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.

Thursday, February 13

 It was our Probus meeting yesterday but I had to leave early because I had an appointment with the podiatrist.  I thought I had an in-grown toenail but it turns out that it's more to do with my shoes.  The podiatrist said that the ones I wear every day are too narrow for my feet.  "But I don't have wide feet!" I moaned.

"No," she said. " But you have wide nails."  Wide nails?  I've had lots of insults thrown at me over the years but that's a new one.  Wide toenails, indeed.

The shoes I was wearing are New Balance and were a present from Jamie and Nera for my birthday twelve months ago.  I'm sure they weren't cheap and my back-up pair are also New Balance.  What to do?I'm not keen to spend hundreds of dollars on new shoes which might be just as bad.  At the moment I've found a pair of cheap Coles sneakers in the back of the wardrobe which are doing the trick and Jamie has rung to say he's coming around with another pair he's found that might be suitable.

I blame getting old.  Things start to go wrong when you pass 80 and I'm living proof.

Monday, February 10

 I stopped categorising birthdays many years ago so, when someone asks if I 'enjoyed my birthday' I don't know how to answer.  I am tempted to say 'It was quiet' and that's very non-commital so I can get away with it.  This year I had one card, two phone calls and an invitation to lunch, which included a gift.  And I'm very grateful that people still bother after all these years.  The thing is that very few people even know that it is my birthday, and why would they?  

I think I'll abort that train of thought ... it's not the direction I intended to go.  In fact, I just wanted to say that Jamie and Nera took us to a nice restaurant at Seaport, Nera's nephew was there, and Archie as well.  I had planned to have their Seafood Chowder but it was sold out so I had Crumbed King Prawns and we all had a good time.  Of course, I'm assuming that ... the others might have only been there from a sense of duty and couldn't wait for the day to end.  However, I enjoyed it and that's all that matters.

And, another year ticked off ... 82 and counting!

 

THE END OF THE BEGINNNG                                                                                                APRIL 12, 2024

“I’m not going to your mother’s! Last year’s disaster was enough and I don’t intend to put myself through it again.”  Therese drew herself up to her full height and crossed her arms.  It was clear that she would not be moved.

Geoffrey drew a deep breath.  It’s always like this, he thought.  It’s her way or nothing.   “We’ll talk about it later,” he murmured soothingly.  “We don’t have to decide straight away, although Mum has asked us to confirm because she’s ordering individual party packs and needs to have definite numbers.”

“I’d like to tell your mother what to do with her individual party packs but that wouldn’t be polite.  You can go on your own if you like.  I’m sure Mummy would be pleased to have her darling son all to herself.”

Geoffrey, as always, backed down and muttered, “We’ll talk about it later.”  It wouldn’t really be a disaster if he had to go on his own; he knew Angela would be there and, without Therese breathing down his neck, he could spend as much time as he liked with Mum’s new neighbour.  When he first met her, just a few weeks ago, it was like he had been hit by lightning – her blonde hair, big blue eyes and soft smoky voice made him draw breath.

“This is Angela,” he heard his mother say, as if from a distance. “She’s just moved in next door and doesn’t know anyone yet.  I’ve invited her to come to our New Year’s Eve party and she’s accepted.  You’ll be able to get to know her better then.”

Geoffrey was determined that he would be at the party and it would be nice if he could talk to Angela undisturbed, but he couldn’t imagine how he would explain it if Therese wasn’t with him.  His mother was a great believer in family loyalties and would be very suspicious if Therese opted out.  Could he convince her to feign an illness?  Maybe, but would they get away with it?  Always in the back of his mind was the thought that his mother often threatened to change her will.  If one of the family displeased her, for example, by separating from his or her spouse, they might be disinherited. 

While Geoffrey’s mind flitted between worry about his mother’s will and more lurid thoughts about the delightful Angela, Therese’s determination to avoid her mother-in-law’s party grew.  She had other plans for that one night of the year when people let their hair down and celebrated new beginnings.  She had plans for new beginnings of her own.

There was a new member of staff at the school where she worked.  He was unlike any of the other male teachers, all of whom seemed to have succumbed to middle age while still in their thirties.  She used to think it was the chalk dust which brought on premature ageing but she hadn’t seen a stick of chalk for decades.  It was probably a combination of the paralysing boredom of the daily lessons and the constant disappointment when their students failed to grasp even the simplest of concepts.

The new addition to the staff had clearly not yet thrown in the towel.  He still displayed a youthful enthusiasm and obvious enjoyment of life.  His smile lit up the staffroom and she had noticed he was oblivious to the mutterings of resentment from the ‘old guard’.  Above all, he was African: his dark skin and joie de vivre brightened her day.  Happily, he seemed to find enjoyment in her company too and she felt enervated in his company.  She couldn’t help the wicked thoughts which filled her mind.  “You’re a married woman,” she scolded herself, but always had to stifle a giggle when she thought about what might be.

Another member of staff was having a New Year’s Eve party and Therese knew that Thomas, the new man, would be there.  What occupied Therese’s mind was how could she contrive to be at that party as well, rather than the tedious excuse for a celebration which Geoffrey’s mother inflicted on her family each year.

As New Year’s Eve approached, Therese became more and more desperate.  The issue had become more than just a wish for a one-off fling with an exotic new man; this was a life and death struggle for Therese to assure herself that life was worth living, that it was not a mind-numbing round of tedious parties at Geoffrey’s mother’s, that there was excitement and sparkle and hope in the future.  Lurking in her sub-conscious was the unwelcome query: was she still attractive enough to interest someone other than boring old Geoffrey?

When she bumped into Thomas in the staffroom the next morning, Therese casually asked whether he was looking forward to New Year’s Eve.  “Oh yes,” he said. “I’m looking forward to it very much, and so is my wife.  She arrives from Nigeria this afternoon and we will be going shopping for a new dress for her.”

That evening, when the question of New Year’s Eve was raised tentatively by Geoffrey, Therese was quick to dash any of his hopes that she wouldn’t be going.  “Oh, yes,” she said. “I’ll be there.  I’m looking forward to having a chat with Angela, the new neighbour.”

Sunday, February 9

 It seems particularly quiet here this morning.  The family in the house just in front of us have moved out and taken their two little yappy dogs with them.  I wouldn't have thought that it would make so much difference but they barked at everyone who passed in the street and everyone who came down the driveway into our little cluster of units.  They were particularly noisy when Archie arrived although he quickly learned to ignore them. And now they've gone and silence reigns.

I'm twiddling my thumbs, marking time until we leave for my birthday lunch.  A particular favourite of  mine at this restaurant is their Seafood Chowder and I'll probably have that again.  You never know, though, I might be daring and have something else.

We'll be leaving in half an hour so I had better think about getting dressed.

Saturday, February 8

 I'm at a bit of a loose end this morning.  Since moving into this unit, I've been in the habit of watering the shrubs each morning.  I know, most sensible people do it in the evening but I was influenced by something I read on Google that, in Tasmania, it's better to water in the morning, Something to do with the effect of sunlight on moulds or something.  However, the past few days I've been watering after the sun comes up and I'm sure the water is evaporating before it can be absorbed by the plants.  By the time I reach the northern end, the southern plants are crying out for more. 

The solution is obvious: ignore the dubious advice of Google and water in the evenings - give the plants an opportunity to absorb some moisture before the sun slurps it all away.   If I do that, though, it means I have an extra twenty minutes or so each morning to be accommodated

So it's a matter of re-calibrating my routine to accommodate more time in the am and less in the pm.  It shouldn't be too difficult but we'll see.

PS I couldn't resist adding this snippet I came across this morning.  I was browsing Quora, marveling at the ignorance of so many USians when I noticed this reference: '..perhaps Musk will ship you all off to Mars, like the Golgafrincham ark .. But you won't get that reference.  Or even know where your towel is.'

What a good feeling it is when you do get an obscure reference!

Friday, February 7

I found myself on the road early this morning.  Nera's nephew, Brendan is studying in Tasmania at the moment and part of the course is to get practical experience in the field.  Currently, he has a placement at Westbury.  Jamie drops him off there in the morning and collects him again in the afternoon.  This morning he had something else to do so I volunteered to help out.

Brendan is a very pleasant young man but I'm not great with teenagers and have trouble making conversation with them.  Luckily, I could blame the road noise for my 'inabilty' to hear so the trip passed in relative silence.

I'm now back at home, breakfast is finished, and we're waiting for Sandra, the cleaning lady, to arrive.

BETWEEN THE CRACKS                                                              NOVEMBER 4, 2022

‘Are we there yet?’ The plaintive cry came from the back seat where my 8-year-old twins huddled together.  I was starting to worry that they were losing faith in their Dad.  After all, I had promised them a quick trip to the beach where we would pitch our tent and have an idyllic few days enjoying the fresh air, the sun and the sand.  Instead, we were on some remote mountain road, in the dark, groping our way towards our destination.  The weather was appalling: heavy rain and gusty winds threatening to blow the car off to the side of the road.

We had been held up when I had a flat tyre and it seemed to take hours for the RACT man to arrive.  Then the storm came, out of nowhere, it seemed.  We had seen no place on this road where we might sit it out so I had no option but to press on, hoping that there would be no more hitches and that we would eventually reach somewhere inhabited where we could find some shelter.

Through the driving rain, I spotted a sign ahead. As we came closer, I could see that it said ‘Rest Area’ with an arrow pointing to the left.  Without too much thought, I swung the wheel over and tentatively followed the track to a small clearing. I didn’t know what I hoped to find but I suppose the words Rest Area sparked a little glimmer of hope that it might offer some respite from the relentless, howling wind and pouring rain.

I could see the shape of a building ahead and, as we came closer, I could see that it was a simple hut. The rain seemed to ease for a moment and the wind was calmer too so, telling the twins to stay where they were, I stepped out of the car to investigate.  The door of the hut was unlocked and, using my phone to light my way, I stepped inside.  It was clearly a place where travellers might stop to have a picnic, with a fireplace at one end and benches around the walls for seating.  There was a rustic table in the centre of the room and a strong smell of dust and mildew.

It was certainly not luxurious but it was dry and would offer protection from the storm so I thought that it might be sensible to break our journey here, try to get some sleep and hope the weather improved so that we could drive on in the morning.  We had sleeping bags with us, of course, and enough snack food to keep us going. 

Getting our stuff from the car into the hut didn’t take long but I was soaked through before I had finished. However, we were soon safely inside and rolling out our sleeping bags.  I tried to light the fire but the previous occupants had left no twigs nor kindling so I had no success.  No matter, snuggling into our bags would soon warm us up and, no doubt, everything would look better in the morning.

I don’t know what woke me.  Maybe it was a surprising cold draft which came out of nowhere or, perhaps, it was the moaning sound of the wind through the cracks in the walls.  I think I woke first but it wasn’t long afterwards that both of the twins were wide awake too.

“What’s that noise?” Jack asked, grabbing on to his sister for comfort. 

“It’s only the wind,” I said, “Go back to sleep.”

But I worried that it wasn’t just the wind.  The moaning sounds seemed to form words. I could have sworn that I could make out intelligible meaning.

“Who are you?” I thought I could hear. “What are you doing here?”

Jack and Linda were wide awake now and demanding that I tell them what was happening.

“I don’t know,” I said, “But there’s nothing to be afraid of.” 

I didn’t think the children believed me; I must confess I didn’t believe myself.

“We’re just travellers sheltering from the storm,” I said out loud. “We need to rest for a couple of hours and we’ll be gone in the morning.”

I realised that the children would think their father was going mad: talking to a phantom voice, but it seemed to reassure them that I was taking their fears seriously.  They both settled down into their sleeping bags and, before long, they were asleep.  During the night, the storm seemed to abate and I slept too.

The morning dawned bright and calm.  We packed our belongings back into the car and set off to finish our journey.  But, just before I climbed into the driver’s seat, I turned to the front door of the hut and said, “Thank you.”

 

 

 

 

Thursday, February 6

 It's just a few days until my birthday but it's being over-shadowed this year by the fact that Marilyn's 80th is less than a month later.  That suits me fine; I've never been a fan of over-the-top celebrations and my 80th extravaganza a couple of years ago was a bit over the top.

We had that party at home and opened the garage to make extra space.  It didn't work particularly well because we ended up with two separate groups.  Marilyn has decided that her party will be at the local Bowls Club.  We have no connection with it other than the fact that Probus meets there and the morning tea they provide is pretty good.  It's a big room, too, and there is plenty of space for any kids to run around.

 For my birthday this year, when I will be 82 (hardly worth mentioning), Jamie and Nera will take us out for lunch at a fish restaurant at Launceston's Seaport. To emphasise how unimportant the occasion is, I didn't get a choice of venue.  Oh, no!  The determining factor is whether the restaurant has outside tables so that Archie can be there.  "You wouldn't want to have it without Archie," I was informed.

Archie will insist on sitting on my lap throughout the meal and will scrounge the best bits of my expensive fish.  What a birthday! (But I'm looking forward to it nonetheless.)

Wednesday, February 5

 I've mentioned before that we enjoy watching Youtube videos of people travelling.  Since out travelling days are long gone, we get vicarious pleasure in watching other people going through the hardships just so that we can see what they see (or say 'We've been there!)

On favourite is a fellow called Ken (Ken Abroad).  He is German, travels alone and focuses on SE Asia.  He doesn't seem to have a wife nor a girlfriend and rarely travels with anyone else.  He seems particularly naive and puts himself in situations which would look to be foolhardy. He has a few favourite tricks which he repeats endlessly wherever he happens to be: getting a haircut in a local barber shop  or a shave, buying some local food at a market, buying a football shirt representing the country he is in, and buying some food to give to a beggar.  And his routine seems to give him great success.

 I've been trying to analyse what attributes you would need to be a successful blogger and, apart from foolhardiness, a cheerful manner, and so on, I think you have to be a great talker.  Ken, like his counterparts, could talk under wet cement.  We watched one clip this morning, 21 minutes long, with Ken sitting in his hotel room talking about his plans for the future.  He had no notes and was talking in English, which to him is a foreign language, but he didn't stumble once, hardly drew breath and rounded up a 21 minute monologue brilliantly.  I couldn't do it. 

Monday, February 3

 It's another medical appointment today, this time for Marilyn.  It's just getting a blood test but it means a trip into town and that means pushing ourselves out of our comfortable rut.  Jamie has already been this morning, to drop Archie off on his way to work.  We see Archie most days and that's great.

Jamie and Marilyn have been busily planning her 80th birthday party.  I had mine at home but Marilyn's decided she wants to have it at the local Bowls Club.  There will be a lot more space and someone else will do the cleaning up.  Jamie has put a general notice on Facebook and those invited have already started to respond.  The local Filipino community will be heavily involved and we hope Madeleine and her children will come down from Brisbane for the event.,

I've been watching a number of travellers on Youtube, mostly from the UK but one fellow from Germany and a couple from South Africa.  Where are the Aussies, I thought, so I've checked with Google and identified a few.  Most seem to be caravanners doing the 'big lap' but there are one of two travelling in SE Asia.  I'll have a closer look at them.

BRIEF ENCOUNTER                                                                                        JUNE, 2020

How many of us can say, honestly, that we have met our heroes?  My wife and I had dinner once with Sir Edmund and Lady Hillary at a motel in Sydney and I’m happy to tell you more about that some other time but, unless you’re very fortunate or make a nuisance of yourself, it’s rare to see celebrities up close.  Normally, the best we can hope for is to have a brief encounter with someone we admire, perhaps in a crowded airport or, by chance, in the street.

In 1954, though, 70% of the Australian population were lucky enough to have a brief encounter with one of the most popular celebrities of the time – Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth II.  Yes, an estimated 7 million Australians, from a population at the time of around 10 million, lined the streets when the Royal cars passed by and flocked to the various showgrounds where the Queen would make an appearance.  As a reporter of the time commented:  Australians waited in all weathers and at all manner of vantage points to see her passing by, like a waving doll in a gilded cage. 

Our Prime Minister of the time made the most of this Royal visit. The PM left no doubt that he believed in the myth that Australia was a far-flung outpost of the Mother Country in the South Seas. Describing himself as ‘British to the bootstraps’, he must have been overjoyed at the opportunity to show his Queen all that Australia had to offer and, at the same time bask in the reflected glory attached to Her Majesty, which would help build up his standing with the voters. 

Ming the Merciless they called him, after an evil character in a Flash Gordon comic book of 1934.  It may just have been a happy coincidence that his preferred name lent itself to this connection and that some wit in the opposition party thought that there might be some political mileage to be made by using it as often as possible.

His name was Robert Menzies, followed by a string of initials, some of which allowed him to be referred to as Sir Robert.  He was intensely proud of his British ancestry and made it clear that he preferred the old Scottish pronunciation of his name - Ming-is: which led to his being dubbed Ming. 

The wharfies at Port Kembla also derided him as Pig Iron Bob because he expedited a shipment of raw steel to Japan in the 1930s which everyone knew would be turned into weapons to support Japan’s imperial ambitions in the Pacific and, as it transpired, they were turned against Australia during the Second World War.

He had two stints as Prime Minister at a time when Australians expected their PM to be aloof from the common herd, erudite and patrician in their demeanour. He is still Australia’s longest-serving Prime Minister.

In the eyes of many, Sir Robert Menzies let his country down in his speech of welcome to Her Majesty in the Australian Parliament on a later Royal visit in 1963.  Instead of using the occasion when the world was listening to offer a speech which highlighted the achievements of a proud, young nation, firmly establishing its place in the word, Sir Robert Menzies chose to play the lovestruck young swain bending his knee after a brief encounter with the unattainable lady of the manor.

Quoting from a rather trite poem by Thomas Ford, Menzies stunned his listeners. 

I did but see her passing by

And yet I love her till I die.

 It is said the Queen simpered but it is just as likely she was trying to cover up a sudden bilious attack.