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!)