I once had a little wooden red table and two tiny chairs. Actually it was a gift to my kids when they were toddlers from HippyBro and the perfect play size for small people. Now the red table is on the verandah supporting a range of unused pots and petrol cannisters and the chairs have gone missing! I suspect BabyBro in a fit of tidyness has taken them to the tip unless we've been surveyed by dwarves who have souvernired them and whilst I find that scenario quite amusing, it is highly unlikely. There used to be one in the shed and one on my end of the verandah but they are there no more.
So why do we lament their passing. They were the perfect size to sit on when wanting to get down low to fiddle with motor bike or pocket bike parts. They were the perfect height to stand on to change light bulbs and dust cobwebs behind the kitchen cupboards. They were the perfect height so sit on whilst sorting through the Tipperary midden that is my bathroom cupboard without having to get on my knees or suffer back strain. They were the perfect height for someone to sit on whilst I coloured or trimmed their hair. They were the perfect height for cleaning my under-bench oven (although why I didn't get a wall oven I dunno . . . not the smartest move I ever made). They were the perfect height to stand on for painting cornices and celings. Now, because I'm passed as fit, I want to start painting and freshen up the place a bit. Partly because it's grimy and needs it and partly because I feel as soon as I'm finished, a bulldozer will be imminent . . . isn't that the way it goes?
So, in the absence of a little red chair, I now have to go to Bunnings (Ooooh Bunnings . . .) and buy a small step ladder which is much less stable and more cumbersome. And of course, I'll get trapped as usual by the discounted fairy lights or the bargain bin located conveniently at the checkout queue. Or I could go to Toys R Us and buy another little red table set . . .
Showing posts with label Reminiscences. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Reminiscences. Show all posts
Wednesday, January 02, 2008
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
A Pint of Good Cheer
BabyBro gets these moments of inspiration where he wants to redecorate everything, clean out everything, revamp everything . . .given that we expect our house to be bulldozed sometime in the next couple of years, I'm reluctant to spend serious money on the place. In his pre-Christmas zeal, he has decided that the Pool Room needs to be refurbished. We have adjoining houses with what used to be the garage in between, now all connected under the one roof and converted into a wet bar, pool and entertainment room that opens onto a large covered patio where we eat, entertain, BBQ and generally muck about in the warm summer months.
He had this wonderful way of touching our faces to see how much we'd grown and changed each six months he caught up with us. It never seemed odd to us because we'd never known any different. He used to do magic tricks that resulted in chocolate being found exactly where he said it would be. Took us years to work out that my father was in cahoots and planting Picnic and Mars bars all over the country. He sat in his Grandfather chair, smoking a pipe and recounting stories of better days and ate his egg and bacon breakfast in a sandwich because it was easier than negotiating a knife and fork.
Whenever we stayed with our grandparents, we were allowed to wonder through his vegetable garden and pick fresh strawberries or rhubarb which we dipped in sugar to counteract it's awful sourness. We helped him make ginger wine and I don't know how he did it but he managed to erect a rope swing in the alleyway between the house and the garage so we could play there if it rained.
He wasn't one to smile often but he had a kind face. I think his milky eyes made him look rather sad and pathetic but he wasn't. He came on holiday with us once to Wales. My mum parked him in a deck chair whilst we all sploshed in the freezing water off Oxwich Bay and she made a cup of tea on a gaz stove, surrounded by a canvas wind break . . . she forgot to check the direction of the sun and the poor old bugger got awfully sunburned.
During the same holiday, my dad took home movies and we have a movie of him running freely on the beach at about 70 years of age, confident that he couldn't fall over anything or bump into anything or do himself or anyone else harm and the look on his ageing face was priceless, he beamed at the freedom. I often think that if he'd swallowed his pride and taken that short vacation and learned how to use a guide dog, he would have enjoyed more independence, more freedom but it wasn't for a proud old soldier like him. Silly really, it's just not an issue to have a cane or a dog these days.
I never took him for a religious man but he used to sit quietly on his bed listening to a record playing Bible stories and other 'talking books' long before I knew what they were. I'd be allowed to sit beside him on this monstrous high double bed, he with his arm around my pudgy little shoulders, me snuggled into his chest, neither saying a thing other than when the record finished, he'd announce "Well that's it then . . we'd better be off for a cuppa tea lass!".
Another one of his 'sayings' lives today . . he'd chastise naughty behaviour with a booming voice and in reply to our 'Sorry Grandad' . he'd gruffly say. ."Sorry be damned, ye'll have te be thoomped!" He exaggerated his thick northern accent then would melt into a smile, knowing full well that if we did a runner, he'd have no hope of catching us, much less of actually connecting!
I actually remember the tankard in use. My dad used to walk him about 500 metres to The Crown at the end of Henlow High Street. If they went during the day in summer, we'd go with them to watch the Morris Dancers flick their coloured handkerchiefs and whack each other on the head with an inflated pigs bladder (such is English folk culture). They would both take their own silver plated pints . . . order a couple of bevvies, catch up with the old fellas and return, empty pints in hand, replete and connected. Arm in arm, never drunk but mellowed by the experience. My Dad often said how much he enjoyed those solitary walks down to the pub without the hub of the women drowning out Jack's quiet and considered conversation.
There's nothing left of him or my Grandma now. They're buried together at St Mary's in Henlow, with nobody left in England to mourn or visit and all that marks their passing are our fading memories and a little stone plaque. Rather sad really that these memories only last a couple of generations. Very zen. But I remember him and his silly silver tankard so that's all that matters right now.
St Mary's Parish Church Henlow . . .
I used to be woken to the sound of bell ringers practising!
BabyBro wanted to throw it away but I couldn't see it go. It's dead plain, no inscription, no decoration, not even a glass bottom but it's solid, heavy with an epns mark on the base. It's a working class recepticle and because I remember him using it, I wanted to hang on to it. Another addition to the Red Suitcase or the Curiosity Corner . . I'll polish it up and see if it warrants display. Strange behaviour for someone who's basically a tosser.
He wants to strip the wallpaper (I'm happy to do that), replace the old fashioned 'pool hall' style light with a more illuminating strip. He's already installed a DVD, data cable, TV and Foxtel (he was going to thread it through to my living room but as yet, I just have a big hole in the wall behind my TV - bloody electricians). But Monday's foray was into the bar, removing my father's long dead and long flat collection of weird and wonderful beers which are now sitting on the BBQ table waiting for someone who's interested in old flat beer to collect them. It also led to a 'tidying' of the cupboards. Behind the bar is like a small kitchen with loads of storage but it's become a recepticle for everything from silly 'straight to the pool room' novelty items such as a Wallace and Gromit Windscreen Protector and some hand beaten copper trays made by long deceased aunts, to my old picnic set, an awful glass barrel and accompanying shot glasses, a cheap silver tray that nobody wants to claim, an old food processor, oil lamp, some shitty glasses with "Orange Blossom Festiaval" cheaply painted all over them, a small Christmas tree, spare pool balls, a draughts set and a myriad of coloured light bulbs. Also, found . . my Grandad's Beer Tankard.
Now my paternal Grandad was an interesting fellow although he died when I was very young. I know very little about his pre-married life other than he was from Great Harwood a working class suburb of Manchester which has long since been absorbed into 'Greater Manchester' and totally lost it's identity. He had a brother Billy, who bred Newfoundlands, wore a flat cap and very probably rode a bike! He was blinded during the first world war by a shrapnel blast and was 'retrained' as a baker but he would never have a dog. He thought it was a sign of weakness when seriously, he couldn't bear to be away from home for 6 weeks while he trained with Royal Guide Dogs for the Blind. Somehow he managed. My father was a boy when they lived in Platt Lane which is still there today and somewhere near was the bakery. My Grandad, my Grandma Ellen and their two daughters Marian and Daphne and of course my dad . . managed the shop, delivered the bread and eeked a reasonable living out of the bakery before retiring to the south of England in the early 50's. They lived in a nice house in Henlow Bedfordshire but it was a long trip from our home in Cheshire so we saw them but twice a year at Christmas or New Year and Whitsun.He had this wonderful way of touching our faces to see how much we'd grown and changed each six months he caught up with us. It never seemed odd to us because we'd never known any different. He used to do magic tricks that resulted in chocolate being found exactly where he said it would be. Took us years to work out that my father was in cahoots and planting Picnic and Mars bars all over the country. He sat in his Grandfather chair, smoking a pipe and recounting stories of better days and ate his egg and bacon breakfast in a sandwich because it was easier than negotiating a knife and fork.
Whenever we stayed with our grandparents, we were allowed to wonder through his vegetable garden and pick fresh strawberries or rhubarb which we dipped in sugar to counteract it's awful sourness. We helped him make ginger wine and I don't know how he did it but he managed to erect a rope swing in the alleyway between the house and the garage so we could play there if it rained.
He wasn't one to smile often but he had a kind face. I think his milky eyes made him look rather sad and pathetic but he wasn't. He came on holiday with us once to Wales. My mum parked him in a deck chair whilst we all sploshed in the freezing water off Oxwich Bay and she made a cup of tea on a gaz stove, surrounded by a canvas wind break . . . she forgot to check the direction of the sun and the poor old bugger got awfully sunburned.
During the same holiday, my dad took home movies and we have a movie of him running freely on the beach at about 70 years of age, confident that he couldn't fall over anything or bump into anything or do himself or anyone else harm and the look on his ageing face was priceless, he beamed at the freedom. I often think that if he'd swallowed his pride and taken that short vacation and learned how to use a guide dog, he would have enjoyed more independence, more freedom but it wasn't for a proud old soldier like him. Silly really, it's just not an issue to have a cane or a dog these days.
I never took him for a religious man but he used to sit quietly on his bed listening to a record playing Bible stories and other 'talking books' long before I knew what they were. I'd be allowed to sit beside him on this monstrous high double bed, he with his arm around my pudgy little shoulders, me snuggled into his chest, neither saying a thing other than when the record finished, he'd announce "Well that's it then . . we'd better be off for a cuppa tea lass!".
Another one of his 'sayings' lives today . . he'd chastise naughty behaviour with a booming voice and in reply to our 'Sorry Grandad' . he'd gruffly say. ."Sorry be damned, ye'll have te be thoomped!" He exaggerated his thick northern accent then would melt into a smile, knowing full well that if we did a runner, he'd have no hope of catching us, much less of actually connecting!
I actually remember the tankard in use. My dad used to walk him about 500 metres to The Crown at the end of Henlow High Street. If they went during the day in summer, we'd go with them to watch the Morris Dancers flick their coloured handkerchiefs and whack each other on the head with an inflated pigs bladder (such is English folk culture). They would both take their own silver plated pints . . . order a couple of bevvies, catch up with the old fellas and return, empty pints in hand, replete and connected. Arm in arm, never drunk but mellowed by the experience. My Dad often said how much he enjoyed those solitary walks down to the pub without the hub of the women drowning out Jack's quiet and considered conversation.
There's nothing left of him or my Grandma now. They're buried together at St Mary's in Henlow, with nobody left in England to mourn or visit and all that marks their passing are our fading memories and a little stone plaque. Rather sad really that these memories only last a couple of generations. Very zen. But I remember him and his silly silver tankard so that's all that matters right now.
St Mary's Parish Church Henlow . . .I used to be woken to the sound of bell ringers practising!
BabyBro wanted to throw it away but I couldn't see it go. It's dead plain, no inscription, no decoration, not even a glass bottom but it's solid, heavy with an epns mark on the base. It's a working class recepticle and because I remember him using it, I wanted to hang on to it. Another addition to the Red Suitcase or the Curiosity Corner . . I'll polish it up and see if it warrants display. Strange behaviour for someone who's basically a tosser.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Hot Flushes, Road Trips and Fun With Friends
I'm back from what is arguably one of the most beautiful pieces of coastline in Australia, the Great Ocean road extending from Airey's Inlet to beyond Pt Cambell. It's wild, blue, rugged and has the most amazing cliffs and free standing rock pylons battered by the sea. Of course, my camera decided to do a bunk on the first day and refused to open the lense so I had the advantage of borrowing TheTeacher's Sony D-SLR. I think I've found my new interest and may make the investment and buy myself an early Christmas Present.
The trip started slightly whacky as we waited at the wrong gate to board our plane. Qantas ended up combining three empty flights and changed the boarding gate but we were so enjoying our $9 champagnes and nattering at the bar that we didn't hear the announcement "Greaves Le Nevez and Bainbridge . . . you are delaying QF 546 to Melbourne, please make your way to Gate 23". Ah, it was all in good fun although I realised that I haven't actually 'run' anywhere for quite some time, let alone from gate 11 to 23 on a shiny terazzo floor! Maybe that's why I don't feel crash hot. Could have damaged some of the wobbly bits.
We started with eggs benedict in a book shop - the only way to start a day then moved on to Monsalvat, home of the Heidleberg school of artists, a higgledy piggledy hotch potch of french reproduction buildings that encourages craftsmanship and artists from all over Victoria. From guitar makers to dressmakers, painters and sculptors, it's well worth the $10 entry to wonder around and the photo opportunities are plentiful.
Monsalvat Artists' Retreat - Heidelberg
Then we hit the road. It was hilarious, old friends, catching up for the first time in a year. Four women, two hot flushing, two awaiting the joys of menopause, all in great need of good coffee, managed to road trip from Melbourne along the Geelong coast and down to Airey's Inlet and in great comfort and style I might add. We were comfortably packed into a state-of-the-art Toyota Kluger, complete with ringing bells and whistles, GPS navigation and all the electronica to ensure we were heading in the right direction. Although the argument is still going on as to whether it was 'gold' or 'mushroom' in colour. I think Struth Ruth is mixing her metaphorical mushrooms if you know what I mean.
We stayed in the cutest, most cluttered(in a nautically overdecorated way) little blue weatherboard house surrounded by a lovely cottage garden. We nattered, we giggled, we cooked, we shopped, we blissfully talked about the lack of mugaccinos and the crappy Saturday markets at Apollo bay. We walked the beach, we fossicked in the rockpools, we admired stunning views, walked up to the lighthouse that featured in Mad Max and Round the Twist and enjoyed a restaurant dinner which was way overpriced but hey . . .we were on holiday.
The highlight of the trip, besides being with good friends, was definitely the 12 Apostles. It's a long drive along the Great Ocean Road in southern Victoria but unlike the rest of Australia, the scenery seems to change more frequently. Once we emerged from a towering forest of Mountain Ash and headed towards that, wind-battered, rugged, cliff-lined coastline, it's well worth the trip. It's windy, very windy. The surf was huge, the Southern Ocean blue as the Amalfi Coast. Very spectacular and quite frankly, took my breath away. No photo can do it justice and I've seen plenty. Hopefully my shots will turn out and once TheTeacher downloads them, I'll upload them to Flickr.
After four days our local guide, TheTeacher, who lives in Melbourne, dropped us at the airport. We hugged and lamented that it would be a while before we see each other again. Thommo and Struth Ruth went home, I caught the shuttle to Flinders Street Station and was met by Arky and his lovely partner 'Nore and felt very important sitting in his vintage Mercedes to spend a couple of days them in the city. After scouring specific city stores for a particular cut of beef, the name of which escapes me but was very important for Ark to procure, we headed back to their little house and cracked open um . . . I think it was about 8 bottles all up but we stopped counting after 4. It's the first time I'd met 'Nore even though I'd talked to her on Skype and we'd emailed and thrown stuff at each other on Facebook. She's lovely, emotional, strong-willed, easy to talk to - Her first words to me "We are going to have fun!" Bless . . .and it all started out just right. These are two of my internetty friends . . .well not quite. Met Ark on a Helldesk and he was so helpful and friendly that we played a little via email and stayed in touch even though he's now moved on to better things. I didn't know it at the time but 'Nore also worked for a company with whom I have dealings. He visited me in March so it only seemed right to connect when I had the opportunity. Whilst 'Nore spent time with her own visiting family, Ark and I discovered the highlights of the city including a brief walk through Crown Casino (mainly because it was cool!) Federation Square. A masterpiece of modern architecture housing various artsy fartsy buildings, cafes, forecourts and a stage, shops and arts centre. You either love it or hate it. Actually, only the intense heat emanating from the cobbled square made me hate it . . . quite a lot.
We sighted the Aussie Netball team after their world cup victory, browsed an occult bookshop, bought geeky gadgets at Minotaur. This is a great shop. Pop Culture icons, fantasy, science fiction, models, dolls, t-shirts. I could have spent much longer there and managed to purchase talking dashboard toys for the kids . . . Darth Vader was a winner!
We marvelled at the ceiling in the ANZ bank and winced at an exhibition of art which comprised some bloke smashing and eating vinyl records and dragging a guitar behind a ute in someone's back paddock. I just hope he didn't get a government grant for the works otherwise I'm in the wrong game. We managed to visit five bars in an attempt to regain our composure after trapsing around in the heat. And before you make assumptions, only three beers and two champagnes were imbibed . . .soft drink was far more thirst quenching! We then met up with 'Nore and family for a light dinner. Crown Casino disappointed as the forecourt flames which are supposed to ignite every hour on the hour were a no show so after another round of Lemon Lime and Bitters, we headed home to put on our comfies. I love staying with people who wear tracky daks and T shirts.
We were pretty exhausted by Tuesday and frankly, I felt a lurgy coming on, held at bay only by some borrowed analgesic so we lounged and watched Ark mastering Guitar Hero and viewed multiple episodes of six feet under and the latest download of Top Gear while we all lamented the loss of winter. Melbourne was HOT. . . too hot . . . I shan't be disparaging about their cold climate again.
Then flew back Tuesday night. My fear of flying pretty much conquered althought I still hate that taking off bit. I was very brave and flew on my own. Naturally, the man in the seat next to me was doused in Joop, possibly the most disgusting aftershave ever created. It manages to blend with that end-of-the-day man smell and simply proliferates the sickly combination of cheap musk and body odour! Of course, I booked a seat over the wing so that if it did fall out of the sky, I'd be the first to go. I didn't even panic when we had to go into a holding pattern over Wollongong due to only one runway approach being used thanks to high winds in Sydney. May have had something to do with my oncoming delirium. Not sure what's wrong. No cold, no cough but definitely feeling flushy and fluey. So after six days leave I have lost all credibility with my employers by ringing in sick! Hence the rather banal post today, my imagination is feeling a little run down.
So to my darling friends, TheTeacher, Struth Ruth, Thommo, Ark and 'Nore . . . thank you all for making it a real break before my house arrest from next week. I love you all and look forward to doing it again next year! And if anyone knows where I can buy the full set of Six Feet Under . . . gimme the heads up!
The trip started slightly whacky as we waited at the wrong gate to board our plane. Qantas ended up combining three empty flights and changed the boarding gate but we were so enjoying our $9 champagnes and nattering at the bar that we didn't hear the announcement "Greaves Le Nevez and Bainbridge . . . you are delaying QF 546 to Melbourne, please make your way to Gate 23". Ah, it was all in good fun although I realised that I haven't actually 'run' anywhere for quite some time, let alone from gate 11 to 23 on a shiny terazzo floor! Maybe that's why I don't feel crash hot. Could have damaged some of the wobbly bits.
We started with eggs benedict in a book shop - the only way to start a day then moved on to Monsalvat, home of the Heidleberg school of artists, a higgledy piggledy hotch potch of french reproduction buildings that encourages craftsmanship and artists from all over Victoria. From guitar makers to dressmakers, painters and sculptors, it's well worth the $10 entry to wonder around and the photo opportunities are plentiful.
Monsalvat Artists' Retreat - HeidelbergThen we hit the road. It was hilarious, old friends, catching up for the first time in a year. Four women, two hot flushing, two awaiting the joys of menopause, all in great need of good coffee, managed to road trip from Melbourne along the Geelong coast and down to Airey's Inlet and in great comfort and style I might add. We were comfortably packed into a state-of-the-art Toyota Kluger, complete with ringing bells and whistles, GPS navigation and all the electronica to ensure we were heading in the right direction. Although the argument is still going on as to whether it was 'gold' or 'mushroom' in colour. I think Struth Ruth is mixing her metaphorical mushrooms if you know what I mean.
We stayed in the cutest, most cluttered(in a nautically overdecorated way) little blue weatherboard house surrounded by a lovely cottage garden. We nattered, we giggled, we cooked, we shopped, we blissfully talked about the lack of mugaccinos and the crappy Saturday markets at Apollo bay. We walked the beach, we fossicked in the rockpools, we admired stunning views, walked up to the lighthouse that featured in Mad Max and Round the Twist and enjoyed a restaurant dinner which was way overpriced but hey . . .we were on holiday.
The highlight of the trip, besides being with good friends, was definitely the 12 Apostles. It's a long drive along the Great Ocean Road in southern Victoria but unlike the rest of Australia, the scenery seems to change more frequently. Once we emerged from a towering forest of Mountain Ash and headed towards that, wind-battered, rugged, cliff-lined coastline, it's well worth the trip. It's windy, very windy. The surf was huge, the Southern Ocean blue as the Amalfi Coast. Very spectacular and quite frankly, took my breath away. No photo can do it justice and I've seen plenty. Hopefully my shots will turn out and once TheTeacher downloads them, I'll upload them to Flickr.
Beginning of the 12 Apostles - thanks to the one in the foreground falling over,
there are now only 11 but many more in the making
there are now only 11 but many more in the making
After four days our local guide, TheTeacher, who lives in Melbourne, dropped us at the airport. We hugged and lamented that it would be a while before we see each other again. Thommo and Struth Ruth went home, I caught the shuttle to Flinders Street Station and was met by Arky and his lovely partner 'Nore and felt very important sitting in his vintage Mercedes to spend a couple of days them in the city. After scouring specific city stores for a particular cut of beef, the name of which escapes me but was very important for Ark to procure, we headed back to their little house and cracked open um . . . I think it was about 8 bottles all up but we stopped counting after 4. It's the first time I'd met 'Nore even though I'd talked to her on Skype and we'd emailed and thrown stuff at each other on Facebook. She's lovely, emotional, strong-willed, easy to talk to - Her first words to me "We are going to have fun!" Bless . . .and it all started out just right. These are two of my internetty friends . . .well not quite. Met Ark on a Helldesk and he was so helpful and friendly that we played a little via email and stayed in touch even though he's now moved on to better things. I didn't know it at the time but 'Nore also worked for a company with whom I have dealings. He visited me in March so it only seemed right to connect when I had the opportunity. Whilst 'Nore spent time with her own visiting family, Ark and I discovered the highlights of the city including a brief walk through Crown Casino (mainly because it was cool!) Federation Square. A masterpiece of modern architecture housing various artsy fartsy buildings, cafes, forecourts and a stage, shops and arts centre. You either love it or hate it. Actually, only the intense heat emanating from the cobbled square made me hate it . . . quite a lot.
We sighted the Aussie Netball team after their world cup victory, browsed an occult bookshop, bought geeky gadgets at Minotaur. This is a great shop. Pop Culture icons, fantasy, science fiction, models, dolls, t-shirts. I could have spent much longer there and managed to purchase talking dashboard toys for the kids . . . Darth Vader was a winner!
We marvelled at the ceiling in the ANZ bank and winced at an exhibition of art which comprised some bloke smashing and eating vinyl records and dragging a guitar behind a ute in someone's back paddock. I just hope he didn't get a government grant for the works otherwise I'm in the wrong game. We managed to visit five bars in an attempt to regain our composure after trapsing around in the heat. And before you make assumptions, only three beers and two champagnes were imbibed . . .soft drink was far more thirst quenching! We then met up with 'Nore and family for a light dinner. Crown Casino disappointed as the forecourt flames which are supposed to ignite every hour on the hour were a no show so after another round of Lemon Lime and Bitters, we headed home to put on our comfies. I love staying with people who wear tracky daks and T shirts.We were pretty exhausted by Tuesday and frankly, I felt a lurgy coming on, held at bay only by some borrowed analgesic so we lounged and watched Ark mastering Guitar Hero and viewed multiple episodes of six feet under and the latest download of Top Gear while we all lamented the loss of winter. Melbourne was HOT. . . too hot . . . I shan't be disparaging about their cold climate again.
Then flew back Tuesday night. My fear of flying pretty much conquered althought I still hate that taking off bit. I was very brave and flew on my own. Naturally, the man in the seat next to me was doused in Joop, possibly the most disgusting aftershave ever created. It manages to blend with that end-of-the-day man smell and simply proliferates the sickly combination of cheap musk and body odour! Of course, I booked a seat over the wing so that if it did fall out of the sky, I'd be the first to go. I didn't even panic when we had to go into a holding pattern over Wollongong due to only one runway approach being used thanks to high winds in Sydney. May have had something to do with my oncoming delirium. Not sure what's wrong. No cold, no cough but definitely feeling flushy and fluey. So after six days leave I have lost all credibility with my employers by ringing in sick! Hence the rather banal post today, my imagination is feeling a little run down.
So to my darling friends, TheTeacher, Struth Ruth, Thommo, Ark and 'Nore . . . thank you all for making it a real break before my house arrest from next week. I love you all and look forward to doing it again next year! And if anyone knows where I can buy the full set of Six Feet Under . . . gimme the heads up!
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Grumpy Old Folks
Today there was a surfeit of angry old people roaming Castle Towers at ‘Elevenses’ eager to have their loyalty card stamped so they can have their free decaf, soy latte and complementary scones whilst plonked on a table for one with their large bags and zimmer frames blocking the aisles.
I once said that when I get old (no lip from you younglings!) I’m going to wreak my revenge and do all the things that some grumpy oldies have done to me and mine over the years. Visit my kids and spill red cordial on the carpet, fart when I bend over, push small children out of the way, argue about who was first in the queue, crash through shops on my three-wheeler motorised trike, complain about ‘young people today’, pay for everything in five cent pieces, complain habitually about being ignored or not getting a senior's discount and tell everyone about every ailment I’ve ever suffered in graphic detail . . but after this morning . . I don’t think I will. I'm a reformed old person before I even get there! I will remain one of the many dignified old people who appreciate the young, like contemporary music and refuse to resort to crimplene and those half leg stockings that sort of wrinkle below the hem of the skirt when one reaches 70. I won’t be mutton dressed up as lamb but I won’t be a smelly old St Vinnies op shop slipper wearing shopper either. I'll know how to turn a PC on and use it, I'll remain in touch, positive and uplifted . . . I'll be as cool as some of the elder statespeople I've met through this blog.
I remember once going out west with the kids and we stopped at
Sunday, September 23, 2007
My Auntie Marian
She doesn't want me to write this post and has sabotaged my first attempt. But . . .My father was one of three children. He had two sisters, Daphne and Marian. Neither ever married, largely due to their financial circumstances, the blinding of their father and the need to keep the bakery alive during the late war years, they say, took away opportunities for romance.
Whatever their excuses, neither married. Daphne was the 'masculine' sister. The one who took care of affairs, registered cars, the chief adminstrator. Marian was softer, sweeter, the teacher, the empath. A well respected teacher, department head and eventually head mistress of a school near Luton. They lived distant to us Cheshire folk so visits were restricted to Whitsun and Christmas, baby births and funerals or fantastic half way visits at Twy Cross Zoo in Wales where I remember picnics of Scotch Eggs and cold sausages (ah English cuisine - what an oxymoron that is).
My Auntie Marian took me to Switzerland when I was 7 on a school trip full of 16 year olds . . . she bought me a high school uniform for the occasion so that I'd fit in . . I felt very important. I sat at the staff table and mingled with the 'big girls'.. I walked across the original Lucerne Bridge before it burned down in the 80's. Ate Swiss Chocolate and fondue. Marvelled at the Gornergrat and Jungfrau and learned the legend of Mt Pilatus before dancing with Lederhosen clad mountain types and I hated their unsalted butter.
She, her sister Daphne and my Grandma lived together in a little thatched village called Shillington. Their view was farmland and they were within spitting distance of a Medieval church with a spooky graveyard and brasses on the floor. I loved the place. We visited when I was 16 and I went again as a loner when I was 21. After my Grandma died, there were two, and in 1989 there was just Marian. She was alone . . no reason to stay in England, her selubrious and popular career long gone (how quickly people forget) . So after my Dad had settled all the affairs necessary after the demise of a loved one, she visited. It was nice . . she told stories we hadn't heard . . . she liked a gin and tonic . . she was eager to learn but slightly outstayed her welcome. A six week stay ended up being 4 months and my poor mother was about to tear her hair out. Our ageing aunt was not good at walking and actually seemed to quite like being dependent on others. Marian and my dad would have drinking bouts which turned them both into aggressive monsters and sometimes it was simply beyond the pale - him whiskey doused, her supping from her 'gin tray' of Gordon's and a jug of chilled water.
Marian duly returned to her lonely life in England. Then came the request for sponsorship. She wanted to emigrate at 70 years of age. She had the means, the health (although highly dubious, I think some forms were 'embellished') But come she did. My dad, filled with brotherly duty sponsored her, found a home for her and she lived with us for 2 years before passing.
My point . . .I remember her as vital, educational, instructive, friendly, warm. The times we spent at her house were full of arty dramatic young men and women, sherry before dinner and a bath so deep you could swim in it . . she taught me how to 'take tea' from Shelley China and how to identify a neolilthic flint and she introduced me at a very young age to home brewed ginger wine and chocolate digestive biscuits.
My siblings remember her as a demanding and debilitated old woman who wanted to be the centre of attention . . . in the end she was frail, and the most exciting thing about her was her motorised wheelchair. Sure, the older she became and the more gin she drank the more demanding and laborious she seemed. It was a chore to visit (she didn't tolerate young children well) . . .but she was a warm and loving person. She taught me so much about my family, my history, my origins . . sadly she died one week before my mother and any thunder she had to weild was stolen.
Grannymar recently posted about the value of knowing where you came from, your history and the stories that your elders have to tell. Often they're tiresome, some you hear over and over again but when they're gone, they're the anecdotes you pass on to your children. They're the things that make our short tenure on this planet important because they show connection and give us a tantalising hint at the answer to that proverbial question "what is the meaning of life".
We forgot about Auntie Marian . . . just for a little while . . . other events placed her in the background although now I think about her influence on all those hundreds, maybe thousands of young lives and whether they give her a passing thought. Then again the first post I wrote about her . . she disapproved and froze my PC. I think she's a little happier about this attempt.
Whatever their excuses, neither married. Daphne was the 'masculine' sister. The one who took care of affairs, registered cars, the chief adminstrator. Marian was softer, sweeter, the teacher, the empath. A well respected teacher, department head and eventually head mistress of a school near Luton. They lived distant to us Cheshire folk so visits were restricted to Whitsun and Christmas, baby births and funerals or fantastic half way visits at Twy Cross Zoo in Wales where I remember picnics of Scotch Eggs and cold sausages (ah English cuisine - what an oxymoron that is).
My Auntie Marian took me to Switzerland when I was 7 on a school trip full of 16 year olds . . . she bought me a high school uniform for the occasion so that I'd fit in . . I felt very important. I sat at the staff table and mingled with the 'big girls'.. I walked across the original Lucerne Bridge before it burned down in the 80's. Ate Swiss Chocolate and fondue. Marvelled at the Gornergrat and Jungfrau and learned the legend of Mt Pilatus before dancing with Lederhosen clad mountain types and I hated their unsalted butter.
She, her sister Daphne and my Grandma lived together in a little thatched village called Shillington. Their view was farmland and they were within spitting distance of a Medieval church with a spooky graveyard and brasses on the floor. I loved the place. We visited when I was 16 and I went again as a loner when I was 21. After my Grandma died, there were two, and in 1989 there was just Marian. She was alone . . no reason to stay in England, her selubrious and popular career long gone (how quickly people forget) . So after my Dad had settled all the affairs necessary after the demise of a loved one, she visited. It was nice . . she told stories we hadn't heard . . . she liked a gin and tonic . . she was eager to learn but slightly outstayed her welcome. A six week stay ended up being 4 months and my poor mother was about to tear her hair out. Our ageing aunt was not good at walking and actually seemed to quite like being dependent on others. Marian and my dad would have drinking bouts which turned them both into aggressive monsters and sometimes it was simply beyond the pale - him whiskey doused, her supping from her 'gin tray' of Gordon's and a jug of chilled water.
Marian duly returned to her lonely life in England. Then came the request for sponsorship. She wanted to emigrate at 70 years of age. She had the means, the health (although highly dubious, I think some forms were 'embellished') But come she did. My dad, filled with brotherly duty sponsored her, found a home for her and she lived with us for 2 years before passing.
My point . . .I remember her as vital, educational, instructive, friendly, warm. The times we spent at her house were full of arty dramatic young men and women, sherry before dinner and a bath so deep you could swim in it . . she taught me how to 'take tea' from Shelley China and how to identify a neolilthic flint and she introduced me at a very young age to home brewed ginger wine and chocolate digestive biscuits.
My siblings remember her as a demanding and debilitated old woman who wanted to be the centre of attention . . . in the end she was frail, and the most exciting thing about her was her motorised wheelchair. Sure, the older she became and the more gin she drank the more demanding and laborious she seemed. It was a chore to visit (she didn't tolerate young children well) . . .but she was a warm and loving person. She taught me so much about my family, my history, my origins . . sadly she died one week before my mother and any thunder she had to weild was stolen.
Grannymar recently posted about the value of knowing where you came from, your history and the stories that your elders have to tell. Often they're tiresome, some you hear over and over again but when they're gone, they're the anecdotes you pass on to your children. They're the things that make our short tenure on this planet important because they show connection and give us a tantalising hint at the answer to that proverbial question "what is the meaning of life".
We forgot about Auntie Marian . . . just for a little while . . . other events placed her in the background although now I think about her influence on all those hundreds, maybe thousands of young lives and whether they give her a passing thought. Then again the first post I wrote about her . . she disapproved and froze my PC. I think she's a little happier about this attempt.
Friday, August 24, 2007
Happy Birfdie Thommo!
Today is my best friend’s birthday. I usually forget it but thanks to the diary function in Outlook, I am now able to put a recurring meeting in so that I don’t. We met in year 10 at school. I’d been at Castle Hill High for 12 months, she had just arrived from Pommieland. Her uniform was uncoolly long whilst ours was all tucked up and short bearing more than our 4 inches above the knee. She was well groomed and had perfectly clean shoes and white socks whilst we rebelled against the uniform and insisted on wearing Jesus sandals with no socks. This was after all the government school system. Straight out of Watford Grammar, she was tall, pretty, elegant with long straight black hair. Slim, intelligent and soon became very popular.
We caught the same bus so I used to trail behind her even though we disembarked from the same stop. She wasn’t cool. (neither was I but I was a ‘try-hard’). Eventually, this pilgrimage up
She is so different to me. Physically, she’s tall and thin, straight hair, straight teeth. I’m tall and tubby with masses of mad curls that refuse to be tamed. She’s conservative in her politics and taste. I’m a ratbag liberal and don’t care what I look like. She’s a diplomat and smiles through a crisis. I call a spade a fucking shovel can argue the leg off a chair. She likes Sting and Eric Clapton, George Benson and Van Morrison. I like Gautier and Bloc Party, Led Zeppelin and Frank Zappa. She drinks Red, I drink White. She’s frugal with her money, I’m a spendthrift. She is an avid reader and never writes, I’ll write my socks off but rarely read. She has an eye for figures and detail – I sweep my broad brushstrokes across everything I do and stuff the spelling mistakes. She keeps in touch, I’m incredible at not returning that phone call. I guess we’re proof that opposites attract either that or the things we agree upon are what bind us:
- We both have a caring nature
- We are both highly principled
- We are both environmentalists
- We share and value a good education
- We had a loving upbringing that has imprinted on our psyche
- We are insistent on courtesy and treating others as we like to be treated
- We have a good sense of humour
- We have felt and can give great love
- We are always there for each other
- We both have difficult brothers
- We like Hawks Nest Thai Green Curry Pies and Chocolate Paddle Pops
Friday, August 10, 2007
A Plot of Another Kind
As a child in England
Back to Where It All Began
K8 is playing games again and at 6:53am I think I've got her drift. An excuse to regurgitate an old post long before anyone knew you/I existed. It's not my best effort but definitely my first. Here's the gist . . .
1. Go choose one post which you would like to use as an example of your under-appreciated genius, and link it.
2. Link to the person who last suggested the ‘best shot’ idea.
3. Suggest the idea to others, then make sure you read, and comment on their regurgitated posts.
C'mon you background lurkers, be brave and leave a comment.
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
Sexy Signs Seduce Sucker
I’m not a fan of shopping. Whether grocery or any other (with the exception of Bunnings and Spotlight) and particularly not for myself but when a bargain is to be had and my fave black jumper is so threadbare I can see my skin through it (not to mention the hole under the arm), the time was fast approaching where I’d have to fight with school children and stroller mummys and face the drama that is the shopping centre.
I didn’t ‘mean’ to shop, I literally have to walk through one of our nicest department stores across the road from where I work to get to the bank or food court to buy my lunch. Normally this is an event free exercise with me smiling at the security guard at the in and out doors and never stopping to 'smell the roses'.
It all started whilst walking through the cosmetic department and a brief thought that I might be able to replace a nice Estee Lauder transluscent lipstick that I received in my special vanity case for my birthday last year. Sadly it was a limited release and its equivalent was a mighty $44. (Sheeet yeah? That’s a lot for a bit of whale grease and food colouring.) Still, knowing I had a smidgen left from my tax rebate, I thought I’d spoil myself.
Shop Assistant: “If you purchase just $60 worth of Estee Lauder, we can offer you this fabulous presentation pack with a lipstick, some powdery stuff to make you look like Bette Davis in “Whatever Happened to Mary Jane”, some sticky black goo to give you eyelashes like Janet Jackson and magic crème for those wrinkly eyes PLUS a cleanser and moisturiser that will even out your broken capilliaries and make you look like Natalie Imbruglia in thirty seconds . . .”
*I resisted the temptation to thump the little dolly- I haven't got wrinkly eyes or red capilliaries!*
Me: “Ooooh . . well I could do with a new foundation because the eight, half-used ones I already have aren’t the right colour and make me look pasty so I use my $5.00 tinted Ponds moisturiser instead, maybe I could splash out a little.”
So I gets the girl to choose a nice light, moisturising foundation that will make me look like Liz Hurley at a red carpet event and qualify for the ‘special offer’. Yeay! Only spent $110 and got $65 worth of freebies and a new make-up purse which I didn’t need.
Not content with being sucked in at the cosmetic counter there was a big red sign screaming at me . . .it was quite insistant "Oi YOU, yes YOU, I'm talking to YOU - come over here . . . look what’s on special and it’s not in the ‘women’s’ section” (that of course is a euphemism for clothing for the more womanly figure where I refuse to shop because I just can’t wear purple psychodellic swirls) . . .”
The sign pointed firmly and decidedly at a rather nice brown sweater, fine knit, thigh length with pretty fluted sleeves and showing just enough cleavage to be a little alluring . . .” I squealed a little squeal of delight "Oooh, here I goes again - That’s noice.” Only $44.95 so I went for broke and bought two one in a pretty Donkey Brown and the other in a muted Sage Green. Both will go well with my new lippy. Damn that naughty sign tempting me to the dark side. It was hanging quietly now waiting for the next sucker to glance its way.
The last straw was the relocation of the jeans section to just near my departure point. I was so close to gettting a sandwich, to making a break for it, to smiling at the security guard as usual on my way through when another huge “Take it OFF, Take it All OFF” sign swayed, seductively and beckoned me with an up turned index finger. “C’mon sexy” it said, “you know you want to!"
"Ok, just a quickie" . . . says I mainly because I was absolutely positive there’d be nothing there to fit my womanly form. These departments are usually for the youngsters, mostly sizes that Kate Moss would have trouble getting into. Whell hush my mouth and be still my beating heart! It was meant to be, it was written in the stars . . . a pair of really nice dark blue/black straight leg jeans with my name and $20 written all over them (now that is an unheard of price for jeans here which usually retail around the $150 mark.)
So, yesterday, in the space of 15 minutes, I managed to spend: $222. Thank god I don’t like shopping, imagine the damage I could do in half an hour!
I didn’t ‘mean’ to shop, I literally have to walk through one of our nicest department stores across the road from where I work to get to the bank or food court to buy my lunch. Normally this is an event free exercise with me smiling at the security guard at the in and out doors and never stopping to 'smell the roses'.
It all started whilst walking through the cosmetic department and a brief thought that I might be able to replace a nice Estee Lauder transluscent lipstick that I received in my special vanity case for my birthday last year. Sadly it was a limited release and its equivalent was a mighty $44. (Sheeet yeah? That’s a lot for a bit of whale grease and food colouring.) Still, knowing I had a smidgen left from my tax rebate, I thought I’d spoil myself.
Shop Assistant: “If you purchase just $60 worth of Estee Lauder, we can offer you this fabulous presentation pack with a lipstick, some powdery stuff to make you look like Bette Davis in “Whatever Happened to Mary Jane”, some sticky black goo to give you eyelashes like Janet Jackson and magic crème for those wrinkly eyes PLUS a cleanser and moisturiser that will even out your broken capilliaries and make you look like Natalie Imbruglia in thirty seconds . . .”
*I resisted the temptation to thump the little dolly- I haven't got wrinkly eyes or red capilliaries!*
Me: “Ooooh . . well I could do with a new foundation because the eight, half-used ones I already have aren’t the right colour and make me look pasty so I use my $5.00 tinted Ponds moisturiser instead, maybe I could splash out a little.”
So I gets the girl to choose a nice light, moisturising foundation that will make me look like Liz Hurley at a red carpet event and qualify for the ‘special offer’. Yeay! Only spent $110 and got $65 worth of freebies and a new make-up purse which I didn’t need.
Not content with being sucked in at the cosmetic counter there was a big red sign screaming at me . . .it was quite insistant "Oi YOU, yes YOU, I'm talking to YOU - come over here . . . look what’s on special and it’s not in the ‘women’s’ section” (that of course is a euphemism for clothing for the more womanly figure where I refuse to shop because I just can’t wear purple psychodellic swirls) . . .”
The sign pointed firmly and decidedly at a rather nice brown sweater, fine knit, thigh length with pretty fluted sleeves and showing just enough cleavage to be a little alluring . . .” I squealed a little squeal of delight "Oooh, here I goes again - That’s noice.” Only $44.95 so I went for broke and bought two one in a pretty Donkey Brown and the other in a muted Sage Green. Both will go well with my new lippy. Damn that naughty sign tempting me to the dark side. It was hanging quietly now waiting for the next sucker to glance its way.
The last straw was the relocation of the jeans section to just near my departure point. I was so close to gettting a sandwich, to making a break for it, to smiling at the security guard as usual on my way through when another huge “Take it OFF, Take it All OFF” sign swayed, seductively and beckoned me with an up turned index finger. “C’mon sexy” it said, “you know you want to!"
"Ok, just a quickie" . . . says I mainly because I was absolutely positive there’d be nothing there to fit my womanly form. These departments are usually for the youngsters, mostly sizes that Kate Moss would have trouble getting into. Whell hush my mouth and be still my beating heart! It was meant to be, it was written in the stars . . . a pair of really nice dark blue/black straight leg jeans with my name and $20 written all over them (now that is an unheard of price for jeans here which usually retail around the $150 mark.)
So, yesterday, in the space of 15 minutes, I managed to spend: $222. Thank god I don’t like shopping, imagine the damage I could do in half an hour!
Monday, July 30, 2007
Kiss Kiss
A long, long time ago, in a country far, far away, my Nana missed her only daughter so much that she paid for the entire family to return to Manchester for a six week Christmas holiday. It was exciting, I was 16, HippyBro 14, BabyBro 12 and BabySis 7 years old.
It was one of the most amazing holidays of my young life because I was given a freedom that I wasn’t permitted back home. I had a 12:00 curfew, boyfriends had to be vetted and were threatened with testicular torture if they missed the hour. If a quick front seat pash was in order, my father used to stand in front of the amber glass front door in his boxer shorts, singlet and socks flicking the light switch so that I would be aware of the strobe effect the porch light made with his incessant desperate attempt to get me inside - just to let me know that he knew I was home and up to no good.
My Nana, comparable only to Auntie Mame owned a pub which was frequented by younglings, Manchester off duty policemen and Geordy oil riggers to name a few. It was lively and due to the presence of police, stayed open way beyond the crazy British Licensing laws allowed. I spent evenings drinking fluffy ducks and eating cheese and biscuits and trying to decipher dialects and accents with limited success.
To celebrate our arrival in town she hosted a fancy dress party. We went to a really posh hire place, were given a sherry and had the clothes modelled for us! The overly gay blade owner dressed us all in exquisite and elaborate costumes. I became the pink and sparkly harem girl (I had a waist and olive skin in those days) and felt a million dollars, alluring and very glam.
The party was a blast, the music young, the patrons young and there I met a young man. The brother of one of the regulars and someone with whom I would have a six year long-distance relationship. That winter was the best in my life. Young love and I were allowed out late. We toured the countryside, I went to discos even though I was under age, we lay on tiny boats through the Blue John Mines, watched the Muppets together, kissed in his little Morris Minor with blue stars painted on the roof . . .great pickup line that . . .do you want to see the stars on my roof? Worked like a charm. Met his parents, went to the soccer. Every moment with him was absolutely magic. He was much older than me at 24 years but pft. I loved the attention and was mature for my age.
Once back in Australia, I reminded myself daily of him through Art Garfunkels' 'Breakaway' and Carly Simon. We saw other people, worked, indulged in our own hobbies and interests but we remained close correspondents. If only we had the internet back then, things might have worked out very differently. Letters took 10 days to deliver and so a letter a month was a good run rate by anyone’s standards.
I returned to England again after a painful relationship breakup when I was 21 and guess what? He was still single and up for a rendezvous. I didn’t tell him I was in the country, just rang and within minutes he was at my door. We had another another fantastic three months of romance. Everything was perfect a plan was hatched to meet again in Canada the following year and then real decisions about where this relationship was headed would have to be made. In the interim, he gave me a silver ingot on a chain which I wore for years . . . It was serious stuff.
Well as is obvious, Canada never happened. I met Ray, was swept off my feet and within 18 months was married and happy as a pig in poo. I still wrote to my English friend but he lost interest after that and the only other time I’ve ever heard about his welfare was after Ray died. I just wanted to make sure he was OK and that his life had panned out a little better than mine. It had. He had married, had two little girls but had never ventured to Canada as planned. All too painful apparently. We had a quiet and friendly conversation and agreed there was little profit in maintaining contact now that we had spent so much time apart. He was sorry for my loss, I happy for his gain.
So why this post. His are the pile of air letters tied with a red satin ribbon in my big red suitcase of dreams, my time capsule. I often wonder how he is and what he’s doing and whether if he ever travelled out here would he look me up. Tomorrow is his birthday, he will be 58, probably paunchy and balding with whiskers growing out of his nose and ears. He may even wear a flat cap and ride a bike . . .he could be a grandad or a widower . . .or lost all his beautiful pearly teeth . . . then again, he might be a gently aged, handsome man who’s made someone else very, very happy.
Happy birthday Ian.
It was one of the most amazing holidays of my young life because I was given a freedom that I wasn’t permitted back home. I had a 12:00 curfew, boyfriends had to be vetted and were threatened with testicular torture if they missed the hour. If a quick front seat pash was in order, my father used to stand in front of the amber glass front door in his boxer shorts, singlet and socks flicking the light switch so that I would be aware of the strobe effect the porch light made with his incessant desperate attempt to get me inside - just to let me know that he knew I was home and up to no good.
My Nana, comparable only to Auntie Mame owned a pub which was frequented by younglings, Manchester off duty policemen and Geordy oil riggers to name a few. It was lively and due to the presence of police, stayed open way beyond the crazy British Licensing laws allowed. I spent evenings drinking fluffy ducks and eating cheese and biscuits and trying to decipher dialects and accents with limited success.
To celebrate our arrival in town she hosted a fancy dress party. We went to a really posh hire place, were given a sherry and had the clothes modelled for us! The overly gay blade owner dressed us all in exquisite and elaborate costumes. I became the pink and sparkly harem girl (I had a waist and olive skin in those days) and felt a million dollars, alluring and very glam.
The party was a blast, the music young, the patrons young and there I met a young man. The brother of one of the regulars and someone with whom I would have a six year long-distance relationship. That winter was the best in my life. Young love and I were allowed out late. We toured the countryside, I went to discos even though I was under age, we lay on tiny boats through the Blue John Mines, watched the Muppets together, kissed in his little Morris Minor with blue stars painted on the roof . . .great pickup line that . . .do you want to see the stars on my roof? Worked like a charm. Met his parents, went to the soccer. Every moment with him was absolutely magic. He was much older than me at 24 years but pft. I loved the attention and was mature for my age.
Once back in Australia, I reminded myself daily of him through Art Garfunkels' 'Breakaway' and Carly Simon. We saw other people, worked, indulged in our own hobbies and interests but we remained close correspondents. If only we had the internet back then, things might have worked out very differently. Letters took 10 days to deliver and so a letter a month was a good run rate by anyone’s standards.
I returned to England again after a painful relationship breakup when I was 21 and guess what? He was still single and up for a rendezvous. I didn’t tell him I was in the country, just rang and within minutes he was at my door. We had another another fantastic three months of romance. Everything was perfect a plan was hatched to meet again in Canada the following year and then real decisions about where this relationship was headed would have to be made. In the interim, he gave me a silver ingot on a chain which I wore for years . . . It was serious stuff.
Well as is obvious, Canada never happened. I met Ray, was swept off my feet and within 18 months was married and happy as a pig in poo. I still wrote to my English friend but he lost interest after that and the only other time I’ve ever heard about his welfare was after Ray died. I just wanted to make sure he was OK and that his life had panned out a little better than mine. It had. He had married, had two little girls but had never ventured to Canada as planned. All too painful apparently. We had a quiet and friendly conversation and agreed there was little profit in maintaining contact now that we had spent so much time apart. He was sorry for my loss, I happy for his gain.
So why this post. His are the pile of air letters tied with a red satin ribbon in my big red suitcase of dreams, my time capsule. I often wonder how he is and what he’s doing and whether if he ever travelled out here would he look me up. Tomorrow is his birthday, he will be 58, probably paunchy and balding with whiskers growing out of his nose and ears. He may even wear a flat cap and ride a bike . . .he could be a grandad or a widower . . .or lost all his beautiful pearly teeth . . . then again, he might be a gently aged, handsome man who’s made someone else very, very happy.
Happy birthday Ian.
Kiss Kiss
Sunday, July 15, 2007
If You Don't Use It - Lose It
Whilst I collect the things that are meaningful to me: Little camels from Dubai and Tiki's from Vanuatu, my grans old Harvest Jar and T-Pot, a Victorian Barometer that doesn't work and an old treadle sewing machine among many 'pieces' that I simply can't part with. I am without doubt a tosser. My house is minimalist and devoid of clutter (except the kid's rooms of course). If it hasn't been worn for 2 years, it gets chucked in the rag bag (we have the best dressed homeless people in Sydney thanks to the many donations of still labelled items that I bought without trying on and disliked or found skimmed my curves a little too tightly). We have a 'tradition' here and I think also in the US that if you have a significant amount of well-preserved stuff, you have a Garage Sale. Bugger e-Bay, you can sell the lot by whacking all your junk into the carport or garage, putting an ad in the paper and signage on adjacent street light poles and hundreds of people will come and buy your rubbish and you'll make a tidy profit.
I hear of loads of people who say it's worth spending 2 days arranging stuff, pricing it, getting some change ready for those fuckers who bring $100 bills for a $2.00 book . . .so we did it. The family churned out clothes, books, vinyls and CD's, obsolete china, tubey bunks, bar stools and all those non-matching mugs that breed in the corner cupboard. A little bit of costume jewellery, electric lawn mower and whipper snipper, numerous blow up mattresses, a dog kennel and wire run, food processor and miscellaneous electricals and a huge TV.
The browsers come early despite the ad stating it starts at 9.00am. They're mostly the second hand dealers looking for hidden valuables. Then there are the cruisers who pop in and offer you 50cents for that Trent Nathan designer dress that no longer fits and you think - shit, I might have been going to throw it out but it's worth more than that! And the ruthless Garage Sale browsers who want a whole pile of stuff 'delivered' as if we're a friggin' courier service! Then there's the little old lady who cruises through the paperweights, ums and ahs and comes back three times before making a paltry offer. She's on the pension we think so throw in a couple for free before she drives away in her Beamer . . .sucked in again . . . old people are so devious.
Our garage sale was a disaster. We sold an old History of England and after it left I realised it was an 1850 first edition (bitch slap me to Tuesday for not realising it's value) and a Shelley China Tea set, the telly went and a few ods and sods but a plethora of stuff remained. I don't know why nobody bought the James Last Dance Album or the Reader's Digest collections, not to mention the delightful baby bouncer that you adhere to a door frame, whack the ankle biter into and watch them bounce up and down until their face goes blue. Great training for future bungy jumpers.
So we had to pile the rest in neat bags and tidy stacks so that St Vinnies could pick it up and use it in their op shop. The kennel and dog run earned $250 which was probably worth sitting outside all day and one of the punters was bitten by a bull ant which was very amusing. (not for him - it would be a few days before he'd get his shoes on!). All in all it was a total flop and a waste of time but there was something nice about sitting in the sunshine with my sister and daughter, drinking champagne and devising ways of spending all the money that we didn't make!
I hear of loads of people who say it's worth spending 2 days arranging stuff, pricing it, getting some change ready for those fuckers who bring $100 bills for a $2.00 book . . .so we did it. The family churned out clothes, books, vinyls and CD's, obsolete china, tubey bunks, bar stools and all those non-matching mugs that breed in the corner cupboard. A little bit of costume jewellery, electric lawn mower and whipper snipper, numerous blow up mattresses, a dog kennel and wire run, food processor and miscellaneous electricals and a huge TV.
The browsers come early despite the ad stating it starts at 9.00am. They're mostly the second hand dealers looking for hidden valuables. Then there are the cruisers who pop in and offer you 50cents for that Trent Nathan designer dress that no longer fits and you think - shit, I might have been going to throw it out but it's worth more than that! And the ruthless Garage Sale browsers who want a whole pile of stuff 'delivered' as if we're a friggin' courier service! Then there's the little old lady who cruises through the paperweights, ums and ahs and comes back three times before making a paltry offer. She's on the pension we think so throw in a couple for free before she drives away in her Beamer . . .sucked in again . . . old people are so devious.
Our garage sale was a disaster. We sold an old History of England and after it left I realised it was an 1850 first edition (bitch slap me to Tuesday for not realising it's value) and a Shelley China Tea set, the telly went and a few ods and sods but a plethora of stuff remained. I don't know why nobody bought the James Last Dance Album or the Reader's Digest collections, not to mention the delightful baby bouncer that you adhere to a door frame, whack the ankle biter into and watch them bounce up and down until their face goes blue. Great training for future bungy jumpers.
So we had to pile the rest in neat bags and tidy stacks so that St Vinnies could pick it up and use it in their op shop. The kennel and dog run earned $250 which was probably worth sitting outside all day and one of the punters was bitten by a bull ant which was very amusing. (not for him - it would be a few days before he'd get his shoes on!). All in all it was a total flop and a waste of time but there was something nice about sitting in the sunshine with my sister and daughter, drinking champagne and devising ways of spending all the money that we didn't make!
Thursday, July 12, 2007
My Secret Trove
If there were two objects I had to remove in a national disaster, bushfire, earthquake or something of that calibre they would be my grey briefcase and a large red, 1960's suitcase.
The grey briefcase, I bought for Ray when he left his IT position to enter sales. It now contains our birth certificates, marriage certificate, passports, degrees and diplomas, and a few more death certificates than I would like to imagine. It resides under my bed for a quick getaway. It contains indeed the documents needed to identify who we are and from whence we came.
The red suitcase is one of those large leather valises, very fashionable for its time and probably accompanied by a few matching partners that have since vanished into the ether - It's about a metre and a half long by half a metre wide but deep, about 25 - 3o cm deep and it contains my life. In a moments of nostalgia and self indulgence, I peruse its contents. Very infrequently I might add, perhaps every three or four years but it contains part of me and experiences I've had. It's my time capsule. Even my children are unaware of its contents. Not because they're secret but because it normally resides on the top shelf of my wardrobe and sits there anonymous and unnoticed by those stealing pop-socks or scrounging pillows and spare linen for sleep overs.
In this red case reside:
The grey briefcase, I bought for Ray when he left his IT position to enter sales. It now contains our birth certificates, marriage certificate, passports, degrees and diplomas, and a few more death certificates than I would like to imagine. It resides under my bed for a quick getaway. It contains indeed the documents needed to identify who we are and from whence we came.
The red suitcase is one of those large leather valises, very fashionable for its time and probably accompanied by a few matching partners that have since vanished into the ether - It's about a metre and a half long by half a metre wide but deep, about 25 - 3o cm deep and it contains my life. In a moments of nostalgia and self indulgence, I peruse its contents. Very infrequently I might add, perhaps every three or four years but it contains part of me and experiences I've had. It's my time capsule. Even my children are unaware of its contents. Not because they're secret but because it normally resides on the top shelf of my wardrobe and sits there anonymous and unnoticed by those stealing pop-socks or scrounging pillows and spare linen for sleep overs.
In this red case reside:
- A wooden string puppet that I received for my 8th birthday and never mastered.
- My school recorder
- A pair of Pakistani Wedding slippers that my father brought back from the East when it was a land far, far away
- A swag of postcards that he mailed whilst on business trips from India, Hong Kong, Kualar Lumpar, Singapore and other exotic places
- A sari
- Love letters from the man I would have followed to Canada had I not met my husband
- Pressed flowers from a picnic that was particularly romantic
- The decorations from my wedding cake and my wedding veil - the something borrowed that I never returned.
- Delft china liqueur bottles that my Grandpa brought with him when he flew out to my wedding on KLM
- Thai silk that looked so cool in Thailand, I bought bolts of the stuff only to realise that it really didn't look right here
- My children's first pairs of shoes
- The little brown envelope given to me with Ray's belongings after he died - his wedding ring, glasses, gold cross and watch
- A tiny picture of a horse and foal, given to me as a farewell present by Anne Harrison, my best friend when I left England at age 11. I have lost her.
- A Spanish Fan from the Canary Islands which I received as a birthday gift whilst visiting there
- A plastic envelope with Tahitian tourist information - a memento of the most wonderful holiday I ever had before I married - the honeymoon you have before the honeymoon
- My father's tin 'ditty box' with his dog tags and an old five pound note, Uncle Walter's Medal from the first world war and a few other little tidbits that remind me my Dad was once an 18 year old.
- My mother's RSN nurses badge and her nametag. The ward on which she worked just before she was killed is now the "Pamela Dunn Maternity Ward"
- Wedding invitations from people I knew in my youth who are now divorced
- My own wedding and engagement ring
- A litre Stein that I pinched from the Löwenbräu Keller
- A 'winners' patch cut from my darling friend's Track Pants after winning the International Kneeboard Title
- A Manchester United Scarf that I bought during my travels and wore fleeing from an angry Chelsea mob after a game
- Silver charms from Switzerland, Austria, Germany, France, England, Jersey which I never had adhered to my charm bracelet
- My Christening Dress (Also ClareBear's, DrummerBoy's, Naughty Neph, Bec and Hannah Bannanah's)
- Numerous coasters from obscure bars where I pashed beautiful boys whose names I never knew
- I'm sure there are other things that I've forgotten - time to re-open Baino's Box
Sunday, July 08, 2007
Oooo . . .I'm So Scared . . . .
I've been reminded of this time in life by a couple of other bloggers discussing the corn that used to be on late night TV from 'Them' to 'Attack of the Killer Tomatoes'. Fantastic horror films with larger than life characters, real or otherwise. Giant plants, lizards poor things with something usually glued to their backs or invisible villains and screeming busty women who's makeup and coiffure remained intact through the entire program. High pants heroes with flexible eyebrows. They would be the source of much laughter as the ganja kicked in. Some of the best were the herioc historical films, the Epic Theatre - gladiatorial and usually dubbed in English because they were Italian. Hercules and pals. Over muscled and greased up they walked like they had a carrot stuck up their bums. Ah, they don't make films like that any more. It's all blood and gore, intestines and brains. Nothing is left to the imagination any more.
I love the horror genre and a good horror flick is worth it's weight in plasma but I do miss the silly stuff. I like the idea of Triffids taking over the planet and tomatoes being more than a salad ingredient. Here are a few to keep you mesmerised: Attack of the Giant Leeches; The Blob; Brides of Dracula; The Fly; Carnival of Souls; Terror in the Crypt; The Mummy's Shroud.
If it had Vincent Price and/or Peter Cushing in it - all the better!
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
I'd Rather Remain Faceless
Corporate photographs. That’s what they want to put on our Financial Services Guide, our website and worst of all to provide to our licensee so that the lab rat’s faces can be emlazoned on the next Partner’s conference big screen to show what happy little campers we are to now be part of the ipac conglomerate.
So here I sit in my gladrags waiting for some amateur shutterbug to snap my mug so that I can be heralded as one of the backbones of the administration team. But they’re going to photograph us ‘in situ’ at our workstations, beavering away and looking like office staff. How fascinating that must be for the onlookers who have only gone to the conference for the junket.
I hate having my photo taken. I am not photogenic and always seem to be caught wincing or looking cranky and disapproving (a look I have mastered apparently) or my hair’s too frizzy or that zit on my chin is sticking out like a spare appendage. I hate looking in the mirror for that matter. Not because I’m ugly,.because I’m not, but I’m far from breathtaking and the reflection I see in the mirror these days is a mere shadow of my former self. I hate having to confront the creeping loss of youth unless the lights are dim and the flash is turned off.
I will take some photos when our camera is fixed. Hopefully this week but I’ll be very selective about what I post. I’ve decided that I have a good camera angle and that’s shots taken slightly from the left at about 2 metres. The distance blurs the wrinkles and hides the hair friz and sort of evens out the body shape a bit. How I’m going to achieve that sitting in my small corner, I don’t know. It’s weird, I don’t know why I’m so self-conscious. I think I prefer people to get to know the whole package, not just the image, yet I love looking at other people’s photos.
I think most of all, I hate having my photograph used as a sales pitch to make other financial planning businesses feel warm and fuzzy towards me. Especially without an extreme make-over (sorry Grandad) and a professional panel beater and spray painter I mean stylist). It’s not just me, we’re all going to be used as examples of blissful little supporters to a room full of Equity Partners who are really only swanning around on the Queensland coast in a luxury hotel for the afteroon golf and the evening booze up.
Fortunately, she who is taking the photos, is unwell today.
Fuck. That means I’ll have to wear a suit and battle the ‘do’ again tomorrow.
Monday, June 11, 2007
A Bum Steer
I drive. I'm not a bad driver. I'm not a particularly good driver but I know that if I turn on the ignition, point my car in the general direction in which I want to go, it will move forward, provided it's in gear it will go where I want it to and respond in a way I expect it to. I also have the benefit of an all wheel drive vehicle which will turn on a five cent piece and respond immediately to the slightest touch of the steering wheel. It's also 14 years old.
Today, I will be driving another vehicle, similar all wheel drive, much newer than my old jalopy and capable of a large load. It will be a shopping trolley. Laugh if you must but why are these contraptions so difficult to steer? Initially, it will be quite easy. After racing the woman beside me for the first available and wrenching the offending vehicle from a long line of neatly stacked others, I'll trap my fingers in the kiddy seat and get the safety belt caught on one of my buttons. So as I go through the automatic gates at Coles, I'll look like a retard or some poor old sodette who has a severe back injury. Once I've disentangled the child safety belt from my jacket button and righted myself, I'll drop my dilapitated purse into one of the many 'green' shopping bags stuffed in the said child seat section but my keys will miss their mark and become entangled in the mesh at the bottom of the trolly. As I go down on my knees (not in a good way), I'll draw attention to myself in a way that is far from desirable as I bend beneath the trolley to retrieve the trapped car keys.
I'll head first, down the closest aisle which happens to be soft goods such as bread, croissants and other pastries. This means that all the soft and squishy stuff lies in the bottom of the trolley. Who designed this place!
As I meander up and down each consecutive aisle, the trolley will become fuller, heavier and inevitably impossible to steer. It used to be handy having a toddler grabbing the front of the trolley and perched on its frame to reweight the thing so that it did actually travel in a singular direction and in a straight line but by the time I reach the shampoo and tampons, it's loaded with cans and jars, juice and boxes and refuses to go straight. At this point, I'll avoid a small child running out of control with an irate parent chasing it and crash duly into the neatly stacked collection of toothpaste (with a free toothbrush) which I would otherwise have missed and take advantage of the free offer whilst I clumsily try to restack the mountain of gold foil boxes.
Having crashed, of course the carefully placed cans and jars will land heavily on my croissants and wholemeal, squashing them into oblivion at which point, I'll remove them, leave them on the shelf where the dog food resides and vow to revisit the squishy aisle to get a fresh loaf and half a dozen more croissants.
A final run of the frozen section for baby peas (that's all I buy frozen) and I'm done. Again, I wobble towards the checkout, now with one rear wheel refusing to right itself and the trolley has developed a screeching squeak which alerts every shopper and checkout chick to my presence. At the moment I reach the end of the queue and begin unloading the harder items, I remember that I've forgotten to pick up my loaf of Helga's MultiGrain and have to push past irate waiting shoppers, each with their own trolley challenge and race to retrieve tommorrows vegemite toast.
Finally, all items sorted in order of firmness, they're packed into the greeny bags, I fumble for the right credit card which is slammed one more time with a bill I can ill afford and the bags are loaded back into the trolley for dispatch to the car boot.
Now the worst bit. I have to navigate the now completely crippled and squarking wire frame contraption through the revellers enjoying their cappucino and free cake from Michelle's Patisserie scraping their chair legs as I go. Through the automatic doors where I am the only shopper in the world that smiles at the security guy (he sees me coming these days and gives me a sheepish wave) and down the flattened curb towards my car. The trolley now, weighted has gained velocity and is actually pulling me towards the old jalopy before crashing into the pre-scratched bumper.
Almost done now. With the greenie bags unloaded the empty trolley is pushed back up to the trolley bay and thrown into it with such vim and vigour that it bounces straight out and has to be caught on the fly before it scratches the brand new Landcruiser parked badly near it. With a flushed face, underbreath mutterings and a firm hand, it's lodged once more with its compadres ready to drive another shopper insane.
I'm thinking long and hard about home delivery . . .
Today, I will be driving another vehicle, similar all wheel drive, much newer than my old jalopy and capable of a large load. It will be a shopping trolley. Laugh if you must but why are these contraptions so difficult to steer? Initially, it will be quite easy. After racing the woman beside me for the first available and wrenching the offending vehicle from a long line of neatly stacked others, I'll trap my fingers in the kiddy seat and get the safety belt caught on one of my buttons. So as I go through the automatic gates at Coles, I'll look like a retard or some poor old sodette who has a severe back injury. Once I've disentangled the child safety belt from my jacket button and righted myself, I'll drop my dilapitated purse into one of the many 'green' shopping bags stuffed in the said child seat section but my keys will miss their mark and become entangled in the mesh at the bottom of the trolly. As I go down on my knees (not in a good way), I'll draw attention to myself in a way that is far from desirable as I bend beneath the trolley to retrieve the trapped car keys.
I'll head first, down the closest aisle which happens to be soft goods such as bread, croissants and other pastries. This means that all the soft and squishy stuff lies in the bottom of the trolley. Who designed this place!
As I meander up and down each consecutive aisle, the trolley will become fuller, heavier and inevitably impossible to steer. It used to be handy having a toddler grabbing the front of the trolley and perched on its frame to reweight the thing so that it did actually travel in a singular direction and in a straight line but by the time I reach the shampoo and tampons, it's loaded with cans and jars, juice and boxes and refuses to go straight. At this point, I'll avoid a small child running out of control with an irate parent chasing it and crash duly into the neatly stacked collection of toothpaste (with a free toothbrush) which I would otherwise have missed and take advantage of the free offer whilst I clumsily try to restack the mountain of gold foil boxes.
Having crashed, of course the carefully placed cans and jars will land heavily on my croissants and wholemeal, squashing them into oblivion at which point, I'll remove them, leave them on the shelf where the dog food resides and vow to revisit the squishy aisle to get a fresh loaf and half a dozen more croissants.
A final run of the frozen section for baby peas (that's all I buy frozen) and I'm done. Again, I wobble towards the checkout, now with one rear wheel refusing to right itself and the trolley has developed a screeching squeak which alerts every shopper and checkout chick to my presence. At the moment I reach the end of the queue and begin unloading the harder items, I remember that I've forgotten to pick up my loaf of Helga's MultiGrain and have to push past irate waiting shoppers, each with their own trolley challenge and race to retrieve tommorrows vegemite toast.
Finally, all items sorted in order of firmness, they're packed into the greeny bags, I fumble for the right credit card which is slammed one more time with a bill I can ill afford and the bags are loaded back into the trolley for dispatch to the car boot.
Now the worst bit. I have to navigate the now completely crippled and squarking wire frame contraption through the revellers enjoying their cappucino and free cake from Michelle's Patisserie scraping their chair legs as I go. Through the automatic doors where I am the only shopper in the world that smiles at the security guy (he sees me coming these days and gives me a sheepish wave) and down the flattened curb towards my car. The trolley now, weighted has gained velocity and is actually pulling me towards the old jalopy before crashing into the pre-scratched bumper.
Almost done now. With the greenie bags unloaded the empty trolley is pushed back up to the trolley bay and thrown into it with such vim and vigour that it bounces straight out and has to be caught on the fly before it scratches the brand new Landcruiser parked badly near it. With a flushed face, underbreath mutterings and a firm hand, it's lodged once more with its compadres ready to drive another shopper insane.
I'm thinking long and hard about home delivery . . .
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