Tuesday, September 23

 

At the beginning of winter this year I moved the bowl of our bird bath into the garage for safe-keeping.  I use an ordinary large flower pot for the base but the bowl is a decorative piece which we had made in North Queensland and cost us quite a few dollars.  I was worried that we might have a heavy frost one night and the bowl would suffer.  Although we are now having warmer days, frosts are still a possibility.  I wasn’t worried about the base and left it in the garden.

This morning, I noticed two blackbirds bouncing around the rim of the flower pot. “They’re looking for their bath,” said Marilyn, so I retrieved the bowl from the garage, put it where it belonged and filled it up with fresh water.

Within five minutes, the two blackbirds were in the water, having a bath.  Why do I think I’m being manipulated?

Marilyn's getting ready for her Craft morning but I suspect she's starting to lose enthusiasm for going out.  The weather is cold and our loungeroom is warm.  Our chairs are more comfortable than the ones at the centre and, maybe, the conversation with the other ladies is not as interesting as it once was.  I won't be surprised if she decides to have a break until the warmer weather returns.

Monday, September 22

 

I'm a bit slow about getting to this task this morning; My normal routine is: breakfast while watching a Youtube video, usually about Donald Trump at the moment, followed by writing to the blog if I can think of something relevant.  Marilyn came through a little earlier than usual and we found ourselves watching a longer video about a ferry trip from England to Haarlem in The Netherlands, while we had our coffee.  I regret sometimes that we were never able to visit Europe when we were younger and fitter but we would never have given up our trips to Japan or the great times we had in the Philippines.

The story I've attached today was written in response to an exercise at one of the groups I belonged to

(This is blog post #1990.)

THE BEACHCOMBER                                                                    23 JULY, 2021

Let’s think for a moment about becoming a beachcomber.  There are some basic questions that would need to be answered before you commit yourself.   The first question, obviously is Why?, and following on from that Where? and For how long?  Is it something you aspire to or is it an occupation you fall into? Is being a beachcomber an end in itself or is it simply a vehicle to satisfy some inner longing?  Can you make a living at it or doesn’t that matter?

If you can be satisfied that beachcombing is really what you want to do, we need to look at the question of ‘where’ because not all beaches might be suitable for this activity. You don’t want to be too close to civilisation, because solitude might be something you are seeking, but you don’t want to be too far away, either.  If you really want to comb the beach, what will you do with the gleanings of the beachcombing activity? If you intend to sell them, it would be helpful if you’re not too far from civilisation?  Nowadays, of course, most beachcombers don’t bother combing the beaches for items that may have some value – their time is better spent in other activities.

You need to think about climate, too.  Black Beach on the southern coast of Tasmania might seem attractive but the unreliable weather could be an issue. Further north is probably best.  Perhaps one of the sparsely-inhabited islands off the Queensland coast – possibly South Molle or Dunk Island.

Dunk Island, as it happens, was the home of a man who gave up the pleasures of modern civilisation and lived the simple life on the island for over 25 years.  His name was Edmund Banfield, but he is now better known by the name of Beachcomber.

He was trained as a reporter and worked on the Melbourne Age and the Sydney Morning Herald before joining the Townsville Daily Bulletin in 1882.  Although he took his professional responsibilities seriously, he felt, in his own words, that he lacked ‘those qualities which make for dutiful citizenship’.  He happened to camp, on one occasion, with some friends on Dunk Island; he was enchanted by the place and, in 1896 applied for a thirty-year lease of part of the island.

His health was not good: he had tuberculosis and had suffered a nervous collapse, so he resigned from his job and, partly blind, with a palsied hand and a deaf wife, he settled on Dunk Island at the end of 1897. His health improved enough that he was able to set about growing maize, vegetables, coffee and fruit, and he kept farm animals.  Although his farming activities were reasonably successful, he was not able to support his household - which consisted of himself, his wife, an Irish servant and occasional Aboriginal helpers - without the assistance of provisions from passing ships, which he received from time to time.

He kept an ‘erratic diary’ of nature observations, and this became the basis for frequent articles, the sale of which brought in some welcome income.  Many of his articles were written under the nom-de-plume, Beachcomber. He corresponded with naturalists throughout the world and a species of rat found on the island was named after him. 

Later, he wrote several books, including The Confessions of a Beachcomber and My Tropic Isle.  He was surprised by the widespread interest in his simple life, describing himself as a ‘sedate and determined man’ who resented violations of his privacy.  At least one enthusiastic reader of his books arrived unannounced and was certainly not welcomed.

Edmund Banfield or Beachcomber died in 1923 of peritonitis, and his wife was alone for three days before her signals were noticed by a passing steamer.  Banfield was buried on the island which has now become one of the most popular of Queensland’s tourist destinations.  A cairn has been built over the grave and a commemorative plaque installed.

Sunday, September 21

 It's a beautiful day in Longford so I decided to have a walk as early as possible after breakfast.  The air is still cold so I wear a padded jacket and a hat which I bought in Nepal. It's felt and shaped like a pill-box but it's in bright colours and obviously ethnic.  It does the double duty of keeping my head warm and informing passers-by that I have travelled internationally.  

I bought a litlle music player from Temu to give me something to listen to on my wanderings.  It cost me about $20 and I think it is money well spent.  My walk is not very long and, in fact, I can manage to listen to just three songs while I am wandering.  I don't know how many minutes that is but I might have to try harder.

Marilyn's watching a Youtube video while I am writing this.  I think I've mentioned Brogan before, and her gormless husband, Benjy.  They're in Canada at the moment giving anyone who cares to tune in their collected wisdom on that country.  I'm keeping away but I notice it's a 90-minute video and it might be hard to find things to keep me occupied for that duration.  I don't want to appear anti-social but still ....

Saturday, September 20

 I had a bit of a break-through yesterday; for years I've been trying to get Marily to slow down and look for ways to cut back on housework.  We have a cleaner, of course, who coms on Fridays but it's the day-to-day stuff which is the problem, like loading and unloading the dishwasher.  Yes, I have offered to do it but Marilyn knows that I'm opposed to the monsters and believe there is no place for them in homes like ours

Yesterday, I was surprised to hear Marilyn say that she might try to arrange a couple of home help mid-week for things like emptying the dishwasher.  I sensed that this was my chance to put in a suggestion.

"Why don't we forget about the dishwasher for a while and I'll just do the washing-up in the old-fashioned way?"

Reluctantly, I think, Marilyn agreed.  I suspect she was worried that my initial enthusiasm would soon wane and she'd be back to the drudgery of filling and emptying the so-called labour-saving device again.

It's been a whole day now and I've washed up three times.  Thyere's no reason why it can't continue.  One thing, though.  How can one elderly couple use so much cutlery?  Last night, after dinner, there were 9 forks in the washing-up.  Nine!   Something will need to be done. 

Friday, September 19

 Today's turning out to be just one more day in a long line of days just like each other.  I woke and was out of bed by 7 o'clock just like almost every other day.  I was disappointed that the blackberries I had stored in the freezer had been finished and I was forced to fall back on a punnet of strawberries from the local supermarket.

What has happened to strawberries?  The last time I took notice, a strawberry was a small, heart-shaped fruit, with a delicate pink tinge and a sweet flavour.  Now, after years of mucking around with the genome, scientists have produced a monstrous, bloated, mis-shapen, coarse abomination which has no perceivable flavour.  The punnet I unwrapped this morning had was full but had only seven strawberries in it, each looking like a retired prize-fighter after oner too many bouts.

I can't wait for summer to come and the first blackberries to appear.  I know they've mucked around with blackberries too but I can live with the fact that they don't have thorns now.  At least they taste the same.

SEPARATE LIVES                                                                                                 JULY 15, 2022

It was love at first sight, they said.  But everybody says that, even if the first emotion that passed between them was indifference.  Still, when you’re eighteen and all those around you are pairing up, the last thing you want is to be unattached: left on the shelf, they call it, like a slightly damaged box of soap powder that nobody wants infiltrating their shopping bag.  In a situation like that, even Barry was acceptable.  Easy-going, non-threatening, safe, unexciting Barry was how Freda heard him described but, as her mother often said, there’s a Jack for every Jill, and it looked like Barry was the only Jack in sight. 

Both mothers thought the news of an engagement was wonderful and you would swear you heard your father breathe a sigh of relief when you came home holding the sparkling ring aloft for all to see.  And the wedding day was joyful, with all your friends and family there to share in the triumph.  Barry had a few too many drinks, of course, and the wedding night was something of a disappointment, but you can’t have everything.

Twenty years on and you wonder whether it was all worth the effort.  You’ve made a good life for yourself, with a solid career and a reputation as a good friend.  You and Barry have managed to buy a very substantial house in a good suburb and you know you are envied by people who don’t know your circumstances.  You have an overseas holiday every year and have had a holiday home on the coast for ages but you have long got over the joy of seeing new places and relishing a change of scenery. And, in many respects, you lead separate lives.

You realise that the time you feel most at ease is the week night evenings when Barry goes off to his Model Railway Club or Toastmasters or Rotary, and you can have the house to yourself.  Oh, yes, there have been times when you have enjoyed the company of young men whom you have met casually on-line and, if Barry has ever had any suspicion, he has been gentleman enough not to say anything.  You’ve read about people like you in novels and even seen them on television; it worries you that characters like that who cheat on their husbands often come to a sticky end and you think that’s hardly fair.  What do you expect, though, when most of the programs are made in the USA where everyone has an unhealthy Puritan outlook on anyone over 40 having sex?

You tell yourself it would be much better if you lived in Paris where you would be expected to enjoy a personal life without busybodies casting aspersions.  You have a little chuckle at that phrase: ‘casting aspersions’, one of your mother’s favourite sayings, although she could never remember whether it was aspersions or nasturtiums.

Is that the doorbell?  Who could be calling at this time of night?  You’d better answer it; it could be important.

“Good evening, madam,” said a rather large policeman.  “Is this the home of Mr Barry Buchanan?  Is he at home at the moment?

"No, he’s not,” you reply.  “What is it about?”

“I assume you are his wife, Mrs Freda Buchanan.  We want to talk to your husband about a number of matters regarding several houses in this area which we believe are being used for the purpose of trafficking illegal drugs to minors.  Do you expect your husband home soon?’

“What?  Barry pushing illegal drugs?  He won’t even take an aspirin for a headache.  He wouldn’t have anything to do with drugs. And, no, I don’t expect him home soon. This is his Toastmaster’s Night.”

“Well,” said the policeman. “About this Toastmasters Club: we have reason to believe it is a front for a ring of drug pushers. The meetings seem to be where drug deals are concluded and when any disputes about areas are dealt with.”

“And while we’re waiting for your husband to come home, I’d like to talk to you about complaints from your neighbours regarding suspicious goings-on at this address and regularly-observed inappropriate behaviour.  We’re told your guests are often young men, some clearly under-age, and neighbours have observed frequent nudity and drunkenness. 

Perhaps you should sit down.  There’s more and this could take a while.”

Thursday, September 18

 We've fallen into a quite comfortable routine since moving into this unit.  I 'm in the habit of getting out of bed at around 7 o'clock. Marilyn likes to stay in bed for another hour at least but likes me to take her a cup of coffee as soon as the kettle boils. Until recently, I had made a habit of turning on the TV to see what is happening on Youtube; I avoided anything to do with news or current affairs although Trump's antics are rivetting and I generally found time for the reporting of one or two of his most ludicrous antics.  

I often used this time to catch up one of the better UK comedy programs like Have I Got News For You but lately I'm becoming bored with the predictability of these.  In fact, I've become disenchanted with the whole rigmarole of morning TV and often don't turn it on at all.  I'm more likely now to read a book while the house is quiet.

I don't like to analyse my actions and try to make them seem like they are based on some philosophy but I think it's fair to say that my desk is my 'safe space', the place I go when I want to be with my own thoughts and, perhaps, make sense of something which is bothering me.

I just wish I could keep my 'safe space' a bit tidier.  If my desk is supposed to reflect the state of my mind, I should be very worried.  Indeed!

Wednesday, September 17

 

Sometimes I come across a sentence in something I’m reading which stops me in my track.  It might be a reference to somebody I’ve heard about or a word that reminds me of a past experience.  Today it was a question asked, innocently by one character to another.  The question was, “What book have you read which changed your life?”

There’s an assumption there that everyone will experience that life-changing moment, or that people will recognize it when it occurs, and each of those assumptions , of course, is nonsense.  The avid reader of Mills and Boon novels or the devourer of Jack Reacher may never feel the sense of revelation implied by the original question but that’s avoiding the point.  It’s not just about the content of the book being read but it may be about the very act of reading.

If a person is not a reader, their life may be narrower and less invigorating than someone who can experience what it is like to be in someone else’s shoes.  When I read a simple detective story by someone like Stephen Booth, I can vicariously experience what it is like to be on the moors in England in a snowstorm trying to make my way back to my car without a torch.

So, I, of course, have tried to think of the book which changed my life and I can’t get past the book which I was given, I think, for my seventh birthday in 1950.  It was Rubbalong Tales by Enid Blyton.  I couldn’t put it down and I think that book, more than any other, sparked my lifelong love of reading

By the way, I saw a copy of the book for sale on the internet.  It was the 1950 edition with original dustcover and was only $78.  My copy, without dust cover, may still exist, in a box in Jamie’s garage.  I might go looking for it one day.

Tuesday, September 16

 Our Coles order has just been delivered.  The usual Sunday delivery man is a person of mature years with white hair and a very pleasant manner.  He always asks how we are and whether Archie is staying with us.  He's a great asset to the company and, if we were thinking of changing suppliers, we would probably not, juts because of the man who delivers the groceries.

It's a miserable day here.  I've been waiting for  Temu order and the last notification I had is that it arrived in Launceston on Saturday, and was expected to be in my letterbox on Monday or Tuesday.  The next think i should hear is that 'it is on the truck' and will be delivered today.  I don't have that message yet and I wonder what is going on.

Monday, August 15

 I've just dropped Marilyn off at her Probus meeting.  Unlike me, she enjoys them and looks forward to each one.   I think it's the fact of getting dressed up as much as the opportunity for a chat.  Neither of those things works for me so attending my Probus meeting is more of a chore than anything else.

This morning I'm waiting for a parcel from Temu.  The tracker tells me that it has arrived in Launceston so, with a bit of luck it might turn up at any moment.  There's nothing much of any significance in the order but there is a small piece of technology which I will especially enjoy.  It's a small music player which I can carry on my morning walk.  I've had ipods and other players in the past and, in fact, I dug the old ones out to see whether they still worked.  But, time has taken its toll and they've all gone to God.  I checked the local suppliers and nobody seemed to sell what I wanted; Temu gave me a choice of colours and only wanted $21 so the deal was done .I'm keen to see what I get for my money.  I had to make up the order to $50 to get free postage so there are a couple of other delights there as well. But, it's the technology which is the real prize!

Sunday, September 14

Jamie and Nera are in Hobart this weekend so we are baby-sitting Archie.  It's a regular thing and he seems to cope with it very well.  He has routines and favourite toys and sometimes it seems the whole household marches to his drum.  I suppose any dog-owner might say the same.  

The day started off sunny but the sky has clouded over and we might get rain.  We have no plans to do anything.  I can't help wondering what our lives might have been like if we had lived our lives in another environment.  I can't help comparing our lives with that of Steve Marsh whom we follow on Youtube.

Here is what we saw on his video this morning: he woke up on a particular morning in Montrose in Scotland where he lives.  He decided on a whim that he might go somewhere so he walks to the railway station, catches a train to Edinburgh and on to the airport where he takes a cheap flight to Copenhagen.  He arrives there early enough to take another train to Malmo in Sweden, crossing the famous Oresund Bridge on the way.  It's Spring in Europe and the weather is delightful.

A comfortable night in a reasonably priced hotel caps off a great day in which he has managed to visit two foreign countries.

I suppose if we lived near Sydney or Melbourne we could have a similar experience if we flew to Auckland, but I can't imagine it would be as exciting There certainly is a price to pay because we chose to live in Australia.

Saturday, September 13

 After almost 2000 posts to this blog, the program decided it didn't recognise me this morning and that meant I had to go through the rigmarole of remembering my password.  Except, this morning it was different.  Instead of asking for my PIN I was asked for my address.  Okay!  I started to type 2/40 Burghl.. and a list appeared of 5 or 6 possible options and I was surprised to find there were other places in the world where 2/40 Burghley St existed.  There were two in Lincolnshire, UK, for example, another in London and even one in Birchwood, New York.

It's getting harder to be an individual in today's world, isn't it!

I'm thinking about whether I should have a walk this morning.  The weather is cold and I seem to have strained my back.  Yesterday was our exercise class which is a strain in itself but Marilyn and I decided it would be a good idea to walk from there into town to a favourite coffee shop, and back to the car afterwards.  This morning the twinge in my back is telling me that I might have done a little too much.  Nothing is very far from anything else in Longford but we still need to be careful.   

Thursday, September 11

 I don't usually take any notice of the 'Australia's Best ...' competitions which pop up in the media from time to time.  After all, who needs to know that Australia's Best Icecream is found in a little shop in South Australia?  I'll never be there to try it.  But, my interest is piqued by a claim that Australia's Best Vanilla Slice comes from a shop in Campbelltown, Tasmania, just down the road.  Of course the locals call it Australia's Best Snot Block.

The claim is suspect, of course, as it's the proprietor of the shop saying it with no evidence of any procedure to measure one slice against another.

I did note one 'Best Of ..' in today's news.  Somebody has been looking at Australia's small towns and has tried to rate them against each other.  What a job!  And what criteria what you use?  And what an opportunity for corruption!

In any case, I was pleased to see that Deloraine in Tasmania came second.  I have a soft spot for Deloraine, of course, as it's the home of Giant Steps and the world-renowned Deloraine Craft Fair.  I don't know whether any benefits will flow from being chosen as second-best but one can only hope.

Oh, by the way, the winner this year is Fremantle.  My only memory of Fremantle is of Marilyn and i having coffee there when we stepped off a cruise ship many years ago, so I have no idea what sets it apart from any other small town.  Or maybe it was just Western Australia's turn to have a winner.

Wednesday, September 10

 I wonder what the process is for the Friends Request facility on Facebook.  Every morning, when I open Facebook, I find one or two 'requests' from people wanting to be my friend.  I haven't checked but my feeling is that most, if not all, are from females.  Perhaps, though, this is just wishful thinking.

This morning there was a request from a woman from Deloraine.   I don't know her well and probably wouldn't recognise her in the street, but I did know her husband and I can recall that he died a few years ago.  Mike was the only person I know who had the same birthday as me.

I've never responded to any of the 'requests' which come to me.  Clearly, I can't imagine what can of worms I might open if I clicked the OK button but I know I would not be a worthwhile Facebook friend to anyone.  I don't post anything nor respond to anyone else's post so it would be like befriending a picture on the wall.

But back to Sonya's (not her real name) request.  Is it legit?  Did Sonya do a search of Facebook until she found my name and, breathlessly, clicked the button to alert me she was keen to hook up?  Or did Facebook do a periodic trawl of all the other subscribers who matched some of the characteristics which might suit Sonya: locality, age, sex, 'click' history, and so on?  Who knows?

I'm sorry if Sonya is waiting breathlessly for a response from me. She might be a little disappointed but she would be more disappointed if I had said Yes.  I'm too old for all this nonsense.

Tuesday, September 9

 There's a sameness about life at the moment as each day seems to be just a reflection of the one before.  There are subtle differences, of course: we usually receive a Coles' order on Friday and I have to put out the bins for Wednesday morning, but in general terms one day is just like another.  Is there a song with those words?

This week, the stand-out day is Wednesday where we have, not one, but two events: the first is a luncheon involving my Probus Club where Marilyn will attend as my guest, and the other is that we will have to hurry away from the luncheon for our appointments with the podiatrist.

I've been giving serious consideration to the Probus Club.  I've managed to off-load the job of treasurer but I've been a member for about three years and still only know a handful of names.  Part of that is my lack of attention to such things but the rest is that we only meet once a month and don't do much else.  Most of the members have known each other since school and I still feel I'm the outsider.

Thinking about tomorrow's luncheon, I can't say that I'm looking forward to it.  Having Marilyn with me will make it more enjoyable but otherwise I'm ambivalent.

Still, if we weren't going, what else would we do?  Sit at home reading our books, no doubt!

Monday, September 8

I've been for my walk and the rest of the day is unfolding in front of me.  Unfortunately, I have no plans to fill those hours in any meaningful way.  At least the weather is promising: cold, of course, but the sun is shining.  

I look at the untidy mess on my desk and imagine what it would be like if I were able to make it tidy and more efficient.  The problem is that I have on my desk things that I like as well as things that I need, not to mention things that I don't need at the moment but might in the future, like a fan.  And, I don't have any drawers in this desk; only a narrow set of shelves down the left-hand side with several open baskets.  

It's things like cords for connecting the various drives to the computer that lie around and staplers, sellotape dispenser hole punch, plastic bag of USB drives ... the list goes on.

I need a plan to fix this ... so that will become my project for the next couple of days.  Isn't life tedious when you become older?

Sunday, September 7

 It's not a very inspiring day here in Longford.  The sky is grey, the air is cool and there's no sound of life from the street.  I'm not aware of any activities being organised in the town and, because it's Sunday, I don't expect any deliveries.  I suppose the only thing to do is turn the air conditioner to warm and curl up in the loungeroom with a book.

I'm re-reading a series of detective novels at the moment.  They're by Stephen Booth and are set in a rural area of England.  I don't know why I am attracted to this type of novel.  I'm no anglophile, I think the villagers depicted in the stories are unappealing and the outcomes are often predictable (who needs a happy ending every time?)

Maybe it's the fact that I've been brought up on this sort of stuff: Midsomer Murders on TV, for example.  Or maybe it's because the books are predictable and, yes, they do have a happy ending, or, at least an ending which confirms that right always triumphs in the end.

I've tried reading other, more worthy, books, but I've decided I choose to read for enjoyment rather than for edification.

I've just noticed that this s blog post number 1976: only 24 more to reach 2000.  If I were planning to call an end to the experiment, 2000 is a nice round number.  I'll have to think about it.

Saturday, September 6

 Marilyn is reading a book called The Chocolate Factory: a novel based around the establishment of the Cadbury plant in Hobart in the 19th century. We knew several families who worked there and, especially, one whose son played in Jamie's basketball team.  There were always chocolates at team barbecues.

On the ship which brought my family to Australia we met a couple who had worked at Cadbury's in Bournville in England.  Ray and Edna Sparks were not heading for Tasmania but settled in Sydney where they opened a cake shop at Five Dock. They seemed to take a shine to me and I spent a lot of time there, travelling by bus each morning to school at Drummoyne.  I would only have been eight or nine.  Later they moved to Wombarra and then Thirroul where we kept up the friendship.

Ray drove a delivery truck for Cadbury's and I really enjoyed being his off-sider, going with him when he made his deliveries.  Often, shopkeepers would return bars of chocolate which their customers had rejected, saying they were mouldy.  In almost every case they were bars of Treasure Island or Rum and Raisin with little blemishes which Ray said were caused by air bubbles formed in the manufacturing process by the fermentation of the raisins.  They were perfectly good to eat, of course, and I acquired a taste for them.  Which 10-year old boy would turn his nose up at free chocolate?

We had Christmas with them one year while they lived in Wombarra and, when we stayed with them at Thirroul on another occasion, Ray helped my brother and I build a canoe out of a sheet of roofing iron.

Great memories!

Friday, September 5

 I'm always up before Marilyn in the morning and I use that time when I am alone in front of the TV to watch Youtube.  Lately I've found myself drawn to clips which highlight the idiocy of Donald Trump and I wonder at the irony of the country which holds itself up as the epitome of freedom and democracy now being in the thrall of a de facto king.

There's no way, in any other democracy, that the leader of the government could make such demagogic pronouncements as Mr Trump makes on a daily basis.  Can you imagine the UK Prime Minister deciding to clad the Tower of London with aluminium sheeting, or Mr Albanese building a ballroom on to The Lodge, without getting the populace onside first?

When the US people overthrew the rule of the British King, it was because they wanted a say in who ruled them.  The wanted their leaders to be elected by the people. Wonderful!  A very noble and forward-looking undertaking. Unfortunately, they then gave to that elected person many of the rights and privileges which are totally inappropriate in today's society. The President became a de facto King and not a modern king, but more a king from the Middle Ages.  The leader of the country should never appoint judges, for example.  That's asking for trouble, as we can see every day in the USA.  Judges should be appointed on their merit and not on which party they support.  In Australia, I might guess that a particular judge would be a Liberal voter, but I wouldn't expect it to influence his judgement.  And, kif it did, his peers would soon deal with it.

I don't know how the US is going to get out of this mess.  Simply changing sides is not enough.  They almost need to draw a line under the Great Experiment and start again.

Thursday, September 4

 For years I've downloaded TV shows and movies to watch at our leisure and it's been suggested that it's become an obsession.  As if!  The fact that I download much more than we could watch in two lifetimes is irrelevant and, as I've been heard to say, everybody needs a hobby.  I store the stuff on two hard drives which I've had for years and like all animate and inanimate objects, they're showing signs of wear.

I wondered whether it was time to splash out and purchase a couple of solid-state drives but, even if I went to Temu, I'd resent the outlay.  Jamie is not a fan of Temu and would try to talk me out of it.  His suggestion is to store all my downloads on the hard drive of the computer and, when we want to watch something, transfer it to a decent USB stick and go from there.  Why didn't I think of that?  There's plenty of room on the hard drive and all my precious programs would be available when needed.

It will take organisation: setting-up and transferring files, so I had better make a start.  A trip to Officeworks to get some better-than-average USB sticks is on the cards sooner rather than later.

Wednesday, September 3

 I'm looking for a particular cable for an electronic gadget I've discovered in one of my baskets.  It's a tiny media player which I can clip on to my shirt and might be useful when I go for a walk.  Of course, it's a bit old and the required cable is obsolete.  Maybe Jamie will have one hanging around.

I might have had a whinge in a previous post about my problems with listening to audio on my walk each morning.  I've been using my phone and find that it switches itself off when I reach the corner where I turn for home.  And it won't switch on again.  I wondered whether it has a built-in mechanism to turn off after a certain number of minutes to save power.

Not so, says Jamie.  The problem is that you don't have your Gefooly switch on, so the 'phone is still connecting to your internet and that's why you can connect to podcasts.  When you reach a certain distance from home (and lose your internet connection) the 'phone detects the loss of  that link and switches off.  (The switch may not be called Gefooley!)

Anyway, he's now switched it on and I'll give it a go this morning.  As a backup, I need the cable for the media player. It's old technology and I'm more comfortable with that.

Tuesday, September 2

 I've never understood the reason why dish washers have become so ubiquitous in Australian homes.  Maybe I should clarify that I'm looking at this situation from the point of view of an elderly pensioner who lives in a two-person household.  I understand that this is not the norm but I suspect that there are fewer large households than there used to be as I suspect that people are deciding to have fewer children than was once the case. Or maybe contraception is better.

But what has this to do with dishwashers?  Even though there are just two of us in this household; even though we eat simple meals, even though we have lived in this unit in Longford for five years and have never cooked a roast dinner here, even though our normal meal is pre-prepared in another kitchen and re-heated in ours, we still have a dishwasher.

I had my cereal this morning, put my slice off thick-cut fruit loaf in the toaster and reached for a knife to butter it.  The knife drawer was empty, because all the knives were in the dishwasher waiting for it to look full enough that we could switch it on.  Madness!  I extracted a single knife, rinsed it under the hot tap and buttered my toast ... and then put the knife back in the dishwasher!

From a labour-intensive point of view, a dishwasher makes no sense.  A time and motion study would need to note that using a dishwasher involves loading it, unloading it and putting the washed items away.  All of that involves bending because the dishwasher sits on the floor.  Compare that with the energy needed to wash up today's breakfast dishes in the old-fashioned way.  Half a sink of hot water from the tap, a squirt of dishwashing liquid, swill around 2 teaspoons, 2 cornflake spoons, 2 bowls, a knife and a plate, and leave them to drain.  It's a no-brainer.

But, I'll never convince Marilyn.