Tuesday, July 14th

Time is dragging now as we work through the difficulties of isolating ourselves together with the interminable waiting for the house sale to resolve itself.  We console ourselves with the thought that we would be a lot worse off if we lived in Brazil or USA or even UK.  At least we can still do our own shopping, go for a walk or even have a cup of coffee at a favourite cafe.

We've been watching some shows on TV, with titles like Mighty Trains and Extreme Railways.  There's a bit of heroic talk about how big the trains are and how much load they can carry but, in reality, the programs are set in some of the most exotic locations in the world, so we've become armchair travellers.

Some programs are a bit more mundane than others.  One we saw this week showed the trip on a little 2-carriage train from Inverness to Edinburgh.  I did this trip when I went to the UK but I fell asleep after we left Aviemore, so I have no memory of the places we passed.  It was good to fill the gaps in my recollections.

I was missing one series of Extreme Railways and checked whether our local library might have a DVD of it.  No luck, but there was a book about the whole program so I borrowed it.  It's interesting enough but some nit-picking, pedantic, train-spotting anorak who had borrowed the book previously has gone through and made some alterations and corrections to the text in cheap blue biro. 

In the chapter on Australia where the driver of the Ghan says, "God, you look rough!" the critic has carefully scored out the word 'God'.  In another section, the author  says "the Russian alphabet is different to any language" and the anorak has crossed out 'to' and written 'from'. Maybe he's suffering more from the social distancing than we are.

Sunday, July 12th

We had lunch out yesterday with two other couples at Golden Valley, just outside of Deloraine.  The property, owned by one of the couples, is built on the shore of a small lake which they share with 3 or 4 other neighbours.  The lake is totally enclosed by private land so is not spoilt by fisherman and picnickers leaving their rubbish.

In conversation, one of the other fellows, who is a local farmer told us about the new toy he has bought: a self-propelled rechargeable wheelbarrow - clearly the rural toy for the man who has everything.  Paul found it in a catalogue but had trouble convincing the local suppliers that such a thing existed.  However, one was sourced and is being delivered soon.

It's just like a noirmal wheelbarrow with a wheel at the front and 2 handles at the back. but the front wheel is attached to an electric motor and, instead of two legs to keep it level, it has two more wheels.  The motor is driven by two rechargeable batteries.

We asked him why he needed such a thing, knowing that the farm has tractors, quad bikes and various trailers but he told us a story which explained it all.  With the cold weather, they are using quite a lot of wood in the house, not only for the various fires, but also for the old- fashioned fuel stove in the kitchen.  He had noticed that his wife, Cate, was having trouble pushing the wheelbarrow full of wood from the shed up to the back door, so he thought she might appreciate a bit of help.

I don't know whether he managed to find a pink wheelbarrow, or whether it's a gift for a birthday or wedding anniversary but it does show that, in the countryside, romance is not dead.

Saturday, July 11th

The weather is awful this morning: cold and bleak.  Jamie and Nera have gone to Hobart for the weekend to celebrate their 6th wedding anniversary but, of course, when they announced to their friends that this was their plan, everybody wanted to get in on the action.  So now there are 24 of them, staying at the one hotel and desperately looking for restaurants which can cater for such a big crowd.

Marilyn and I are going out for lunch today, to friends in Deloraine.  It will be nice, of course, but there's also an attraction in staying home, with the heater on, catching up with a good movie on TV. 

Yesterday's topic for my writing group was The Bungalow and here's my effort.  It's intended to be the introductory chapter for a much longer story if I ever feel the urge to write it.

Charles checked his mail box every morning although he rarely received anything more than advertising circulars, or reminders of bills due, or hopeful missives from charities about the continuing need for fortunate individuals like him to share their clearly undeserved wealth. Even birthday cards now came by email.  Each morning, though, he wondered, “Will there be something exciting in the box today?”  And, this morning, surprisingly, there was a real letter.  As he took it from the box, Charles thought “and an answer came directed, in a writing unexpected”.  How extraordinary, he mused, I haven’t read Banjo Patterson since I was at school and, yet, the famous words just popped into my head.  The letter was unexpected, though not hand-written, in fact, quite official looking but with an unfamiliar stamp.  

Giving himself a shake, Charles turned the letter over and noted it was from a firm of solicitors in Delhi, of all places.  Immediately, he wondered if it could be about his mother’s sister, Eloise, who had followed in the footsteps of The Beatles and vanished into India all those years ago.   She was the only possible connection he might have with India. His mother was long gone so he must now be Eloise’s only living relative.  He hadn’t thought about Aunt Eloise for years; better open the letter and see what it was about!

Dear Sir, it read, it is our sad duty to inform you that our client, your relative Eloise Parker has recently passed away and the purpose of this letter is to inform you that she has left you the entirety of her estate, in particular a small dwelling in Kashmir.  Enclosed is a cheque representing the balance of her available funds less the amount of our fees.  It would be appreciated if you could contact us at your earliest convenience to inform us of your wishes in regard to the Kashmir property.

Well, that’s the last thing I expected this morning, thought Charles.  I thought Eloise had died years ago.  I suppose I’ll just write to these solicitors, tell them to sell the house and send me the money.  What do I want with a house in Kashmir, for goodness sake?  A bit of extra cash will be useful. On second thoughts, though, I could use this cheque to fly to Kashmir, see the house and have a bit of a holiday at the same time.

Three weeks later, Charles arrived in Delhi, and met the solicitors who had arranged onward travel for him to Kashmir, and a guide to make sure he arrived there safely.  India was a shock to his senses: the noise, and the crowds of people and, above all, the smells, but Kashmir was heaven on earth.

The town where Eloise had ended her days was on a lake.  The air was cool and scented with exotic flowers.  There were houseboats on the lake and the guide explained they were a popular tourist attraction.  After his long journey, though, Charles was anxious to see his newly acquired house.  It stood in a clearing surrounded by tall trees.  From the depths of his memory, Charles dredged up the recognition that this was, in fact, a traditional bungalow, a house built in the Bengali style: it was one-storey, squarish, with verandahs on two sides.  The roof was thatched.  There was a feeling of tranquillity about it and some words came, unbidden, to his mind:

“There is sweet music here, that softer falls,

Than petals from blown roses on the grass.”

Poetry again, thought Charles, but Tennyson this time.  He realised that his plan to sell the house was not as cut and dried as he had thought.  This house … this ‘bungalow’ … had an attraction which Charles could already feel working on him.  How was he going to deal with it?

Friday, July 10th

The agent who's selling our house turned up yesterday with the buyer and one of his mates who is a builder.  If we had known they were coming, we would have cleared out but the agent apparently forgot to ring us.   No matter, it was good to meet the young fellow and to hear how excited he is with his new challenge.

He brought the builder along to advise him on how would be the best way to extend by adding another bedroom or two.  We had always said we build on to the back of the house, to make it more of a square shape, but the builder said he would recommend driving a corridor through the existing toilet and build on the back, adding two bedrooms and a full-size bathroom.  We're pleased he was complimentary about the quality of the existing building and that it was very suitable for extending.

The young fellow already owns (or is buying) a house in Launceston and is using the equity in that property to help him buy this one.  He intends to live here and rent the other.

We can feel that D-day is not far away and can't wait to start packing.  We've already cleared the shed of all our junk and the house will be a doddle compared to that task.

Monday, July 6th

The caravan seems to be moving again with regards to the sale of our house. Seven or eight people came through for an inspection during the week, several of them for a second look and the agent received three or four firm offers.  One fellow offered $5000 more then the asking price, and had already spoken to his bank so his offer was accepted.

Because this second offer has happened so quickly, there is still a chance that we will get the Longford unit.  Jamie managed to get the developer to agree to keep our offer open but we're not holding our breath.  It's out of our hands and we just have to let matters unfold.

This week's topic for the writing group was Black Pearl and here is my 566-word effort:

One time, in our travels, we found ourselves in the Philippines.  On this particular day, we were travelling to the island of Mindoro and we had been promised that it was famous for its white sand beach and its black pearls.  Locals told us the pearls were found in the Sulu Sea and were better quality than the more famous Tahitian black pearls.  But they would say that, wouldn’t they?

There were regular modern ferries which travelled to the island and the fare was only $8 but our hosts were determined to give us an experience to remember, so we lined up on the beach to embark on a traditional wooden banca.  We removed our shoes and I rolled up my trouser legs as the waves seemed to be getting higher.  It was Typhoon season and being on the open sea in a wooden boat didn’t appeal to me.  However, after a rather wet trip, we arrived safely and took a jeepney ride to the famous beach.

We had been warned about the hawkers who went along the beach looking for tourists to scam.  All the markets and street pedlars in the Philippines, it seems, are controlled by criminal gangs from Mindanao.  Young people are recruited to spend a few months in some market or resort area trying to extract money from tourists looking for a bargain and it wasn’t long before a clean-cut young man accosted us, saying “Would ma’am like to see some beautiful black pearls?”

My wife was unsure, remembering her grandmother’s warning that black pearls were unlucky but he reached into his bag, took out a velvet pouch and revealed a full string of black pearls.  He whipped out a cigarette lighter, ran the flame along the pearls to prove they were real and suggested a price. My wife was smitten and would have accepted but I know what is expected and suggested a lower price. We haggled for a bit and soon agreed on what was fair.  

Buoyed by my success I decided I needed to buy a watch and asked him if he had an Omega Chronograph.  “Yes, sir,” he replied, hurrying away and coming back with a stunning watch and quoted what I thought was a ridiculously low price.  More haggling ensued and agreement was reached.  The watchband needed a link taken from it so the young man crouched down on the sand and took out the appropriate tools from his bag and the job was done.

It was time for lunch so we headed off to find our friends.  We had clearly been identified as ‘soft touches’ so were surrounded by other hawkers as we headed for the restaurant.  They jostled us, pulled at our clothes to attract our attention and generally were a nuisance but eventually we arrived where we were going.  I was keen to show off my new purchase but, when I held up my arm, the watch was gone!  During the short walk from the beach to the restaurant, the watch had disappeared from my wrist.

I know it was a scam, and I can’t work out how they did it, but I hate to admit I have been fooled so I am blaming the incident on the Curse of the Black Pearl.  I know my wife agrees because she has never worn the pearls since, just in case something else goes wrong.

Saturday, July 4

I've getting a little behind in posting my writing exercises.  Here is one from June 26th on the topic 'Coffee Break'.

“What do you mean, you want a break?”  Jane couldn’t keep the venomous tone out of her voice.  The situation had been coming to a head over the past couple of weeks and, eventually, her anxiety had spilled over during the coffee break when all she needed was a chance to cool down and plan a way forward. 

 Jane still could not believe her good fortune in getting this job at the glitzy new tech. start-up.  The workplace had all the clichés of the genre: open-plan offices, chill-out corners, segways to move around with, unlimited ice-cream and coca cola, and laid-back but inspiring speeches from the two blonde teenagers who had devised the software which under-pinned the enterprise.

With all of this modern approach, the traditional coffee break was still Jane’s favourite part of the day.  For some reason, the room where some of the employees met for coffee was very much of a different era.  There was an old-fashioned urn, belching steam until someone turned it down, the chairs were a motley collection of rejects left behind by previous tenants, and the tables were scarred like old warriors, holding onto their usefulness to the last.  

It was here that Jane had first met Bradley, still a young man but one who chose to hide his youth under clothes he might have inherited from his father: corduroy trousers, collared shirt and tatty unbuttoned cardigan.  Jane couldn’t help wondering whether it was his air of rumpled lack of assurance which had sparked a maternal instinct in her.  For a few weeks, they had chatted over coffee, made tentative approaches to find out about each other and even attempted a date or two. 

Nobody could say it was a whirlwind romance but Jane was comfortable that it was progressing appropriately and she was even considering when might be the best time to suggest she take Bradley along to meet her mother and father.

But now, here he was telling her it was all going too fast and he wanted a break.  Thinking back, she realised there had been hints that all was not well.  Bradley was not as regular an attender at the coffee breaks as he had once been.  He had shown reluctance to meet her after work on a few occasions and, when she invited him to go with her to a girl-friend’s wedding, he had hastily dredged up a prior engagement.  She called it ‘dredged up’ because, looking back, his excuse didn’t have the ring of truth.

Now she was faced with his woebegone expression and plea for a break.  A break, for goodness sake!  You take a break from something which is not particularly pleasant, like weeding the garden, or cleaning the shed.  You don’t take a break from a relationship unless the relationship is starting to become a chore, or the other party in the relationship is no longer the focus of your life.

“Fine!” said Jane, “Take a break, sort yourself out, and ring me when you’ve got your head together.  Or not!”  Jane stormed out of the coffee room, leaving Bradley and the other employees standing with their mouths open.  It was only later she realised that her grand gesture of storming out meant that she could no longer go back, with any dignity.

That afternoon, she resigned from her job at the start-up and applied for a position at the bank where she hoped she would meet eligible men who were a little more serious about their future.

Friday, July 3

I've managed to get hold of a copy of Malcolm Turnbull's blockbuster, 'A Bigger Picture'.  It does, as expected, pour scorn on people he doesn't like, such as Tony Abbott, but also highlights Turnbull's own failings, which he clearly doesn't recognise in himself.  He's always been seen as arrogant, and that certainly comes through in his memoir but there's a shallowness about him and a lack of understanding about what is fair and right which marks him as having been affected by the silvertail lifestyle he has adopted.

Without any embarrassment, he states that he and Lucy always had an ambition to be 'independently wealthy; which is code for 'filthy rich'.  He set about to achieve that ambition by dealing with crooks like Christopher Skase and Alan Bond, and even greasing the wheels for disgraced Queensland Police Commissioner, Terry Lewis.  What do they say about lying down with pigs?

He is also scathing about everybody else in politics, on both sides of the fence.  He criticises the NBN proposal of the Labor Government without acknowledging that his own replacement plan has been shown to be inadequate; it lacks ambition and has no capacity to be upgraded in the future. 

There's a smugness about the book which will endear him to very few people.

I found the most interesting part was when he talked about his childhood.  He went to Sydney Grammar, of course, and talked about studying Latin using a textbook by Hillard and Botting, the same book I had used more than a decade before. I also hadn't realised he was a boarder during the early 70s when the boarding house was in St Marks Road, Randwick.  He says he always went to the Randwick Presbyterian Church on Sundays and that was the period when Marilyn and I lived in a flat behind the church and I was responsible for the cleaning there.  No doubt I had polished the pew where the young Turnbull rested his bottom during the sermon.  I feel humbled that I played a small part in making Malcolm Turnbull the man he is today.