Tuesday, April 1

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

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

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

As Marilyn would say, "All Good!"

Monday, March 31

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

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

MRS MINIVER                                                         JULY 9, 2021

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sunday, March 30

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

 

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

Saturday, March 29

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

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

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

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

Friday, March 28

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

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

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

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

FIRST DATE                                                                                           23 May, 2020

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thursday, March 27

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

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

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

Wednesday, March 26

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

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

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

Saturday, March 22

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

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

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

Friday, March 21

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

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

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

MRS ROBINSON                                                                            23 APRIL 2021

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thursday, March 20

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

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

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

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

Tuesday, March 18

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

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

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

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

Sunday, March 17

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

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

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

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

Sunday, March 16

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

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

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

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

Saturday, March 15

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

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

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

Friday,

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

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

Am I becoming intolerant in my old age?

A TREE IN A MEADOW                                                                                      24 March, 2023

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Tuesday, March 11

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

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

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

Monday, March 10

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

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

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

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

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

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

Saturday, March 8

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

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

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

Friday, March 7

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thursday, March 6

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

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

Swings and roundabouts.

Wednesday, March 5

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

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

Tuesday, March 4

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

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

Monday, March 3

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

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

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

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

Sunday, March 2

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

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