With the world’s volatility at fever pitch, one could be forgiven in taking out of the lockable glass door cabinet, the special festive balloons. I don’t mean the blow up types. In the past, people used the brandy snifter as an art form, especially those who read Somerset Maugham’s novels, with being on polite coughing terms with members of the House of Lords or those who went through Cambridge and became professors. I am not aware if that art ever became common in the US’s Harvard. I have heard in American movies the expression, ‘he is an old Harvard boy, you know.’ It (the art) might have gone trans Atlantic seeing John Harvard was an alumnus from Cambridge. Sniffing out of balloons might well have travelled with him.

The Oostermans never managed to reach that elevated level. I wonder why? It just seems so nice to read about it. Napoleon Brandy conjures up a world of its own. Plush, deeply buttoned leather chairs. The Lords revelled the absence of women. The smoking room and clubs for the privileged! Remember a few weeks ago, a bowling club was disqualified and their license taken away for refusing women as members. Was it in Queensland again? Pauline Hanson with her anti-Islam and Halal certification got 4% of the National vote. Now likely to have three seats in the Senate.

How on earth did clubs came about refusing women? I know that in the past women and children were not allowed in public bars. There was the ‘Lady lounge.’ A room of sherry and shandy sipping, blue tinted hair and rouged cheeks. Back in 1956, my dad, who was an astute observer, noticed this separation of the sexes. It was another one of those features in our new country. It would now be called ‘a challenge’ or finding ‘a solution.’ Today, of course, we all mellow together. Now we would not know what sex people belong to anymore. There is a bewildering variety of choices and sexes out there. You would not know what to find after a romantic evening out, and the question, ‘your place or mine?’ It might be wise to keep the light on very diffused and both hands around the brandy balloon.

The balloon glasses were used so that it would allow hands around it to warm up the brandy. It then released, ever so subtly its mouth-watering aged burnished aromas. Some brandy sniffing enthusiasts used to draw up the brandy through their nostrils, hence the name taking ‘a snifter.'(sniffing) This resulted sometimes in coughing. That’s why in those excusive men’s clubs in England and India, even still today, the polite form of men acknowledging each other was through a well practised cough behind the left hand while holding the balloon behind the back in the right hand. It would be considered bad manners to cough over the balloon. Eye brows would be raised ever so perceptively.

All this apropos to the world being in such turmoil. Countries are exiting long held alliances. Here they are still counting votes. No one is sure anymore and small groups are talking in hushed tones on street corners. In the US, assault weapons are selling like lamingtons here. The Bahamas have issued travel warnings for the US. Some say, if people had more weapons the likelihood of getting shot would be less. One would shoot first. But the last two killings were done by police who thought they were reaching for a gun. Which one is it?

The world would be a better place if more people went for a good bout of polite coughing, and taking a snifter of Napoleon Brandy instead. Of course, in our case it might well be a couple of herrings and a drink of buttermilk.

‘So, how many eggs do you want me to prepare?’ ‘Make it two for me too,’ she said. These are some of those normal bits of morning conversations that must go on and echo around many towns and villages. ‘Don’t make them too runny,’ was followed up by, ‘I like to put some anchovies on top of the eggs on toast, and don’t want it to run off.’ The original order now came with distinct specifications.

Of course, it is never too late to learn. I recently read that eggs should never kept boiling. Instead, the advice of a world renowned egg expert (Mr Heinrich von Knopfelmacher) stated; bring the egg(s) to the boil and then switch the heat off, and leave in the hot water for just 4 minutes to give you the right viscosity for the perfect egg. The egg-fluid will then resist the tendency to flow or run!

Of course, a clear sign of ageing is someone sitting on a park bench, still talking animatedly to ducks, and desperate to remain a life’s enthusiast, while wearing remnants of a runny egg on his shirt, or worse, on his chin. A sad spectacle indeed. How can this joy the vivre of the aged be kept intact with visible eggs remnants on him?

Still, this morning a newsflash announced that the number of people over a hundred years old will tenfold in the near future. One can imagine the egg wearing to go through the roof as well. Unless of course, the 4 minute egg boiling skill will be taught to the young and become more and more important. The ducks will just go on as ever, they are not judgemental, and have never shown any criticism of humans wearing a little egg. It might well have something to do with ducks sitting on eggs.

It reminds me that my own mother always used to feed scraps to ducks. Even in her nineties she used to slowly walk to the local pond and throw the scraps. I did have to tell her not to feed the ducks the remnants of fried chicken. I mean, how would ducks feel being thrown the feathered expired AND eaten related brothers and sisters? I think she just shrugged this off. I remember her feeling sorry for a duck being stuck in ice during a very cold snap.

The good news keep on coming. Aldi in Australia decided to stop selling caged eggs. However, Australia still allows eggs to be called ‘free range’ when eggs are produced by allowing 10 000 chicken per hectare of open space. One square metre per chicken! It is still cruel. In Europe the minimum is a required 4 sq. metres per chicken. The National Australian Egg-board has the largest egg producers ruling the roost. Unbelievable!

Anyway, far more satisfaction can be obtained by reading a book while dipping your toast in a 4 minute egg. May I humbly ask you to buy my book, the paper-back version preferably. Overseas buyers, you can do so through the following.
http://www.amazon.com/dp/0994581033
http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/0994581033
http://www.amazon.de/dp/0994581033
http://www.amazon.es/dp/0994581033
http://www.amazon.fr/dp/0994581033
http://www.amazon.it/dp/0994581033

I have now received the paper-back books of ‘Almost There,’ for direct distribution in Australia. Please contact me on;

oostermn@tpg.com.au

and for $17.- (including postage) you can be the proud owner of ‘Almost There.’ We are almost half way to Christmas and it would make a lovely present. A special two books for $ 30.-!
After contacting me, options for payment by cheque or direct deposit will be offered.
It would make for a happy man. A very happy man.
Many thanks for those that have bought my book already, also for the great reviews.

Enjoy your 4min.eggs.

Just try and visualise waves of relief washing over this household. The grass is now greener and all washing dries instantly, despite the rain. The toast doesn’t get burnt and all wine tastes sweet.

http://www.amazon.com.au/Almost-There-Fragments-Restless-Life-ebook/dp/B01EM6NC0C?ie=UTF8&*Version*=1&*entries*=0

It is now, supposedly, also for sale at this place; https://authors-unlimited.org/author/gerard-oosterman

The next job will be to list the book with Amazon ‘Print on Demand’ but will take some time to just relish this moment.

Thank you all for your patience and comfort giving. You have all contributed by your support and kindness.

I now wait for it all to go viral. (and check the sales coming in, Ha ha)

A printed version will be available in a couple of weeks.

It just had to happen. Aldi is selling Himalayan salt. People are queuing up and a special isle (nr3) has been set-up to cope with the demand. No one wants to be seen serving food at their Christmas turkey laden tables without this special pink salt. Just imagine the ignominy of it? It started in the US; where else? Since then it has taken a foothold in Europe. I have been told the salt has, since last week, spread to Latvia, Lithuania and even Estonia. Pink salt waves are swamping the world.

This salt has magic healing properties. A lame man was seen rising from his bed after just a single sprinkle of this magic salt on his eggs, sunny side up, after years of living horizontally. Special trace elements are imbued in this salt. Cooks now swear by it and no restaurant worth their salt would dare to serve food without this Himalayan salt, mined in Pakistan. Corns, sciatica, vertigo and nervous dispositions are all curable. No parliament subject to limp indecisions can afford not to have those pink salt containers on their front benches. As soon as a hiatus is reached, the opposition will just walk over to an obstinate senator, and sprinkle some magic salt.

Of course, this iron oxide laden pink salt has to be combined with serving food on wooden slabs. No one seems to know exactly if the wooden food platters came first or if the magic pink salt can lay claim to that distinction. We had our first experience with the food on a wooden slate in a Bowral pub well over a year ago. I though it was a mistake and that a carpenter was perhaps helping out with timber off-cuts.  Perhaps the pub’s ceramic plates were in the dishwasher, who knows? It was well before the pink salt period.

It was difficult to eat from this wooden platter. It’s shape had a protruding handle to hold a grip on when the buzzer announced the T-bone was ready to be picked up from the counter. As I like my meat rare, it took careful balancing not to dribble the juice over other diners while walking with it back to our table. Once seated, I built a little dyke around my T-bone steak with the clever use of arranging the chips tuck-pointed with the tomatoes. It stemmed the flow. Helvi did not have any things flooding over, as she had ordered a pizza, the Napoli special.

Since then the Himalayan salt containers and wooden serving platters are now everywhere. No restaurant use normal salt or silly ceramic plates. The diners nod knowingly to each other and we are all  now so terribly ‘in’. We joined the real world and nothing scares us now.

In between all this chaos in salt and wooden platters there is the Himalayan salt rock lamps making inroads in our interiors. Positive ions emitted from those lamps cure those suffering from the more mental afflictions together with those with dark or grey marital unevenness. The person suffering from clear-sighted despair, the hopelessly addicted to moodiness and heavy thoughts are best advised to turn those lights on next to the book case or even the TV.

Not even Isis will make an inroad. We just sprinkle them with special salt, turn on the salt rock lamp and hurl wooden boards at them. That will teach them a lesson.

We have won.