Monday, February 10

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

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

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

 

THE END OF THE BEGINNNG                                                                                                APRIL 12, 2024

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sunday, February 9

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

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

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

Saturday, February 8

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

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

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

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

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

Friday, February 7

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

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

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

BETWEEN THE CRACKS                                                              NOVEMBER 4, 2022

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

 

 

Thursday, February 6

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

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

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

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

Wednesday, February 5

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

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

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

Monday, February 3

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

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

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

BRIEF ENCOUNTER                                                                                        JUNE, 2020

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I did but see her passing by

And yet I love her till I die.

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