Friday, 17th September 2010



Having received a request for the link to my blog I suddenly realised that I hadn't written anything for a day or two - or maybe longer - tempus fugit as my father was always reminding me. Has anything much happened as I turned away briefly from my notes? Anything to report? Well, loads of goodness expressed, millions of acts of kindess and promises kept, of course, but the mainstream media seems oblivious to these, intent as it is on keeping us in a state of low level anxiety: there is the world I hear about on the "news" and the world in which I live and it seems unfair (but not worth complaining about!) that I seem to have all the good folk in my world. Not only that, but it seems I have a reader, to whom I offer thanks for reminding me of the pleasure of blogging.

Thursday, 26th February, 2009

I'm the only member of my family who is not an Australian citizen. Sometimes people ask me why that is and sometimes I ask myself and because I'm not sure of the answer I give flippant replies, such as, "I've only been here 28 years - early days, yet" or, "Hmmm, well, it didn't do David Hicks any good, did it?" I'd like to have an acceptable reason as Aussies can get a bit huffy about these things, although no one has actually told me to piss off back where I came from (yet).

I suppose I find it a bizarre idea that one can change one's nationality. This notion is not helped by the fact that the longer I stay in Australia the more English I feel and the possibility of "becoming an Australian" is not only remote but nonsensical. It was comforting to hear Bill Bryson in interview expressing a similar view when asked if he would like to become a UK citizen: "I am an American, it is a defining characteristic of me and the one thing I would feel odd about if I changed my nationality to British would be that I’m not really British, I mean, it would be like changing my hair colour or having cosmetic surgery or something, you know, it would be trying to be something that I am not,"

And then there's the problem of swearing allegiance to a country, not something I'd be comfortable with, either. If one wanted to swear allegiance (and I don't) it would have to be to something more noble, like truth, beauty, compassion, etc. and, anyway, it would cause a massive conflict of interest as I've already sworn allegiance to the Poms in the Ashes tests. To put it bluntly, I want Ricky Ponting and his mates totally annihilated.

So there it is: I live in Australia and have England in my veins. I come from a tiny island where the Romans marched, Shakespeare wrote, Constable painted; I have the Battle of Flodden Field and a couple of thousand years of history in my blood. I can't change it - and I love it. And there is nowhere I want to live out my Englishness than in Australia, beautiful land, beautiful land.

Saturday, 31st January, 2009

This week I received a letter from a friend by dear old snail mail - nice to read something other than an email for a change. Not that I have anything against technology and I wouldn't be without it for a minute, internet addict that I am, but the nostalgia for what used to be does linger and make itself felt now and then. I watch the teenagers with their little bits of plastic that store thousands of tunes instantly available and then flash back to myself as a child carefully opening that pretty little tin and taking out a new needle to insert into the arm of the old gramaphone. Almost reverently I place it on the outer edge of the spinning record and am filled with wonder that Peter Dawson's voice singing "The Floral Dance" can emanate from a disc of black Bakelite.

Recently I discovered a website full of 1950s radio nostalgia and I listen to snippets when everyone is in bed. The radio offered such a sense of permanency in my life: the same programmes continued for years and there was comfort in being able to rely on The Billy Cotton Band Show always being there at Sunday lunch times, in knowing that The Navy Lark would follow soon after and that whenever The Goons came on, Bluebottle would always say "He's fallen in the water!"

If it is true that children need stability in their lives, maybe I gained mine from the unchanging nature of 1950s BBC programming and in particular from The Shipping Forecast and the glorious hypnotic effect of our much-loved mantra, repeated four times daily, a prayer for our fishermen, uttered in the language we all knew so well: "Fastnet, Dogger Bank, German Bight, Heligoland, Cromarty, Finisterre" ... was any Latin Mass ever so evocative? As the words were intoned I could see the waves lashing over the decks, the oilskins and sou'westers glistening wet, our brave fishermen pulling in their nets, the tiny boats rocking back and forth and the seagulls screaming above them. Please, keep them safe, God.

Oh, how much drama was involved for my Friday night cod and chips!

Friday, 23rd January, 2009

Happiness is not having to go to the Big Day Out. The teenagers went off this morning, bless them, to this annual event and I know they will be having a fabulous time leaping around to the music in 30 degrees heat amongst thousands of their peers and hundreds of St. John's Ambulance Brigade personnel, not to mention Security.

In the olden days the word "security" used to have a comforting ring about it: the insurance man would come around on his bicycle once a month and collect the two and sixpence premium, receipt of which he carefully recorded in a little book, and cycle off again, whistling cheerfully. The family then was secure in the knowledge that should the breadwinner cark it, there would be funds available to pay for the funeral and maybe even some cucumber sandwiches afterwards. That was security.

Say "security" to me now and I have an instant image of a hard-nosed, stern-looking bloke in a dark uniform who looks upon me not only as if I am a criminal but as though he would have no qualms about killing me if he had half a chance. I have no idea what these people are supposed to be protecting me from and if their presence is meant to reassure me in some way, then they are failing miserably.

Much jubilation today when Barack Obama signed a piece of paper to the effect that America wouldn't be involved in the torture of prisoners under interrogation. Of course this is good news but one cannot help feeling that this should have been taken as read, that one wouldn't for a moment imagine that a supposedly civilised nation would ever engage in such barbaric practices. Haven't read the small print but does this mean the CIA is giving up extraordinary rendition, too? Seems hard to believe - maybe so many years of the Bush administration means that I have become a little cynical.

But very good news that a terrible chapter in America's history will end with the closing of Guantanamo Bay within the year. Interesting that of the 775 inmates, only three were charged and convicted, one of them for the awful crime of being Osama Bin Laden's chauffeur. (One has to be very careful when looking through the Positions Vacant column these days!).

Tuesday, 20th January 2009

Shall I be awake at 3.30 am tomorrow morning to watch the inauguration of Barack Obama? Maybe. I awake at odd times during the night and spend an hour or so on the internet, sometimes reading obscure articles I come upon accidentally, e.g. "The Universe as a Hologram", sometimes finding a YouTube gem to make me laugh. (It is essential for happiness that one should laugh twelve times per day [or night]).

Presently I am working my way through the British QI series, hosted by the indomitable Stephen Fry at whose feet I worship. QI stands for "quite interesting" and Stephen puts questions to a panel of four funny, clever, witty people and marks them not as to the correctness of their replies but as to the interestingness of their responses. The result is pure joy and I am blessed to share it as I sit alone at my computer in the wee small hours almost crying with laughter.

Back to Barack (perhaps his slogan should have been "back to back" or even "back to black"?). The cartoon in this morning's Sydney Morning Herald said it all for me - Barack Obama standing before the multitudes as they raise high their arms and voices: "Show us a miracle! Show us a miracle! Show us a miracle!" Many folk around the world are busily occupied with waiting for the messiah but none more so than the Americans, it seems. And what if (oh, unforgivable thought!) we are mistaken. What if he turns out not to be the messiah. What if he is just a very nice handsome black man? What then?

"Crucify him! Crucify him! Crucify him!"

Saturday, 3rd January 2009

I watched the annual New Year's Concert from the stunning Musikverin in Vienna on SBS on Thursday evening when Daniel Barenboim conducted the Philharmonic in a concert of the usual much-loved marches, waltzes and polkas. He also used the occasion to openly criticise Israel's air offensive against Palestinians in the Gaza Strip. Just before the final piece was played, he offered his New Year's greetings and expressed the hope that 2009 would be a "year of peace in the world and of human justice in the Middle East".

His sincere words combined with the beauty of the music left me teary-eyed and I recalled another occasion where I had felt a similar emotion. This was in Sydney in January 1991 when I was attending the Symphony in the Domain and the compere for the evening was Andrew Denton. At the time, Australia was involved in the Persian Gulf War and at some point during the concert Andrew asked us to remember in our thoughts the people of Iraq who were suffering the onslaught of war while we were enjoying such a wonderful evening under a safe Sydney sky. His words were not popular with many people and there were murmurings of dissent from the large crowd but I was incredibly moved by his words and his compassion.

Ah, I had such high hopes for you, Andrew.

All dashed.

Thursday, 1st January 2009.

My New Year Resolution is to try not to wince, cringe or cry out every time I see an apostrophe omitted or misused. It doesn't sound like much but it's a biggy for a pedant like me. I have a fondness for the apostrophe and I find it hard to forgive those who treat this darling little symbol with negligence or contempt - it's better not to use it at all rather than shove it willy-nilly into places where it is obviously not comfortable. If you haven't read the instructions on its use (not, you will note, "on it's use"), please place the apostrophe on the table and back away.

One always likes to have one's world view validated and fortunately I can usually rely on "Grumpy Old Women" to reassure me that my opinions are not only valid but impeccably correct. Thus, as I gleaned from the latest programme, I was right all along in thinking that the word, "Awesome!" is inappropriate as a response to: "I've so had my tongue pierced"; "What about this nail polish?"; "Want some pizza?"; "I'm so having my hair streaked"; "This bra makes my tits look bigger", etc. etc. For me, "Awesome!" is a word rarely to be used as the occasions on which I have been filled with awe thus far in my life have been few and far between - hearing Larry Adler & Itzhak Perlman playing "Summertime" was such a moment but even then I did not think of saying, "Awesome!" as my being was suffused with awe and beyond words. It would have been rather like trying to say, "Oh, I'm having an orgasm!" when one is having an orgasm.

The word "Awesome!" conjures up for me the tableau of the Angel Gabriel appearing before the shepherds when they momentarily forgot their flocks and fell down on their knees, shielding their eyes from the divine radiance. But for one of the Grumpy Old Women, it was an image of K2. "K2 is Awesome!" she declaimed and one couldn't argue. The next day I imparted this information to my family, especially the teenagers, in the hope that they could struggle to find another word to replace "Awesome!" - although the Grumpy Old Women did warn that the only other adjective they know is, "Cool!".

However, they were smarter than I reckoned:

"The beer's cold".

"K2!".