At Last! A Semblance of Normality...

Having recovered from the rapid disappearance of most of January, I have heartened by signs of order returning into my life. Most of those who enjoyed a holiday break over Christmas are now back at work. Yesterday I was delighted to see school uniforms appearing at Midland Gate. The private schools have taken possession of their students for another year. Public school indictees will be herded into their classrooms next week. Parents all over the country will (mostly) heave a communal sigh of relief. Except for those soft-hearted ones, particularly whose children attend boarding schools.

As for me, I was never sentimental. I couldn't wait for my own darlings to start school. They were all pretty excited as well. Which was wonderful to watch. Pity school didn't always offer such optimism and joy for the kids. But first days were different. I'd wave them in delightedly and then vanish for the six-hour window of time to myself.

Other keys to the resumption of normality are television programming's steep improvement (ratings have started again) with treasured shows commencing and eagerly awaited new series on the near horizon. The Weekend Australian newspaper has returned its glossy magazine to its rightful place in the middle of this broadsheet. I have been reunited with Nikki Gemmel and Phillip Adams once more. In fact, Phillip's first piece for this year was a delicious reminiscence of Australian Prime Ministers since Robert Menzies. He has yet to catch up with current PM Scott Morrison. Personally, I think Phillip's witty repartee would be lost on ScoMo.

My favourite article in the Weekend Australian's Review was this week's Forum. Deirdre Mackin produced a genuinely funny and affectionate quick summary of Australia's tourism gems.

Deirdre describes those who have moved to Tasmania as people who "...don't know what they are, but they know they like it. ...They keep bees, craft their own beers, and share their garden produce with the chef who swapped a two hat restaurant in Melbourne for a converted pig shed in the hills".

Apparently, Canberrians have never forgiven Bill Bryson for comparing Our Nation's Capital with waiting to drop off the mortal coil. She describes local baristas who have discovered beards and cyclists who wear a tad more than Lycra. Both could be related to Canberra's winter weather.

Native Queenslanders are rapidly being swamped by those from South of the Border. Further North, a new slogan has been introduced (Tropical Queensland) "...to assure visitors they're going to get hot, but not necessarily lost. Or eaten." Deirdre only touches on the drought and mines briefly.

South Australians undertake a lot of waving and shouting to reassure tourists the state still exists. This is in spite of natural wonders, wineries, beaches, architecture and stunning scenery. And they have bees, just like in Tasmania. The problem for South Australians is that they only ever seem to make the news after giant storms flatten power lines, or experience extremes of weather or a shark attack off their coast, which is renowned for sharks.

Deirdre doesn't have much of an opinion of Western Australia. She describes Perth "...as being closer to Bali than Sydney..." and that "...they will never let you forget how they are ripped off by the GST." Which is true. A challenge for WA is that the state is huge.

Distances are somewhat difficult for some travellers to get their heads around. From Albany in the state's south to Wyndham in the far north Kimberley is over three and a half thousand kilometres. From the coast to Giles on the Northern Territory border, west to east is seventeen hundred and fifty kilometres. Or thereabouts. The best way to tackle WA is probably to pick a region and explore that thoroughly unless time is not an issue.

"Melbournians will be tolerant of the consequences of popularity because...they are inclusive, progressive and mightily aware that other states. aren't. Go there for the flat whites and the comedy festivals, but leave before you become smug."

Deirdre didn't have much space for Sydney in her article. Perhaps, unkindly, she suggested her friend had asked about other areas of Australia because he had started his trip there. Ouch...

And Northern Territorians missed out altogether!

In spite of the fact that the Weekend Australian is a News Corp publication and some of its content is definitely suspect, I will continue to buy the paper because of some of their columnists. Vale Deirdre Macken, Nikki Gemmell and that living Australian Legend, Phillip Adams.

This post has tended to go all over the place. Rather like my mind. I shall conclude with my thoughts on Australia Day. Every year, there is the same angst between black and white. So far, all that has been produced is a great deal of hot air and bad manners by some. I have hope though. I came across a rejigging of our truly dreadful National Anthem, "Advance Australia Fair". New lyrics, new anthem, same music...

Check out "Blkfullaent" on Facebook as I couldn't work out how to save the video to this post!

And remember to have a great day...

The inimitable Phillip Adams

Nikki Gemmell

Deirdre Macken

Maybe this headline could give us a clue about the Northern Territory's absence from Deirdre's article...

 And check out the new lyrics to "Advance Australia Fair" by these boys.

Bubble, Bubble, Bloop, Bloop...

What triggers memories? Sights or sounds or smells or suggestions. I think that each New Year evokes remembrances in us all. The long and lazy days of summer, often with business closures allowing precious time with family and friends, provides opportunities for our minds to wander into the past, along with hopes for the future.

I was making porridge the other morning. Not as we used to prepare rolled oats for breakfast. As I retrieved the dish from the microwave, I heard the unforgettable chorus of Bubble, Bloop, Lub Dub. And I was immediately transported to another place and time.

Back in a few years until I was ten years old, we would travel from Brisbane to the remote Sunshine Coast to stay in a huge Queenslander style building owned by the Presbyterians opposite Alexandra Headland surf lifesaving club. This was always a week or ten day period after Christmas. Through my research for this post, I have discovered this massive camp under a roof was called Alexandra Hostel/House. This was a dormitory style holiday. I absolutely loved every stay. I am quite sure my parents would have hated every stay, but this was a cheap alternative for a summer holiday.

Apparently, the Aboriginal tenants had been delegated to the Cherbourg community many kilometres inland, so that families like ours could have an opportunity for a beach stay. Fuck a duck...

We were served communal meals via a vast kitchen. This was where I first heard the sound of bubbling porridge, which was served every morning. I never had porridge at home, so I would smother the ladle of gloop I received with milk and brown sugar. Absolute bliss.

The water was questionable and often caused gastro. The number of people living under one roof would often lead to gastro. The food was possibly not quality controlled, which would often lead to gastro. We became used to the sound of somebody chundering, usually onto the wooden floorboards.

Yet, I loved these holidays. I remember touching base with two other girls who came with their families. Libby was the youngest of five and the only girl amongst her siblings. I'm ashamed to say I can't remember the name of our mutual playmate. And I hero-worshipped Susie Swan, who travelled with her family from Toowoomba. A teenager, Susie was either bored shitless by the lack of any privacy or was so sweet-natured that she just put up with me - a buck-toothed, red-haired and freckled damaged individual who would soon become a loner. Wherever you ended up, thank-you to Susie Swan for those couple of summers when I adored you.

My beloved brother Michael and I were very close, but the holidays at Alexandra Headland allowed me to spread my wings. I actually have no idea with whom my older brothers associated. I was too busy being part of a tribe. The three of us discovered an abandoned cubby house behind the hostel. Full of spiders and other undesirables, we would attack the interior of the structure with sticks and leaves to drive out any nasties. I remember that the last summer - 1971 - we were nine, ten and eleven. We were fascinated and appalled by bodily functions and were desperate for information. So we created our own scenarios, most of which were completely out of left field.

The following summer, when I was eleven, our family had moved to Sydney. Some of the family, anyway. David and Simon remained in Brisbane. Michael, my adored childhood companion, went off the rails and into a harrowing existence of drugs within six months. Our family was shattered for forty years.

Mum's death for the catalyst for our reunion. We rediscovered our sibling links. We are all very different, but at least we have been able to reconnect at a fabulously intimate level. The Beverley Hillbillies are planning to begin the Grand Loop in September 2020. We promise to drop in on any family members as will have us.

The beach as I remember at Alexandra Headland...

PORRIDGE!

Always lurking at Alexandra Hostel...

Where I felt I belonged...

A tribe of kids...

Too luxurious, but you get the idea...

I remember this building so well...

Simon (second from the right)

Michael and Michael ( B1 and B2)

David and Kerin (with cask!)

What In The World Just Happened To January?

Is it just me? Is it an age thing? Are the years going past at an increasingly rapid pace? If so, I'd like to do a Doctor Who and stop time. I have far too much to do in the interim. Wasn't 2000 just the other day? And how am I possibly the mother of a daughter of thirty-three? I swear Vanessa was a revolting teenager a few minutes ago...

Alas, no. Time is flying and I have to deal with this new reality. Back in the Days in the Old Schoolyard, I would count down the days of each term. We only had three terms then, so holidays always seemed an eternity away. Pregnancy was the worst. Time would drag, as anxiety was my close companion. Now I have three grown-up children...I used to call them young adult children, but as they are thirty-three (!), twenty-nine (holy cow) and twenty-seven, no wonder I have grey hairs.

My aging hair colour is another huge disappointment. I hoped that I would develop a sleek cap of beautifully silver or white hair. No such luck. My natural colour is that of rusty steel wool. Totally unattractive for a woman approaching sixty. Every time, I uncover the dreary locks, I ask Michael whether I should go grey or keep colouring. We have both decided that my personality is not one of rusty steel wool. I plan to go Mango for my next colour.

We had Great Expectations of our break between Christmas and yesterday. We were going to whip the yard into shape, move firewood and bricks, build a rock wall around the lemon tree and create a permanent parking spot for Digger the caravan. And extend the dogs' watering area so our courtyard was no longer home to erect poohs. Ye Gods, we Had a Dream...

The New Year came and went in a blur. We farewelled Poppy, embraced Lynn on her homecoming and endured some very hot days. We love our pool passes for the summer. The Beverley pool has saved us on several occasions, particularly on three days above forty-two degrees Centigrade. Those of you who still use Fahrenheit - one hundred and seven (ish) degrees.

We did achieve some of these plans. And we decided to revamp the Gallery twenty-four hours before our 2019 opening. We had welcomed two new artists. The Gallery needed to accommodate them.

Plenty of time (or so we thought)! Two nights ago, we worked until midnight. Having consumed quite a few glasses of vino to aid us in our endeavours, we weaved our way home. Michael promptly let the Problem Child out the front door. The Beagle then vanished into the inky blackness. We called her, whistled and clapped - with absolutely no response.

Michael retired to bed and was quickly snoring his box off. I lay awake, imagining all sorts of horrible fates that could claim the Bloody Beagle. Until I heard her panting at the door at one-thirty...

Last night, after Australia Day drinks, I crashed at eight o'clock. In spite of Michael's wakeful episodes, I slept for nearly twelve hours. Bliss. Today, I finally finished new labels and the dusting and vacuuming of the Gallery.

Tomorrow, we are open for the official Australia Day holiday. Drop in on us on your way home to the Big Smoke. Or take the day trip to the Avon Valley and discover our Gallery.

We look forward to seeing you. Hopefully before January disappears.

Scenes from Beverley Pool - January 2019

 The Problem Child (at rest) - January 2019

Hello Lynn (second from left) and goodbye Poppy (second from right)

The East End Gallery - 27 January 2019 -

One Day In The Life Of The Beverley Hillbillies...

Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn's "One Day In the Life of Ivan Denisovich" is not a happy story. Based on his own experiences in a Soviet labour camp, the novel focuses on a squad of workers and in particular, the character of Ivan and how his day proceeds in the midst of his ten-year sentence. Solzhenitsyn lived until his ninetieth year, in the then-called Soviet Union, Europe, the United States and back again to Russia in 1994. The KGB lost interest in silencing him permanently when he began to criticise the West and its way of life. His three sons remained in the United States after his return to Russia where he lived in Moscow until his death. Very much an intellectual thinker, I doubt he was ever really happy during his long life.

Which, given my previous post as well, I decided I needed an injection of vim, vigour and vitality. I hope to live an equally long life as Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, but not in his mood of misery and dissatisfaction.  Sometimes, I choose to abandon the logical and the sensible so I can embrace the funny side of life.

Laughter is an essential component of good health - mentally and physically. A burst of helpless giggling or the roar of a belly laugh uses less facial muscles than frowning. Laughter is contagious so anyone close may find themselves laughing as well, without even knowing the original causative action. And group laughing is a joy to behold.

So, in need of a happiness shot, this post is an upbeat and updated version of "One Day In The Life Of..."

Wednesday was actually quite a productive day and worthy of the subject. Ten degrees cooler than today -  a suitably temperate thirty-four degrees Centigrade (only ninety-three degrees Fahrenheit) - our first port of call was attending Pilates with our resident slavedriver Janet at Nourishabley. Janet is working on my balance - somebody has to - so I remain attached to a big balancing ball, rather than falling off. Twice, I inelegantly ended up on the floor. Janet was laughing too hard to take photographic evidence. However, I successfully managed to stay on board during one of our exercises and Janet shot the appropriate picture. Great start to the day.

Michael's stomach demanded attention after Pilates. Duly filled, he took his place in front of his laptop, attempting to comply with Western Power's request for the Forbes Building's meter photos. As a meter self-reader, Michael is doing the work that Western Power staff used to include in their routine.

The computer, the request and the entire scenario were all giving Michael the whoops. Unable to gain compliance of his e-mail, he retired to our bedroom in disgust for a Bex and a decent lie-down. I motored on, tidying the house, hanging up windchimes, watering and beginning a major rejig of our yard in order to give the caravan and trailer better parking spots.

Late afternoon, Michael was up and we headed for the swimming pool. Jan and Vanessa joined us. I fulfilled a lifelong dream by clambering onto the pool's blow-up caterpillar. We carried on for an hour of unrestrained fun. Gold.

Evening drinks were followed by dinner and television. All in all, a far better day than Ivan's. Except for Michael's continued frustration with Western Power. He believes he has been blacklisted by Western Power as every attempt to e-mail them with the meters' photos ended in epic failure with their address changing into forboding red lettering. Perhaps, Western Power had borrowed techniques from the KGB...I eventually completed the task for him forty-eight hours later.

He was not amused...

Conquering the ball!

Michael at work...

On the job...

Mission accomplished...

Pip masquerading as the Last Jedi...

Ruby flat out...

Resurrected park bench out the front...

Windchimes in situ

Beagle escaping countermeasures...

Beagle munching countermeasures...

Images at Beverley's pool -