he said, “And I was wondering whether you had any thoughts for changes to the work place.”

‘Only one suggestion,” said Brian.  “Find a new manager!  I quit.”

Saturday, January 11

They're predicting thunderstorms this evening and the sky is already overcast.  There's a bit of blue sky to the east but the wind is pushing the clouds in that direction so I don't expect the blue to last for long.  We get used to the changeable weather at this latitude and don't give it a second thought.  I wonder about the people who work at the Weather Bureau, though: they must tear their hair out when Tasmanian weather defies their predictions.

But we have our own problems to worry about.  Is it too hot to sit outside?  Would we be better on the front porch or on the concrete at the back?   Will the Coles man get here in time for us to have eggs for breakfast?

It's not true that life gets easier as you get older; it's just that the nature of life's problems change.

Friday, January 10, 2025

 It's true what they say, that the older you get the more you think about your life and the things you've done.  I'm glad I started this blog back in 2010 because it's a wonderful resource for re-living experiences and for checking that I've got the details right.  I'm not, by nature sentimental nor philosophical, but I couldn't help feeling pleased when I stumbled across this post I made on January 8, 2022.  Here it is:

Marilyn and I are celebrating our 56^th Wedding Anniversary today.  It will be a rather subdued celebration: age and Covid are taking their toll. However, we have good memories of past celebrations. For our fortieth, for example, we took our first cruise – sailing from Singapore on the Superstar Gemini visiting the islands and ports of Thailand and Malaysia, and there have been many other highlights to stir our memories.

I’m not a dyed-in-the-wool romantic but I can’t help musing on the circumstances which led Marilyn and me to St Aidan’s Church in Corrimal back in 1966.  If you believe there is a force in the universe dedicated to bringing people together, you might be right.

The first sticky thread of the web of our relationship was laid on January 8^th, 1951, the day my mother, my brother and I arrived in Australia.  On the dock, waiting to greet us was my father carrying a large basket of flowers.  Those flowers had been arranged by Iris Lofting, Marilyn’s mother.

My family moved to the small mining village of Russell Vale where we soon discovered Marilyn’s mother ran the local corner shop.  I must have seen Marilyn often, playing in her yard, or walking in the street, perhaps to visit her grandmother, although I have no memory of it.  We went to the same primary school; in those days, boys and girls were segregated but we might have seen each other over the fence separating the playgrounds.  The threads may be tenuous but they’re real, nevertheless.

My family moved away from Russell Vale, first to Sydney and then to Gwynneville and Marilyn and I had no contact until about 1960.  In that year, the DeMolay Order was established in Wollongong and I joined it very early.  Marilyn joined the female equivalent, called the Rainbows and the two organisations became close.  Marilyn’s father, Bill Lofting became the first Chairman of the DeMolay Advisory Committee and the potential for more threads adding to the web became apparent. 

Marilyn was a regular attender at dances organised by the DeMolays, coming along with her father.  She would have stood out, being very pretty, very petite, beautifully dressed and a great dancer.  I discovered she worked at the Anthony Horderns Store in Wollongong and she waited at the bus stop outside the store each afternoon for her bus home.  I found that it suited me to wait at the same bus stop – another thread!

About that time the DeMolays were organising a bus trip to Luna Park and I plucked up my courage and asked Marilyn if she would be my date.  Yes, we talked like that, in those days.  At Luna Park, my watchband broke and Marilyn put my watch into her purse for safe-keeping.  A little touch of intimacy and another thread.  On a particularly violent ride, Marilyn let go of the purse, it flew through the air and landed on the ground, shattering a bottle of Electrique perfume in the process and dousing my watch.  A shared disaster and another thread.

I bought my first car in 1962 and promised Marilyn I would pick her up in the morning to take her to work.  Of course, I slept in and she had to catch the bus.  A disagreement, certainly but, in its way, another thread. 

In the way that things worked in those days, there was no formal asking of her father’s permission, or bending of the knee to propose; our relationship evolved to the point that the question being considered was not, ‘will we marry’, but ‘when will we marry?’  Being teachers, we married in school holidays:  as it happened, on the fifteenth anniversary of the day I arrived in Australia – a particularly strong thread, I think.

Looking back, I have regrets that I am not more romantic and overt in showing my feelings.  Marilyn, on the other hand, has no difficulty in sharing her emotions.  Somehow, Marilyn has accepted that my shyness has been an issue for me right through my life and I am eternally grateful that she has tolerated my failings.  She has been an extraordinary partner to me, and we have shared some very difficult times.  However, I think more of the wonderful memories we share and, if there is some force out there bringing people together, I would just like to say, “Thanks, mate!”

Better poets than me have alluded to 'golden threads' which hold people together; the best I could come up with was 'sticky threads'.  Hmm!

Tuesday, January 8, 2025

 It's our wedding anniversary today - 59 years!  It's extraordinary to think we've reached that milestone and are still independent and enjoying life. Looking back into the family tree I can't remember anyone who held out for that duration.  It seems that the men all died young so a long marriage was not on the cards.  Both my grandfathers were in their 50s when they died and my dad was only 68.

Marilyn found an Anniversary card she had bought at some stage.  Her idea was that we would bring it out each January 8th, write a quick message and store it away until the next year.  The first message was dated 1997 and there were messages for the next couple of years, and then nothing. Clearly, the card had become lost.  It turned up again this year mixed up with Christmas decorations.  

We're going out for lunch at Stickybeaks, a favourite restaurant in Longford - just the two of us.

Monday, January 7

 I suppose Longford is typical of country towns around Australia: a mix of young and old, honest and dodgy, hard-working and lazy, financially successful and less so.  You can learn a lot about a town nowadays by reading the local Facebook page and Longford is no exception.  It's great that some people have no qualms about sharing their problems and worries, their hopes and fears, and their prejudices on-line for all to see.

"If the woman in Hobhouse Street who keeps yelling at my kids doesn't stop I'll take it further." 

"Does anyone have a rabbit hutch I could borrow for a few weeks.  My brother-in-law has given my kids two rabbits for Christmas."

Today, somebody was trying to sell a small collection of Biggles book.  Biggles books!  That's a blast from the past. I think I've read every Biggles books ever printed.  I suppose I read my first one when I was about seven years old and scoured the shelves of the library looking for new ones.   Christmas was always exciting because I could pretty well guarantee I'd receive one or two new titles.  And they were all hard cover in those days.

I carried my collection around for years until a major clean-up in about 2015.  With Jamie there for support, I took them in to a second-hand bookshop in Launceston and the young woman behind the counter gave me a few dollars for them.  She was quite excited to have what might have been first editions and said they would not be sold.  Instead, she would keep them in her private collection.  Looking back, she was probably saying that to make me feel better, that they'd be going to a good home.

And, no, I'm not going to buy the ones advertised on Facebook.  They're tacky, modern paperback reprints with lurid covers.  Just not the same!

Sunday, January 5

 Watching YouTube videos is a regular part of our routine.  I like Steve Marsh and Scott Manson, both from Scotland.  This morning, we caught a video of Steve and his wife, Alicia, in a small town in NE Scotland on New Years' Eve.  They stayed in a renovated Nissan Hut which was part of a POW Camp from the Second World War and joined in the NYE celebrations in the local town, which included a Fire Ceremony.  Brilliant!

We've recently discovered someone from Germany called Ken.  His channel is called Ken Abroad and most of his videos are filmed in South-East Asia, and all in English.  He's a strange fellow and takes incredible chances.  On one video, set in Indonesia, he decided he was going to visit a dockyard area (on his own).  He talked his way onto a decrepit wooden cargo ship, chatted to the crew, then left via a rundown area of dirty streets and hovels.  All the time he is carrying his state-of-the-art GoPro camera and who knows how much in his wallet.

I don't know why he hasn't been knocked on the head and robbed.  Today, though, he was in a five-star hotel in some other large city, enjoying the high-life.  It seems a strange career choice to be a blogger but it seems you can make a good living at it.   To each his own, I suppose.

Saturday, January 4

 I've never been a fan of growing my own vegetables.  The stuff you buy at the supermarket suits me fine and I don't see the value in growing my own.  I do have some rhubarb that I planted when we first moved into this unit and it provides me with a constant supply throughout the year. Apparently, I should be breaking up the crowns from time to time but I haven't worked out the process of doing that.  

Marilyn decided a couple of weeks ago that she wanted to try her hand at cultivation and bought a couple of punnets of lettuce and strawberries from Bunnings.  I faithfully water them each morning and they seem to be thriving, although the lettuce is a bit limp.  The other morning I noticed that there was a rather large strawberry on one of the bushes and it was starting to show some colour.  Marilyn asked me to keep an eye on it but, overnight some scavenger ate it.  Marilyn was furious and found some mesh material to cover the plants.  I had my eye on one large fruit which was starting to show colour and today I picked a ripe succulent prize-winning strawberry, the first of our crop.

Marilyn cut it into three pieces and we all enjoyed it.  Now we can't wait for the next one.

Friday, January 3, 2025

Sandra, our cleaning lady is here this morning so I'm at my desk trying to keep out of her way.  We set this cleaning arrangement up for Friday because I am normally at the Writing group, but I don't do that any more so I find myself in the way.  While the weather is fine, I can sit outside but you can't depend on good weather in Tasmania.  The weather, in fact, is beautiful this morning and I suspect we will be outside most of the day.

Today's story is one I wrote a while ago but I didn't date it.  No matter, here it is - Six Minutes.

SIX MINUTES

“It’s only six minutes to the station,” the Real Estate agent said, clearly struggling to find something positive to say about this sad-looking little cottage in an out-of-the-way suburb.  The cottage was weatherboard, with a tin roof. The boards were tired and more than a lick of paint would be needed to put some life back into this old-timer.

Funny – that phrase ‘lick of paint’ always reminds me of an old Fawlty Towers episode where a dodgy builder, o’Riley, was trying to convince Basil to hire him to do some alterations to the hotel.  He outlined the job, ‘knock a hole in the wall here, tidy up the edges, lick o’ paint, and it’s done’.  In my head, ‘lick o’ paint’ was always said in an Irish accent.  Was this a subliminal message to me?  Was my subconscious trying to tell me that there might be something dodgy about this deal that I am too tired to recognise?

We’ve been married for only a couple of years and I’m not yet earning a reasonable wage.  We’re expecting our first child so my wife’s income for the foreseeable future is not guaranteed but continuing to rent is certainly not going to get us ahead and everything we pay to a landlord is money we’ll never see again.

One part of me wants to forget the whole thing, stay in our flat, pay the rent and forget about home ownership, but my more sensible half demands I think about the future.  I can hear the slogan in my head: a small sacrifice now ensures a comfortable future.  But, is it a small sacrifice?  The mortgage repayment is going to be about the same as the rent we’re paying, and there will be rates, and insurance, and expenses for repairs and improvements - a lick o’ paint is never cheap.  These are the times I wish I’d been born to rich parents.  Life would have been so much easier.

I have to drag my brain to consider another aspect of this dilemma.  If we buy this house, my weekends will be taken up with house-related activities.  The lawn will need mowing regularly and I’ll probably have to reduce the number of golf games I play.  That may not be such a bad thing and, in any case it’s probably time I gave up my membership of the Golf Club.  My wife has been gently hinting that the money I spend on this activity, not to mention the amount I spend at the bar afterwards, is an indulgence and could be expended more wisely.  After all, a baby’s needs are insatiable and when he – I assume it will be a boy – arrives, my golf-playing days will be no more than a happy memory.

I’m starting to realise that my life is changing rapidly and I’m not sure I’m adapting to the changes as well as I might.  It seems only yesterday I was a carefree, self-contained bachelor, with no-one to consider but myself.  But now I’m in a situation where an unborn child has more rights than I have.

I have to give myself a shake.  My wife and I are young, energetic and resilient.  No doubt, things will go wrong from time to time in the future but we know we can deal with any eventuality.  The house is not wonderful but it’s a start and we will have great fun turning it into our dream home.  This suburb is a bit further away from my work and I’ll have to get used to travelling by train but, after all, it’s only six minutes to the station.

Thursday, January 2, 2025

 One of our neighbours has just popped in to chat with Marilyn so I'm taking the chance to write my first blog of 2025.  We both had appointments this morning with our new doctor and decided to have lunch before coming home and have now settled in to do nothing very much for the rest of the day.  Jamie has dropped Archie off to be looked after while he and Nera are busy. 

2025 looks like being very much like 2024.   I'm resisting making any New Year resolutions as I'm hopeless at keeping them.  Instead, I'll take each day as it comes and make the best of it.  

The weather is beautiful and we look forward to more of the same in the next few months.  Last night, we had a spectacular Aurora Australis.  Marilyn and I have lived in Tasmania for nearly forty years and we haven't really seen an Aurora until this year.  Are we getting more of them, or have we been looking in the wrong place?  I wonder whether the atmosphere is changing and there are more of them but who knows.  

There's a blackbird splashing around in the birdbath which is just outside my window.  When he's finished, I'll top it up.  I shouldn't be so nice to them.  They're making a mess of the strawberries that Marilyn is growing and we've had to organise some mesh to protect them.  Of course, it's cheaper to buy a punnett from Coles but where's the fun in that?