Monthly Archives: December 2009

L’aubergade

31 Thursday Dec 2009

Posted by in Gerard Oosterman, The Dining Room, The Public Bar

≈ 15 Comments

Just when my reminiscing had calmed down and were having our second coffee in bed, up came the subject of popular inner city restaurants. I suppose, the period between the eighties and mid nineties. We had kids that were grown up enough not to need minding and enough dosh to occasionally go for a nosh. L’ironique was French and next door almost to our flower shop ‘Bloomsbury’. It was always good value and the peppery steak mignon with cantarelli mushrooms was my favourite. A great pity the owners walked out after that disastrous Rainbow Warrior affair in New Zealand  in 1985,when many locals turned against anything French, including L’ironique restaurant. The couple running it were actually from Belgique.

This is the reason of the picture of my first bike. I spent time in Southern Belgium just after the war when the Rotterdam quack reckoned I was too close to expiring and in dire need of good and more tucker than my mother could provide. I developed as a first language French and mes parents could not understand me when I finally returned after adequately been fattened up, mainly by bucket loads of mussels. I can still see steaming pots of them. Those temporary foster Belgians gave me that bike and had a large garden in which I was fascinated by all things flying, especially butterflies for which the kind people had given me a net to try and catch them.

The next best restaurant was in Cleveland street, Surrey Hills named L’aubergade. I feel it could still be there. They survived the anti French period. Another beauty but Italian was La Lupa, first in Surrey Hills and later in Balmain. I used to love their grilled liver soaked first in lemon juice.

Another Italian place in Liberty Street, Stanmore was the one for veal and oregano (saltimbocca). It was a family run restaurant in a large converted house.  I have forgotten the name.

So, there you are. My first bike. Mike has put me off the H Davison, I suppose too big and heavy, too US too. Think will contemplate the Duke. I saw a yellow one here in Goulburn, very sleek.

All the best for everyone but especially all the piglets in the New Year.

Gerard.

Foodge 6 – A Lemon Tree Geometry

30 Wednesday Dec 2009

Posted by in Foodge Private Dick

≈ 14 Comments

Rouge seemed strangely unhappy with the empty bed.  I was pretty satisfied. And mightily relieved.

I’ve always been intrigued by the phrase “assisting police with their inquiries”.  Sounds like going the rounds of doorknocking neighbours or doing a bit of research down at the library or the local SP bookie or taking a peep down a microscope over in forensics.

But somehow this inquiry was refusing to stay on the rails.  I was having myself on.

Rouge knows a lot about what must have gone on last night.  More than me.  And she was half keen to see some serious shit sticking to my blanket.

Her exercise of having me “assist police with their inquiries” was not panning out and I sensed that the ride back was going to be less cordial and more bitter lemon.

True to form, I wasn’t picking any winners and when we got downstairs, Rouge took the wheel of the Falcon.  Jail took the passenger seat.  And I took pole position on the footpath.  She motioned to Jail to roll down the window.  She took out one of her frog gaspers and lit up.  I could see she was full of gaul; was unhappy.  And she spoke across him.  “I smell a rat, Foodge.  A rat with a gold tooth.  A rat that goes to the same dentist as you.”  Rouge kicked the 351 into life and made it shrink into the distance.

I was contemplating my return trip.  It wasn’t the kind of neighbourhood where taxi drivers with any expectations of either making a quid or getting home at the end of the shift were likely to cruise around.  I was quickly running out of JW Red and aspirin and things were not looking a lot better than earlier in the day.

You don’t need to look to recognise a Charlie Davidson.  The gut-shifting rumble of the big twin heralds the arrival of an individual with no want for an image consultant or a personal trainer.  The hog delivered unto me one of the Hells Angles from the Pig’s Arms.  It was Rex.  But everyone called him Pi.  He was a big dude.  Maybe 3.14 times my radius squared.  A careless person might have thought of him as being a ‘thick-set square’.

I was more car-less than careless and Pi’s pillion seat beckoned.  Pi lived his life within the confines of a narrow circle of friends and locations.  His mum’s place, the Angles club house and the Pig’s Arms.  I was confident that we were heading for the pub.  I had another surprise coming.

Pi dropped the hog into a 180 degree arc and pointed us towards the clubhouse, affectionately known as “Highbury” – otherwise famous as the home ground for another Arsenal.

It occurred to me then that riding without a helmet was probably one of my lesser worries.

The Adventures of Mongrel and The Runt – Part 2 “Dogcatcher in The Rye”

29 Tuesday Dec 2009

Posted by in The Public Bar, Warrigal Mirriyuula

≈ 38 Comments

 

 

Dogital mischief by Warrigal

by Warrigal Mirriyuula

At dusk one Friday evening Mongrel and The Runt were checking out some old wombat burrows on the stony hillside across the creek from the baths. Not one of their regular haunts but they had been up here before. This time they fell in with a wombat grazing on the good grass in the swales between the bigger rock outcrops. After the dogs’ arrival the wombat seemed only to want to play. Unfortunately the way the wombat played was a bit too much for The Runt, so he retired to circle work the perimeter, only lunging in now and then to deliver a quick nip to the wombats bum, and then run away yapping like a fool. Mongrel and the wombat tumbled and ran, barked and grunted, nipped and bit and had a riot of a time. Then, the wombat seemed to have had enough and just wandered off to a burrow and disappeared down it. No amount of barking and whining or clawing at the entrance by the pair of dogs would draw the wombat back out.

At a loss for what to do without the wombat, they wandered back to town and hung out on the pavement out side Jimmy’s Chinese Takeaway. It was a good spot on a Friday evening. Blokes who’d won a meat tray at The Freemasons or the Telegraph always dropped in for “a bit’a’chink ta take ‘ome to the missus”. Mongrel and The Runt, being everyone’s best friend when meat was in the offing, could rely on one of the homeward wending drunks to generously toss them the bits of the meat tray they didn’t want. The Runt particularly liked it when “Porky” Miller won the tray. He’d actually come looking for them. Full of beer and not really certain of himself, he’d unsteadily get down on his haunches and hand feed The Runt the offal. The Runt loved lambs brains and kidneys and liver, and Porky was the only person in town that The Runt would actually approach. Porky always took the time to the give The Runt a scratch and a cuddle and quietly called him “Butch” when they were alone. If The Runt were ever tempted to retire from the life of a dog about town, it’d be Porky’s bed he’d be looking to sleep under and he wouldn’t mind being called “Butch” either. They had a lot in common Porky and The Runt. Porky was a Fairbridge boy and hadn’t had too easy a time of it when he was young. When sober he was reliable, hard working and taciturn. When drunk he was garrulous, generous to a fault and prone to singing old scouting songs badly and loudly; except outside Jimmy’s with The Runt, where he became a quiet, gentle man with love to spare for an ugly little stray dog. Mongrel left them alone. Porky’s pickings were always for The Runt.

This particular evening, as Mongrel went through his “sit”, “drop”, “rollover” routine for the amusement of the assembled Friday drunks outside Jimmy’s, Porky and The Runt went into their private collogue and all was right on Bank Street.

Neither dogs nor men particularly noticed the Holden ute with the Victorian plates pull up. Nor was it a matter of concern when a young man got out and wandered into Jimmy’s. He was obviously a bit of a dude with his polished RM Williams boots matching the shine on the backside of his new moleskins, and there wasn’t a scratch or a spot of rust on the tray in the back of the ute. One of the drunks then noticed that the dealer tag stuck in the back window of the Holden said some place in Caulfield.

“City boy”, thought the drunk, sluggishly remembering that Caulfield was in Melbourne, “’e’s a long way from ’ome.” But that was all. In time the young dude came out with his takeaway, got back in the ute and drove away.

Apart from a quick check between “rollovers” to see who had brought the stink, (the young dude was wearing aftershave and Mongrel had never smelled that stink on any of the locals), Mongrel and The Runt continued oblivious to this new human. Probably just passing through, he didn’t amount to anything of concern to two dogs about town. Yet.

Soon enough it was known around Molong that the new chum had come to town after being appointed the new Ordinance Inspector for the Cabonne Council. Some low watt bulb in local government, no doubt thinking that an outsider would have less trouble ticketing the locals for any infraction of the Ordinance Code, had chosen him on the basis of the distance from which he applied. He had encouraged the dude to relocate with offers of rural manhood, sustaining country air and subsidised housing. The dude didn’t know however that he was nothing more than ledger fodder in the eternal internecine warfare that constituted the local government apparatus. He had been reduced without his knowledge to an entry in a budget appropriation. Nobody, not even the man who had appointed him, cared whether he carried out his duties. He became the squarest of pegs in a peculiarly odd shaped hole called Molong. It was simple really. In a small place like this everybody that he ticketed for leaving their rubbish in the street, or not controlling the weeds on undeveloped land, or parking in the wrong place or in the wrong fashion; well they all knew the Mayor, a councillor or the head clerk or someone who could “fix” the ticket. Local government politics being what it is the fact was that only one of his tickets ever got processed and that one only got processed because the person to whom it had been given had moved away before his mate on the council could fix it.

To Mongrel and The Runt the new Ordinance Inspector was precisely nothing; except, from time to time, a lost molecule of that stinking aftershave. Weeks went by with out a sight of him while the dogs continued their rounds, making adventurous forays hither and yon and generally adding daily to their own legend. During this time it was becoming increasingly apparent to the new Ordinance Inspector that the only way he could prove himself lay in the provisions of the Local Government Dog Control Act and how that Act extended into his obligations as Ordinance Inspector. Pretty soon all the young dude’s time was taken up devising a dastardly plane to catch Mongrel and The Runt who were not only the most high profile strays in town, they were the only strays in town. He was, he realised, The Dogcatcher!

Sadly for him though, his growing knowledge of the layout of the town, never included the location of the dog’s nest at the abandoned ice works and he knew that he wouldn’t be adding to his popularity if he took the dogs in front of any of the locals. They seemed to hold Mongrel and The Runt in an unusually high regard that to his mind bordered on criminal abetment; they were after all strays. However, when the dogs’ names were mentioned in conversation around town he had noticed a fond and foolish tone creep into the voices of the speakers. In truth, as the young Ordinance Inspector began to feel increasingly irrelevant and unwanted in the town; so at the same time the friendship and fellow feeling between the townsfolk and the dogs had become all too confrontingly obvious. The dogs and their capture tipped from being an annoying problem to be resolved into the darker reaches of a driving obsession.

Country people are self-reliant people who don’t like interfering in other’s business. So it was that the townsfolk noted that the Inspector wasn’t issuing many infraction notices; they saw the decline in the young Ordinance Inspector but did not enquire as to his circumstances, nor did they interfere. They noticed he wasn’t as smartly turned out, his boots no longer shone and his shirts took on a crumpled look, as if he’d perhaps slept in them. He occasionally forgot to shave and he began to neglect his ute. It was beginning to look like any other farm ute. Its tray filling up with drifts of red dust and dry grass, rust setting in and the grill full of splattered bugs, the paintwork pitted with stone chips and sundry small dings and bends where he’d encountered the ubiquitous granite blocks lurking in the longer grass.

It all came to a head on another Friday night. Sick at heart and tired of the futility of his pointless job, the Ordinance Inspector had dropped into Jimmy’s for some fried rice with braised chicken and almonds. The usual drunks were their waiting on their orders or messing about with the dogs. Porky was loving The Runt up, whispering, “How are ya Butch, ay mate? ‘ad a good day?” and cadging bits from that night’s meat tray winner to feed him. Mongrel was doing his “leaping to grab the thrown morsel” act, barking excitedly between attempts as the drunks clapped and cheered his every effort. Everybody was happy except the dude. He was mumbling something to himself as he waited for his rice and chicken, alone inside, in the steamy, food smell suffused heat. He took his order and paid with bad grace, still mumbling to himself. Jimmy thought him maybe a bit mad and reminded himself that he better get that ticket fixed, the one for having an overflowing sullage trap out the back. He’d fixed the trap but forgotten to fix the ticket. He figured Macca up’t the council’d fix it for ‘im.

The dude came out onto the pavement and the look of contempt on his face left them all with no doubt what he thought of them and the dogs. “Bloody drunks, bloody dogs…” he spat, as he slipped on the gutter, almost losing his food and bringing a smirk to some of the assembled faces. As he got into the ute one of the drunks shouted, “Y’aughta calm down mate. Take it easy. Nothin’s that serious.”

The dude fumbled with his keys, finally getting them in and lighting up the ute. He crashed first and tore away.

“Bloody idiot, that bloke Butch.” Porky said gently to the small dog. “Doesn’t know ‘e’s alive.” The Runt didn’t care. He just rolled over in Porky’s lap so Porky could scratch his guts.

It was some time later as the young Ordinance Inspector looked at the cold gluggy remains of his meal in the spare little kitchen of his digs that he resolved to get those dogs no matter what; and there was no time for wasting. He’d do it tomorrow! No more messing about, they were strays and must be brought to heel.

He was up bright and early the next morning full of conviction. He assembled all the gear he thought he’d need in the back of the ute; net, control choker and his own recipe dog spray in the pump action dispenser. Ready and committed, he set off looking for Mongrel and The Runt.

Molong was quiet that clear clean early Saturday morning. Clarrie, the publican at The Telegraph was hosing down the pavement while he enjoyed a distracting smoke, a scratch and a look around. Old “’drews” from the newsagency was just getting back from his paper deliveries. His ancient battered, doorless VeeDub “dak dakking” up Bank Street, while Mrs. Hatter set out the fruit and veg display at her grocery. If you listened hard enough you could hear old MacCafferty out the back of his butchery, his cleaver “thunking” through the sides of lamb while his new sausage machine turned out a snarl of fat snowlers onto the stainless steel bench top.

The Ordinance Inspector was oblivious. He had his eyes out for the dogs only. He was still driving up and down the streets of the town some hours later when he spied, far off in the distance, the two dogs running up a hillside along the Wellington road.

Without a second thought and completely in the grip of his driving obsession to get Mongrel and The Runt, he dropped the ute a cog and planted his right foot.

To cut to the chase, he’d abandoned the ute after hitting one too many hidden blocks of granite as he drove wildly up the hillside, the ute drifting and skidding on the crushed rye grass pasture sown on the hillside for cattle fodder . He’d grabbed the net and run after the dogs who were by this time running along the rocky ridge line, stopping every now and then to turn and bark at the madman pursuing them through the rye. He wasn’t going to catch them and he wasn’t going to give up so the dogs thought he must want to play. It was a dog logic thing.

Mongrel turned and began to run towards the mad young man. The Runt was less certain and brought up the rear at a distance that provided for a quick getaway should it become necessary. As Mongrel came into range the young man flung the net with all his might. It expanded out as it turned lazily through a high arc of air. Mongrel thinking this was a new game, barked madly as he dodged the descending net and then just as quickly turned and took a mouthful of rope and began to run back towards the young man. The young dude was flabbergasted. What to do now? But the dog just dropped the net near him and barked at him as if to say, “Do it again!” The Runt kept his distance, this didn’t feel right to him and he remembered Porky not feeling right about this man, who even now was picking the net up and preparing another throw. Mongrel barked a few more happy snappy barks as he ran in and out waiting for the throw but the dude was doing some fancy footwork, feinting towards Mongrel, and to the side, as if to find the best launching point. It was all part of the game to Mongrel, his great wet red tongue all the way out as he dragged in huge breaths of air and shadowed the dudes every move.

The net was airborne again! It was a bad throw and it fell out of the air in a clump as Mongrel easily jumped aside. At the same time the young man lost his footing in the mashed rye and fell forward into a clump of longer grass. There was a thud and the young man lay very still.

Mongrel didn’t want the game to be over and barked at the prone figure a few more times. Then realising how tired he was, he collapsed in the grass for a good long pant.

Some time passed and the young man didn’t move. Mongrel wasn’t fussed but The Runt couldn’t contain his curiosity and hesitantly approached the man in the grass. As he got nearer he sensed there was something wrong. Very wrong. The man didn’t smell right, he wasn’t breathing right. The Runt barked his best big bark and jumped over the man. He could smell blood and noticed the grass was discoloured in places. He barked at Mongrel who got the message immediately and bounded over.

The dogs licked at the young Ordinance Inspector’s hair and nudged his face with their snouts. They gently pawed at his back but there was no response. This was very wrong and the dogs became anxious, keening and whining at the man a little. You can’t know what a dog knows, how a dog plans things or how they think, but they do, and sometimes it’s just confounding.

Mongrel took off down the slope as fast as he could go. The Runt barked him on but stayed with the unconscious young man. Mongrel took the fence down by the highway with barely the touch of a back claw and headed straight for the roadhouse. There’b be men there and they could make it right. He’s seen them do it before. When a man fell over, other men picked him up and he was alright. He bounded across the roadhouse forecourt, just missing being skittled by a departing truck, and barking madly went into the little office and jumped up on the desk scattering a pile of invoices and completely startling the attendant who fell backwards off his chair, before also getting the message and approaching the barking dog.

“What is it boy? C’mon Mongrel, what is it boy?” he leaned down towards the still barking dog. Mongrel grabbed him by the sleeve and dragged him to the door where he let go and took off again up the highway. The attendant jumped in the roadhouse ute and took off up the highway after the dog. Only a mile up he suddenly pulled in.  The brakes locked up and he ended up against the clay berm in a cloud of dust and settling stones.  He’d seen Mongrel take the fence like it wasn’t there. It took him a little longer as he gingerly held the barbed wire wide enough to pass under. He saw the Ordinance Inspectors ute with the doors open, and a little way up towards the ridge, “Well I’ll be blowed!” he said to himself as he recognised The Runt sitting by the still unconscious body. He scrambled up the last of the hill and went down on his knees beside the young man. The dogs stood back anxiously awaiting an outcome. Looking at the drying blood the roadhouse attendant could see that the young bloke had fallen and hit his head on a rock. The skin was broken and bleeding, and he was unconscious, but otherwise he looked alright.

The attendant rolled the inspector over. He groaned a little. That was a good sign. Even the dogs thought so and came in to lick his face again. “No boys, leave ‘im alone,” the attendant said as he gently but firmly pushed the dogs away. “Let ‘im get some air.”

In time the young man came round enough to sit up on his own. He looked at the dogs in an unfocussed sort of way and hanging his bloodied head he intoned flatly, “Bloody dogs.”

Mongrel didn’t understand why he wasn’t pleased and looked at the man sideways to be sure he was getting the whole message. The Runt just figuring this was par for the course with ungrateful humans was remembering the feeling of what it was like with Porky.

“Y’aughta be more grateful mate.” said the attendant, not understanding the injured man’s attitude. “If it was’n’fa Mongrel ‘ere you’d still be out to it. As it is we can getcha up to the Hospital and getcha stitched up. You’ll be right as rain in the mornin’.” He gave Mongrel a quick ruffle on the top of his head and then helped the young man unsteadily to his feet.

After a slow and occasionally semiconscious climb down the slope and some difficulty getting through the fence, they all got in the ute, men in the front, dogs in the back, and drove off to the hospital. The dogs just loved the high speed trip to the Hospital. They hung their silly heads out over the side and lapped up the chaotic blustering wind of the slipstream in their faces. As the ute turned into the ambulance bay the dogs jumped out of the back, shook themselves and set off down town. The humans would take care of themselves and the dogs had places to be. They’d come back tomorrow, maybe, and check up on the young dude.

(It was a busy week for our canny canines and we still haven’t got to the bit where the dogs are chased through the hospital by an irate matron. That and more next week as things turn out nice again in Molong.)

First Fags and Boners

29 Tuesday Dec 2009

Posted by in The Mens

≈ 28 Comments

As a thirteen year old at school, I feared most to be called in front of the class and give an explanation on the advantages of the Treaty of Utrecht. I wasn’t the only boy to fear those impromptu frontages. They were the times when swollen acorns featured prominently and not just in class rooms. Those ‘impromptu swellings’ seemed to have a life of its own at that time. Thoughts about those pubescent and glowing roseate girls’ thighs in their school shorts were the bane of any school boy’s attempt at Treaties of all countries, especially in front of the class.

They were the times of my first fag. It was so simple and so desirable, to be like dad and older friends, to smoke tobacco and be seen as growing up, even if not yet grown-up. The oak’s acorn was the smoking implement par excellence at those post war times in The Hague. The mature acorn was hollowed out and pierced about 5 ml from the bottom allowing a grass straw to be inserted. This was my first smoking tool and even though those first draws made me reel and almost sick, I loved the sick. What a heaven had opened up.

I had a few mates in cahoots with those acorn pipes and somehow cents were put together and tobacco was bought. We used to hide in ‘portieks’, they were a kind of alcove or vestibule that most city streets had before entering individual apartments or flats. The joy of those first illicit smokes, hidden from view, carried me for years and even now I have no regrets.

Sure, the acorn smokes and those roseate coloured thighs turned into a hiatus in my education, but so did my parents’ decision to leave my city and country. I suppose at that time, smoking and thinking, dreaming about girls had priority over anything else, especially that dreary circa 1700 Treaty with those fucking Spaniards.

I gave up smoking in my early fifties only on the promise of starting again when turning sixty. I am (wait for it, on the cusp, ha, ha, of seventy) and haven’t done so yet.

Ah, those acorn pipes. Those first sickening tobacco draw backs. Those swollen impromptu boners in classroom frontages with Mr Kohler.

Foodge 5 – Missing an Old Pal

29 Tuesday Dec 2009

Posted by in Foodge Private Dick

≈ 10 Comments

There was a blue serge into the bar.  She barely acknowledged the blond in the corner, but it was clear that that they were old acquaintances.  And he certainly was not the top dog.

Rouge sat next to me at the bar and looking straight at Merv ordered a lime and soda. The soda came from Russia and I was pretty certain that it was an effective form of antifreeze.

“Surprised to see you here before dark, Foodge” she said.  I offered her a Lucky Strike and she took it and waited for Merv (he of the no-smoking in the pub ‘It’s the Law’ rule enforcer) to light the cigarette.  When Rouge was in the pub, the law was what Rouge said the law was.

“I was thirsty”.

“The drive over from Alexandria must have parched you, then”.  “If you say so, Inspector”.

“Listen Foodge, I don’t have time to piss around with you.  I’m looking for O’Hoo”.

“How would I know where O’Hoo is ?”  I was unconvincing and I was about to pay handsomely for that.

The blonde joined his boss at the bar.  ” I saw you drinking with O’Hoo at the Leichhardt Wanderer’s prawn night, last night” he added helpfully.

“Yeah, and so was everyone else”.

“Perhaps you can explain why your Zephyr was parked outside of Short Chang’s this morning, Foodge”.

“I had a big night.  I don’t exactly remember where it ended”.  I hate telling the coppers anything but that last line was plainly the truth.  Let’s see Mr Blonde roll that one over.

“I think we need to take a little refresher visit to Shorty’s to see whether it jogs your memory, Foodge”.  My arse was smarting and any minute Rouge was going to add two and two and come up with the observation that she had a smarting arse on her hands.  She already had me trapped in the gully off a Shorty delivery.

She stood up.  He stood up and I thought that there was some expectation on me doing likewise.

The JW chaser had done its job and steadied me a bit – which was useful and a good start to help me not look so much like the shit I was slowly sinking into.

The blonde opened the back door of the Falcon.  I thanked him for his sterling service and got in.  Rouge sat beside me and made herself comfortable.  The blonde shut Rouge’s door and took the driver’s seat.  He was in control of Rouge’s pride and joy and he drove like James Packer’s valet. With respect for a machine and an owner, both of which scared the crap out of him. “Short Chang’s thanks, Jail”.

It was a leisurely run.  Rouge said nothing until the Falcon pulled up opposite a vaguely familiar tenement.  She looked at me and asked if I was feeling more co-operative.  I said that I was always prepared to co-operate with the police, but there was nothing on my script just then. But I was thinking that the Zephyr knew the place well and had been keeping a parking space free for the Inspector only  a few hours earlier.

The tenement was a low rent affair.  A few toothless derros and clapped out former junkies – if any junky can ever be “former” were gathered in the front yard.  Sitting on milk crates.  That was as close as they’d ever come to decent nutrition.  One had a no-name brand guitar with five strings and a tuning problem.  He took pity on us all and stopped strumming.  The blonde spoke.

“Shorty Chang”.  Not the slightest flicker from any of them.  We climbed the first flight of stairs, and then then second.  Nobody had locked the doors.  There was nothing to steal.  We went up another floor and the third and last  room, at the back of the building, had a lock.  Rouge looked at the the blonde like she half expected that she’d be telling Jail when to breathe next.  He turned the knob and then gave it the benefit of his shoulder and busted it open.  The door.  Not his shoulder.

There was a wet patch on the floor and it looked like a trail heading into the bathroom.  There was an empty aspirin bottle and the basin tap was dripping something the colour of single malt whiskey.

Against the wall was an empty bed.

Good boy

28 Monday Dec 2009

Posted by in Gerard Oosterman, The Other Side of the Carpark

≈ 5 Comments

The rains finally came as promised. The first night 33 ml and last night another 46ml. The dams are slowly filling and the river is showing a modest flow. Did not stop about 50 Black Angus cows from crossing over the river and eating our left- over’s of green stuff. This has been an ongoing problem, especially with the previous owners. T.Hughes QC, with daughter Lucy apparently owning a couple of hundred of them. Milo soon chased them over and away.” Good boy, Milo”. Here have some charcoal grilled chicken left over from Oatley where we were for Christmas Eve.

One of the grandsons was given a Wii and daughter’s partner, who had turned up with a ‘working’ Kelpie, managed to connect it and put all sorts of complicated things together. Soon our grandson Thomas was frantically swaying and hopping backwards in front of the screen with some magic wand, he was doing Basketball and Frisbee interconnecting with the screen. Explosions, loud whistling and thunderous crowd cheering seemed the essence of it all.

The kelpie was smart and stayed well away from the Wii mayhem.  All by himself in the kitchen.  In fact, at one stage he thought the kitchen table, laden with food, was as good as the back of the Ute. He feasted as never before. He had been such a good boy and surely the ham and prawns were for his hard work too.

Don’t tell anybody. I just scooped the left over sliced ham, the strayed prawns, the chicken wings and charcoal grilled chicken, even the tabouleh back on the plates.  All went for second (hand), third helpings.

Me and Kelpie stayed mum.

Pig’s Arms Bumper Christmas Late Final Edition – Christmas at Hell Hospital: Episode 6

27 Sunday Dec 2009

Posted by in Hell Hospital

≈ 23 Comments

Santa, reminiscent of Cook County Hospital 1909.... there's a motivation to get better....

By Theseustoo

(Disclaimer: this series of stories is completely fictional and none of the persons, places or institutions in these stories are real, but figments of my own imagination. Any similarity to any real person, place or institution is entirely coincidental.)

Christmas was the most cheerful day of the year at Hell Hospital; or so it seemed on the surface. The cheery smiles, however, often hid severe stresses and tensions which, though always present in the medical profession, were always worse at this time of year… along with the number and severity of road trauma cases. Even so, whatever trauma cases came into the hospital were all greeted with a cheery smile and a hearty, if ironic, “Merry Christmas!” from every staff-member who had anything to do with them; no matter how horrific their injuries.

For some patients, admitted in a semi-conscious, drug-and/or-pain-induced delirium, this was almost enough to put them in the psychiatric ward; all the more so when the staff members wore reindeer antlers, or conical little red hats trimmed with white ‘fur’, or long white wigs and obviously fake ‘Santa’ beards. But it was generally felt that not to make an effort to ‘keep the spirit of Christmas’ would be far too depressing and would lead to patients feeling left out or deprived; especially in the Children’s ward. Everyone, they felt, must make an effort to at least appear cheerful, and for their part, the patients appreciated the effort and responded in kind, by trying to maintain a cheerful front themselves.

In the children’s ward, however, the happiness and good cheer brought by fake ‘Santas’, elves and ‘reindeer’, as well as clowns and fairies (of the gossamer-winged variety) was real enough, in spite of the kiddies’ often heartbreaking illnesses or injuries.

Paula, dressed in a red Santa suit, with a large pillow stuffed under it and wearing a full, fake white beard, was entertaining the kiddies on her electronic organ with all the Christmas songs in her repertoire. “May your days be merryyyyy and briiiiiiiight… And may all your Chrisssst-masses be whiiiiiiiite!” she sang with great feeling, drawing her set to a close by wringing as much emotion as possible out of the final lines of the old Bing Crosby Christmas classic. As the song drew to a close a little girl about seven years of age, who had been listening, completely enthralled, to Paula’s beautiful contralto voice, sighed and with a wistful expression on her pretty, youthful face, and said, “I wish I could have a white Christmas! It would be so wonderful to see real snow!”

It was heartbreaking, thought Paula, who knew that this particular little girl was dying of leukemia; she had consistently failed to respond to chemo-therapy and the nurses all knew that this would be her last Christmas… Paula didn’t know what to say, but knew she had to say something; after all, she was Santa, wasn’t she? She walked over to the little girl’s bed and, gently stroking the blond curls back from her forehead, said, “Well now… that’s a tall order, Emily; no-one can control the weather you know… and this is Australia… But we’ll see what Santa can do, okay?”

***** ******* *****

The staff cafeteria had been decorated with multicolored streamers of crepe paper and tinsel; and above the serving counter sheets of A4 paper, each individually lettered in red capitals, spelled out the words, “MERRY CHRISTMAS”. Strings of Christmas cards, given by various staff-members to each other and collected over the course of years for just this purpose, were strung around the walls. A nativity scene depicting the arrival of the Magi stood on a table in one corner while a small Christmas tree, laden with baubles, tinsel, fairy-lights and little candy-canes, stood on a table in another corner, completing the party atmosphere.

“Just what I need!” thought Paula, ironically “Another bloody Christmas party!”

Still dressed as Santa, she sauntered over to the serving counter, too preoccupied even to chat up Swannee; she merely ordered her lunch quietly and then drifted towards a table. Suddenly she saw a hospital maintenance man sitting at another table and swiftly changed her direction… “G’day, George… mind if I join you?” she said as the beginnings of an idea started to coalesce in the chaos that was her mind.

“All right, what do you want?” George asked, suspiciously; he knew she must want something; nurses just did not associate with maintenance men… they mostly aimed at doctors, though they sometimes settled for male nurses… but they never, ever showed any interest whatsoever in the maintenance staff.

Paula sat down opposite George and said, “George, how old is your granddaughter? About seven isn’t she?”

George’s granddaughter, Amanda was the sunshine of his life and he was so proud of her that he didn’t mind talking about her in the least, even though he still wondered what Paula was after… and what did his granddaughter have to do with it anyway?

Paula reached into her bag and pulled out a box wrapped in Christmas paper and held it up in front of George, “Malibu Barbie…” she said, “For your granddaughter…” Paula had bought the doll for her own niece a couple of weeks ago…

George, swiftly inhaled a lungful of air through pursed lips, raising his eyebrows in surprise; he’d searched all the shops for Malibu Barbie for Amanda, but had been unable to find it in the shops; and had finally had to settle for the latest ‘Bratz’ doll. But he knew that all the little girls at Amanda’s school loved Barbies; and Malibu Barbie was the latest and most popular edition… which was why the shops had all been sold out.

His eyes gleamed greedily as he instantly reached for the doll, but Paula suddenly snatched it away from him, and then, with a seductive smile, said, “George, there’s something I want you to do for me…”

“You got it!” George responded instantly, “Just give me the doll!”

***** ******* *****

St Helvi’s air-conditioning system was notorious; patients who had been there a while often joked about the ‘four seasons in one day’ they sometimes experienced. When it was particularly temperamental the nurses would have to go round the patients covering them all with blankets, kept warm in a heated linen cupboard for that specific purpose… but no-one had ever seen it do anything quite like this before:

As soon as Paula felt the temperature begin to drop, she headed straight for the children’s ward to make sure Emily was covered with a nice warm blanket, knowing that George had put her plan into action… Then she sat on the side of Emily’s bed and put her arm around her to cuddle her while the temperature dropped very severely.

“Ooooh, it’s really cold in here, isn’t it Emily?” She said.

Emily nodded, then Paula added, “Almost cold enough for snow…”

Suddenly, from all the air conditioning vents in the ward, came first little flurries and then small blizzards of frozen white snowflakes. Little Emily’s face lit up and she beamed with a delirious happiness as she clapped her tiny hands and yelled, “It’s snowing! Santa, you made it snow…”

“Well,” Paula said modestly, “I had a little help from the guy upstairs… Merry Christmas sweetheart!”

***** ******* *****

Some Light ‘Post Christmas’ reading.

27 Sunday Dec 2009

Posted by in Gerard Oosterman

≈ 11 Comments

http://www.abc.net.au/news/stories/2009/12/27/2781111.htm?section=justin

Here a bit of light relief for those that are queueing up to get those bargains.  Did anyone see the news, those young people rushing the stores, trampling over each other for another blue tooth or items with buttons?  Did you see that woman pensively holding a handbag as if it was the very last one on earth? She put it back on the pile though. Iron woman.

Pig’s Arms Bumper Christmas Edition – Foodge Kid’s Version (PG)

24 Thursday Dec 2009

Posted by in Foodge Private Dick

≈ 14 Comments

In an alternative universe where petroleum is in abundant supply, the dominant lifeforms have assumed a complex and sophisticated way of life. Here we see Sgt. Chev, still a bit red eyed from sleepless nights on stake out, arresting Morri for involvement in a string of crashes. Little does he know that it was the Zephyr did it.

Digital Crime Scene By Warrigal

Pig’s Arms Bumper Christmas Edition – Another Child’s Christmas in Wales.

24 Thursday Dec 2009

Posted by in Ladies Lounge

≈ 10 Comments

Susan and her big brother

By Susan Merrell

“Watermelons always remind me of Christmas,” said the young waiter at the café-cum-greengrocers where I was enjoying a coffee.

He’s right.  Watermelons, mangoes, chilled seafood and chardonnay are all the summery pleasures that have evoked Christmas for me now for many decades too.

Yet re-reading Dylan Thomas’ ‘A Child’s Christmas in Wales” produced a wave of nostalgia for my Christmas’ past when I was growing up in the valleys that rolled down to the “two-tongued sea” where Thomas spent his childhood.

For Thomas: “It was always snowing at Christmas.” Though it wasn’t.  The snows usually came in January.  We considered it lucky if we had a white Christmas – and occasionally we did.  It was always bitterly cold.

One Christmas it did snow, our family of six, who lived in Cardiff, had planned to drive to the nearby Valleys to spend time with grandparents. While the snow never ceased to fill us children with delight, to the parents it presented problems.

With just a coal fire to provide our warmth at home and then only when someone was there to light it, what was to become of the goldfish while we were away? The goldfish bowl had already half frozen over once before. The fish had survived but leaving them in sub-zero temperatures is not recommended?  There was the question of whether the car would start too. In the Christmas Eve excitement, with my father busy constructing gifts that had been supplied in parts, no one had thought to fill the car with anti freeze – the snow hadn’t been expected.

Nevertheless, intrepidly we carried on with our plans. With the goldfish in a screw-top jar and four shivering children huddled in the back seat under blankets, we crossed our fingers that the car would start. It purred into life and we were off on a journey that usually took an hour. We couldn’t wait. To Aberaman and more presents.

Cardiff is geographically low.  We were headed upward: the industrial valleys of South Wales famous for both their coal and iron-ore deposits are, as the name suggests, between mountains and we had some steep terrain to navigate -like the main street of Pontypridd, where the singer Tom Jones grew up.

It’s so steep that buses used to go around it only getting back onto the gradient at the very top, engines straining until the bus, with its nervous passengers, eventually went over the top. In retrospect, my father should have done likewise but having driven up this street many times before he was blasé and went straight up the middle.

We got half way. But the icy road afforded no traction whatsoever. The car slid sideways, it made two yards forward then three back. In the back, we squealed with delight and laughed so hard. This Christmas was shaping up to be the best ever. In the front my mother sat completely speechless while my usually abstemious father spoke words he shouldn’t have done on the Lord’s birthday.

Eventually reaching the top and flat ground everyone in the front seat heaved a collective sigh of relief while a voice in the back piped up:

“That was great, Dad. Can we do it again?

Dylan Thomas wrote: “There are always Uncles at Christmas.” And so there were.  My father was one of eight children. My favourite was my Uncle Cyril.

Cyril drank alcohol – in itself not unusual. Except in Wales there was a huge teetotal demographic grace of the non-conformist religion that had gripped the country in the previous century. Our family members went from the sublime to the ridiculous jumping from total abstinence to absolute excess and nothing in between

One Christmas night, after us children had gone to bed, there was a knock at our front door in Cardiff. It was Cyril. With neither party having a telephone, he had driven an hour from Penrhiwceiber (also in the valleys) where my paternal grandparents lived because an impromptu party had started that Cyril thought would be improper without his brother Royston and family.

That he had been drinking all day and drove a Mini Minor didn’t pose any problems for him. Four children were bundled into the back of the car in dressing gowns while the adults piled into the front. Seven is a lot of people to squeeze into a Mini Minor but Cyril would brook no arguments. We were going to Penrhiwceiber come hell or high water.

We, in the back, especially enjoyed the moment when the car became airborne as Cyril took it over a median strip in Cardiff’s Civic centre and we loved it when Cyril drove around roundabouts until we were giddy. Uncle Cyril was such good fun. I could never work out why he changed so much come morning.

When we arrived, the party was in full swing.

“Say, hello to your Aunty Blodwen,” my father said as I stepped in the front door. Although I’d never seen her before, apparently we were related. And there were more – a lot more – all were aunts, uncles or cousins.

“Doesn’t she look like her mother?” someone would comment before the hugging and kissing would ensue.

When the enthusiastic embraces became too much I’d take refuge on my Granddad’s knee, although I had to fight off my siblings and cousins. We all loved our Granddad. He was such a gentle, softly-spoken man, it’s difficult to fathom that he and his formidable, four-foot-ten-inch wife, my grandmother, were largely responsible for most of the rowdy lot there assembled.

We ate mince pies and drank home-made small beer, a soft drink similar to ginger beer made from stinging nettles with unstable characteristics that often saw bottles exploding. I was always sorry that I was never there when that happened.

There was skulduggery in the scullery. No children were allowed in there. It was where the sinners stashed their hard liquor. Dylan Thomas talks of the drinking of ‘parsnip wine’, I suspect some innocent vegetables had been similarly employed to produce that night’s hooch.

Everyone stood to do their item that night. Some sang, some recited poetry we all sang carols. “

“Always on Christmas night there was music” for Dylan Thomas and our family was no different

This Christmas I will spend with newer members of my family, and although in different climes, I hope that these occasions will inspire someone maybe in forty years time when they smell a mango or taste a glass of ice-cold pinot grigio to say “Remember the Christmas when…”