The Last Saturday Arvo In September

Australians absolutely love their footy. Whether watching either variant of rugby, soccer (called "football" by the rest of the world) or AFL, most winter afternoons and evenings are spent roaring for their teams - in person or via the telly. And there are few other Australian cities that can boast more footy maniacs than Melbourne.

They are a tough bunch in the capital of Victoria. Most cold days and nights would freeze the balls off a brass monkey. And cold days can occur in the height of summer. Melbournians are quite comfortable with the fact that they may experience all four seasons in a day, and not in any sort of logical meteorological order. Hence they go prepared for any eventuality out of doors.

The hallowed ground of the MCG (Melbourne Cricket Ground) can pack in 100,024 fans. Melbourne's population stands at about 4.85 million. Which means that a largish number of Melbourne's citizens are prepared to brave the bitter cold to watch footy and (very occasionally) the scorching heat to watch the cricket.

Yesterday was the culmination, the summit, the ultimate of this season's Australian Football League. Yesterday was the Grand Final between the Collingwood Football Club and West Coast Eagles Football Club. A team from Melbourne's heartland against one of the two Western Australian teams. And Collingwood is a team that polarises Victoria. Apparently, the only fans that barrack for Collingwood are Collingwood supporters. Geelong Football Club, ninety minutes drive from Melbourne has similar issues. However, I am given to understand that other clubs' members will support Geelong if they are playing Collingwood, but never the other way around.

Part of Collingwood's challenge may be caused by their passionately loud and occasionally inappropriate president, Mr Eddie Mcguire, otherwise known as Mr Eddie Everywhere. A prominent media player, he is totally one-eyed when all matters to do with Collingwood are raised. He also has an unfortunate tendency to shoot his mouth off, usually offending a reasonably sized proportion of the Australian public except, of course, Collingwood fans.

A game of Australian Rules footy is fast-paced. I was discussing this situation with a lass from the good old US of A, now resident in Green Hills. She explained that the hype, pre-game entertainment, half-time razzamatazz and the game itself called Gridiron could take just about all day. Plus the players wear body protection. She distinctly remembers watching her first game of AFL and being astonished at the speed and skill, along with clashes between bodies that characterises the Australian game. Plus, she only had time to have a couple of beers before the full-time siren.

There were two spare seats in the entire MCG for the Grand Final. Not bad for a cool winter's day. Collingwood leapt out of the blocks and had established a twenty-nine point buffer by the first break. Over the next two terms, the Eagles ground their way back into the contest. Level pegging at three-quarter time, the game was decided in the last two minutes. Victory to the Eagles by five points. A tragedy for Eddie, coach Nathan Buckley, the players and supporters of the Collingwood Football Club.

Hysterical scenes of joy and grief erupted all across the country. Michael's fearless second-in-command Gary had predicted the Eagles would win by a goal (six points). By the time they returned to our courtyard, Gary was beside himself with gleeful excitement. He then engaged in particularly bad and exceedingly noisy singing, alternating the Eagles Club song and "We are the Champions" by Queen. Full of vigour, raucous gusto and not one note in key, he was a very happy man.

Today, I had to buy the worst, the most dismal, the grammatically woeful journalistic endeavour in Western Australia - the Sunday Times. For the outrageous sum of three dollars, I only purchased this paper for two reasons - the TV magazine and the sixteen-page spread of the Eagles' glorious win.

Roll on the cricket season.

A very happy couple of Eagles' supporters

"What a game!"

 

Apparently much more fast paced than this...

and no protective gear like this...

Some of yesterday's action

That's a mark!

WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS!

Soothing The Savage Beasts

After all the excitement of the long weekend, including our sensational Sundowner, we could have done with a restful few days. Alas, for our slightly weary bones, this was not to be. After a fairly low key Tuesday, the accelerator was pushed firmly to the floor once more.

My fabulous friend and Activity Co-ordinator to the Stars, Stacey Dowding, had organised a morning tea stopover for her bunch of indefatigable seniors at the East End Gallery on Wednesday. Ladies and gentlemen, Stacey deserves a medal for courage above and beyond the Call of Duty. She is Commander-in-Chief given the challenge of keeping her elderly charges entertained on a daily basis. She arranges excursions and incursions, parties and day trips on a mammoth scale. Heaven help me if I tried to wrangle this decidedly sprightly and exceedingly opinionated mature-aged crowd more than one morning tea a year!

They arrived en masse right on time and piled out of a coaster bus and a mini-van. I think we welcomed about thirty of them. There may as well been thirty thousand of them as they barrelled through the front doors. The urn was boiling. The tea and coffee supplies stood ready. The jam and cream were at attention. Somehow, we had forgotten to cut the scones in half.

A tense standoff ensued as Michael frantically halved the scones before he was trampled to death. With a sigh of relief, he finished this task and stood back to allow the hoards to feast. The following scene was akin to a stampede arriving at an evaporating African waterhole.

There was nothing subtle about some of our guests. Demands for the location of the public loos along with the ongoing clamour for their morning tea created a cacophony of high drama and a deafening roar. There were two carers and a driver with them attempting to keep them on schedule amongst the mayhem.

Unexpectedly quickly, the noise levels reduced. Now, our visitors resembled a plumply satisfied pride of lions and lionesses having just consumed the tasty smorgasbord on offer at the aforementioned waterhole. And we were exhausted.

They came, they ate and drank and they did enjoy themselves, I think. After fifty action-packed minutes, they were herded back into their transport, off for lunch in Toodyay. I felt like phoning the Freemasons Hotel in the town, warning them of the incoming invasion and suggesting mass evacuations before there were casualties.

We slowly cleaned up the carnage. And with school holidays in full swing, we had other guests come through the doors. They listened with grateful mirth at our tale of just escaping with our lives. Somehow, we reached two o'clock in the blink of an eye and we needed to leave for Northam with Pip to see Graeme and Ingrid, our vets. They had bravely volunteered to stare into the nostrils and throat of our hacking, snorting, reverse-sneezing Jack Russell.

Once we'd arrived, we hauled Pip bodily out of the car to face the music. Graeme suggested we leave the muzzle off and see if I could calm the flexible and hairy rod of steel writhing in my arms. Surprisingly, he was probably better behaved. The pre-med was given with no real issues. True I did resemble an abominable snowman in a red teeshirt (a bad choice of clothing) and I sniffed and coughed up Jack Russell hairballs for the next two hours, but I was relatively unscathed.

We enjoyed a sedate and satisfying afternoon tea and a peaceful sojourn to the local library. On our return to the vet, we discovered that Graeme and Ingrid had all appendages attached and correct and the investigation had revealed nothing sinister. He had straight septums, an unobstructed throat, excellent lungs and heart, clipped nails, drained anal glands and a definite rupture of his ACL. Which we would continue to treat conservatively with anti-inflammatory medication as required. And Pip had been a total angel...

We returned home to Station House very gratefully. Ruby was ecstatic to see us. Madame Cat was non-committal. We indulged ourselves immediately with a couple of very large glasses of vino, a simple honey chicken dish for dinner and staggered off to bed.

The moral of this story? Do not be fooled by the soft wrinkles and silver hair of the elderly. There is often nothing frail about them whatsoever.

Until next year!

CHARGE!!!

Certainly enjoying their morning tea

Motorcyclists never change...

One of the carers certainly got into the spirit!

Yep...

Cowabunga!

Pip following an unfortunate encounter with Michael's glass of red wine

I am NOT alarmed

Staying on top of world events via the World Wide Web

Yes, Pip. You are very cute.

A Sensational Sundowner (Again)

Two weekends ago, I was wearing multiple layers, including thermals into the Gallery. With the open fire going and a heater between my knees when I was sitting at my desk. The nights were still cold, the Forbes Building had no chance to properly warm up during the days.

From last Wednesday, Spring roared into life. Temperatures leapt by degrees, nights ceased to be freezing. Last Thursday, we stopped using the home heating after dark. The only downside is the rapid arrival of our disliked flying fiends. Vacuuming them midair has become quite the spectator sport.

Today is a thoroughly gorgeous Tuesday, in the low twenties (about seventy-three in Fahrenheit). I have discarded my cardigan and loving feeling the house full of fresh air. The courtyard is filled with light and colour. How lucky are we?

I have just about recovered from Saturday night's Sundowner. Unusually, Michael Hit The Wall first and retired to our boudoir before Cinderella was even thinking about bolting from the ball. We had an intimate crowd of locals and semi-locals having an absolute blast.  Poppy, Jan, Ailsa and I all danced. Patricia joined in on the sidelines as did Melody. Rob was shooting fantastic photographs from all angles. Phil was at his urbane best. Greg was relaxed and affable. Beverley multi-facet artist Gracie filled out our numbers, along with Rod (of Rodney and the Rockets fame) and Marianne, old friends of Lawrence.

Two Appletons graced us with their presence earlier in the afternoon. As did the amazing Andrew Taylor, Laura, Mariette and whippet Carson, who cruised over in their smallish hatchback, along with two new pieces on plinths. Decidedly less squashy on their way home.

The Gallery was showcased in all her glory until midnight. But the stars of the show were undoubtedly Guy Slingerland on drums and guitar, Neville Dowling on a keyboard, Jan George on guitar and drum and the wondrously laidback Lawrence Jones on guitar. who had to return back to his house halfway to Beverley having left his Phone Alone.

Their vocals were sublime, highlighted by such classics as "Riders On The Storm" and "Wichita Linesman" and "Under The Milky Way". They generously gave their time and talent, paid only by a questionable sausage sizzle, chocolates, biscuits and vino. Ladies and gentlemen, these musos are superb gifts at our Sundowners.

So do yourselves a favour and note the next Sundowner in your diaries, planners or calendars. Saturday 15 December is the date. We will kick off proceedings with a pastel demonstration by the uber cool Brian Aylward, at two o'clock. Free of charge. Brian is another one of our artists who provide us with such generosity of his time and talent. Naturally, he is paid in the normal East End Gallery currency of a couple of decent vinos and many verbal accolades.

This last Sundowner of 2018 will also be celebrating the Gallery's fourth birthday. We can't believe the flying of these years. I am also scheming to have Santa present as well as our fabulous musicians. Nev and Lawrence have already been asked and agreed. Guy and Jan, please confirm your attendance and make up the Fantastic Four.

In May 2019, Michael and I will be cock-a-hoop at our tenth anniversary together. This promises to be a momentous occasion. If I'd had a dream back in early 2009 that I was destined to marry a brilliant metal artist named Michael Sofoulis and be running an art gallery in a country town, I would have fallen off my chair laughing.

As it is, I am running the East End Gallery and I still frequently fall about laughing...

Fancy that!

Three of the Awesome Foursome

There's the Fourth!

Guy

Jan

Neville

Lawrence and introducing some of our quieter guests -

View from the doors...

Rod and Marianne

Phil and Greg

Gracie and Jan

Ailsa and Poppy

Rob, Melody and Michael

Make it so...

Meteors, Meerkats and Misadventures

We've had a pretty lively week here preparing for yet another magnificent Sundowner. A trip to Perth for our twice-yearly skin checks with the divine Doctor Daram. Standing in front of one of the most handsome men I have ever seen (who is also a thoroughly friendly bloke), my dreams were shattered once more with those softly spoken words - "Down to your bra and knickers, Kate". Sigh.

And so we both did. I had a few bits frozen off, adding to the patchwork caused by sun damage over the last fifty years. Michael had a suspicious looking patch shaved off his upper arm. He was suitably brave and did not utter a single expletive. Hence, Daram's receptionists were saved from the deluge of very loud profanity that usually accompanies any local anaesthetic applied to me.

Other highlights included a spot of drug collecting from two pharmacies; tiresome but necessary. Getting older is definitely not for the faint-hearted. Plus, I picked up drugs for Pip's troublesome ACL from Graeme, our long-suffering vet and organised his investigations for Wednesday (Pip, not Graeme). Northam Retra-Vision provided a badly-needed urn for the Gallery and Vanessa arrived on the train to spend the long weekend here.

Any illusions that the Wheatbelt is an area where nothing ever happens has been dispelled once and for all. First of all, a bloody great light hurtled across the sky at the end of August. Crashlanding Martians perhaps? Apparently not. The boffins believe it was a meteorite that ploughed into a paddock somewhere near York. As far as I know, no trace of the mystery object has been found as yet. Give us a few months. Come harvest, a farmer's prize piece of machinery will make contact with this extraterrestrial lump with a resounding crunch. And all will be revealed.

Then, we are alerted to the disappearance of a meerkat/kitten from Perth Zoo. We were all convinced that a wandering bird of prey had done what wandering birds of prey do and snaffled the baby when nobody was looking. However, we did our feathered flying friends a disservice to suspect them. We have since learnt that a Wheatbelt couple were "helping police with their enquiries" after the missing meerkitten was uncovered and rescued from a country property. In Beverley, actually.

Apparently, the infant was tired, stressed and hungry. I am not surprised. The drongos who nicked the animal surely had no idea what they were doing. Pinching a meerkitten...Why would a pair of village idiots believe that they could care for a burrowing mongoose-like animal from southern Africa?

Needless to say, this exquisitely strange but true story has caused much hilarity online. Michael and I have been quizzed by several so-called friends if we were the couple in question...Some bright spark even altered our brand of "Be Very Beverley" to "Be Very Meerkat". Oh, hardee haa...

The last time Beverley was really in the news was the report of a mummified big toe found lurking outside the post office. This resulted in awkward questions from our friends, concerned about the whereabouts of the rest of the body. So far, we are unaware of any residents who appear to be missing an appendage from one foot.  The mystery rolls on...

Pip, our Ultra-Alert Jack Russell, is being examined for the affliction of reverse sneezing next week. Pardon? For some time, his sucking and hacking and coughing has been intensifying. He would sound like he was dying. We've had him checked for Kennel Cough and vague respiratory infections. We've discussed possibilities of an obstruction. We've tried antibiotics and oral steroids. All to no avail. Our latest information is that reverse sneezing is not fatal (!), but we can investigate possible causes. On Wednesday, Pip is undergoing an anaesthetic to take a squizz up his hooter and down his throat. That should slow down his utilisation of spraying diarrhoea all over Graeme and Ingrid. We may or may not discover a reason.

We were also instructed to get a wee sample from Pip, first thing in the morning. This was easier said than done. Being a somewhat nervous type, Pip was understandably disturbed at being followed by an ice cream container. Needless to say, my quest to catch a widdle ended in abject failure. When the junior vet Melody suggested stalking him with a soup ladle, I nearly choked with hysterical laughter. They can extract the wee from him whilst he is unconscious...

We will barely have time to draw breath over the coming days. Tuesday is our only day off. My darling friend, Stacey Dowding, is bringing her merry bunch of senior citizens for an outing on Wednesday. Her own Dad died very recently but Stacey would never let her band of fun-loving elders down.

Beverley may well be in the news again after their visit.

Somewhere in the Wheatbelt.

Said no doctor ever...

Certainly was!

Much maligned suspect...

Found safe and sound...in Beverley!

He wants his mummy...

The scene of another crime in Beverley...

A living example of the evidence

On Wednesday, we take Pip to the vet in the afternoon

and welcome Stacey with her crowd in the morning!

Nothing like a good dress-up!

Stacey with her beloved Dad and Mum. Fly high, Mr Frank Green.