Author Archives: gerard oosterman

Like Horse and Carriage

04 Monday Oct 2010

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Some experts reckon that people’s genes and hormones determine more than anything else what kind of life they are destined to live. Upbringing and parenting is a mere bus stop on the way to maturity and a wise old age.

We all know that relationships are as important as well as jobs, wealth and health. Sadly for many, relationships can often become the banana skin on the doorstep of a smooth entry to maturity and old age. The statistics and thousands of Family court enforced Orders testify that love have many a rough edge. In fact, it could be a sobering experience and perhaps educational as well, for intending relationship contenders to spend a day in a Divorce Court especially the Family Court. Just don’t do what I did, in the lift to the eight’s floor, and hum, “Love and Marriage is like a horse and carriage, etc”. I was lucky to get out alive. A security guard was in the lift.

 If fridges, cars or TV’s had failure rates approaching even a fraction of relationship breakdowns there would be a thorough investigation by Consumer Affairs. Choice Magazine would come out with dire warnings with lots of arrows and downwards pointing graphs and 1800 preventative phone help lines for those that have been conned into a relationship. MP’s would line up with legislation proposing to ban any relationships, but perhaps excluding friendly pets… Those that organize weddings with lavish exhibitions costing tens of thousands of dollars would be chased out of Australia. In fact there would be a law against it and anyone who as much as looked as if having a relationship would be hauled into the paddy wagon.

This is why it is the more so puzzling that even in old age people don’t seemed to have learnt a lesson. There is a very good publication out, far exceeding the newsworthiness of the Sydney Morning Herald or The Australian which is called “The Senior.” It is a revolution in honest reportage and I recommend it with gusto.  If ever there is proof that people, despite all the previously suffered discombobulating relationships, despite all the battles fought with partners, the relentless hounding through courts seeking compliance of Orders and percentages, they can never get enough of it.

 Here a sample of the length that some will go to in order to hitch up with some new partner. From “The Senior.”

LOOKING FOR ME?
Gent finally divorced for 15 months. Very young for 89, honest, considerate, GSOH, 69kgs, 168cm, ND, NS, NG. No vices & no ties, just a small fish tank with guppies. Like animals, the outdoors & home life, the garden, healthy food & living, car trips, music, dancing, tennis, current affairs & business news, reading, conversations. I WLTM a compatible lady, around 50s & 60s, active, slim-med., some similar interests, including oral (dentures); for friendship with VTPR. Love to hear from you. Let’s enjoy life!

There we have it.  At 89 and still the unstoppable search for yet another partner, no matter what.

Of course, there are also the untold millions for whom it was ‘bingo’ first time around and while the above points out the negatives for the unwary or the ill prepared, there are just as many whom have sailed through life with just a single partner. The perfect loving relationship was found the first time they laid eyes on each other across the vast ocean of available humanity of people keen to hop-a-long with someone else. Volumes, whole libraries have been written about what makes certain people find lifelong love while others plod along from breakup to endless breakups and Court after Court without ever finding what they so keenly seek.

 Some experts give answers about unreal expectations that many seem to hold. Endless love without a hint of a hitch or slackening of sex… A dreamy tear stained reality as so often portrayed in those American TV series where no one ages and huge houses are filled with impossible bunches of flowers with lovers straining at each other within the acreages of beige coloured boudoirs with a never ending and reckless abandonment into the arms of total perfection, year in year out. Who knows?

Perhaps it is more of a case of A Horse and Carrots.

Pyjama Plights

28 Tuesday Sep 2010

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It has always been a source of annoyance and bewilderment to me that modern man/woman wears two uniforms within twenty four hours. Each evening when getting ready for the night uniform or the pyjamas as we call them, it fleetingly crosses my mind to forego this silly ritual and hop under the blankets as dressed. Perhaps just take boots off, but that would be the only compromise.  At the moment most unbutton shirts and trousers, take them off and then change and button up into another outfit before diving underneath the bedding where nobody can see you. What’s the point of it? Why the ritual of buttoning and un-buttoning?

 People just used to sleep in the same clothes that they used to toil in. Crofters and yeoman, tailors, butchers and bakers, they all worked and slept in their clothes. The pyjama apparel apparently wasn’t introduced till late in the 17th century and quickly went out of fashion only to reappear again after another fifty years or so.

From Wikipedia: The word pyjama is actually pinched from the Persian language. The word “pyjama” is a variant of “pajama” (पजामा/پاجامہ) which was incorporated into the English language during British Rai from Hidustani (the progenitor language of modern-day Urdu and Hindi). This word originally derives from the word پايجامه Peyjama meaning “foot garment”.

I am pretty sure those passionate Persians wouldn’t dream of going through the trouble of taking “footwear’ off” before going to sleep. They had to be ready for a quick war at any time.

But getting back to the issue of changing costumes at bedtime, you can imagine the convenience, when Mr Sandman knocks on the door, to just take of your glasses, kick off the boots and dive in.

After a few days or so, you change into a cleaner uniform and use that. Climatic changes might introduce some extra woollen garment during the cold and in summer you go starkers. Why have we changed into this elaborate method of a dress code that calls for dressing and undressing several  times during the day and night?

Modern fashion now dictates that all clothes have to look worn out and torn to shreds. We could easily jettison concerns for being dirty or looking dishevelled. It is all the rage now.  In fact, yesterday in Bowral I saw a woman so poorly dressed in rags that, from the goodness of my heart, I took my wallet out. Helvi stopped me in time. “It’s the latest from Paris and designed by Dior” she informed me. This woman also had black nails, including toes, and black smudges under her eyes.

Years ago we lived on two farms. The first one was about 150 years old, the second well over 300 years. On both farms the sleeping arrangements were centred around the animal quarters, mainly the cows. The obvious answer was of course that in winter the cows gave off very cosy warmth and sleeping near them was a very logical thing to do. No doubt the animal odour added to their ardour as well. A win win for the Dutch farmers and their traditional large families.

The farmer, his wife and possibly the kids would just jump out and milk the cows at the crack of dawn. Just imagine if they had to get out of night uniform and then a day uniform? The cows would have gone off their milk.

Is it not time we go back to a more natural way of spending time, be it day or night?

It’s late at night, better put on my pyjamas. Move over.

Polanski’s Ghost Writer

27 Monday Sep 2010

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We saw a movie today, over which some critics totally disagree. According to our own Movie Show hosts, Stratton and Pomeranz, it was worth four and half stars, out of five I assume. Yet there are some, mainly American reviewers, who claimed it was the worst movie of the year.

You might have guessed that I’m talking about The Ghost Writer, the latest work of Roman Polanski. It looks almost as if the Americans are not able to separate Polanski’s private life from his work. This French born Polish director of such master pieces as China Town and Rosemary’s Baby is to me a bit like Woody Allen, whose worst movies are often better than some other director’s best.

Some years ago I saw Polanski’s Frantic, which was one of his lesser films, but still miles ahead of most movies of the same genre. Anyone who has made multi award winning movies such as The Pianist, and the Oscar nominated Tess, surely is not even capable of making a total flop.

The Ghost Writer received The International Federation of Film Critic’s prize 2009, but even so I was a little apprehensive about who’s right about this film. There was no need for it; as soon as it started I knew I was going to like it. For obvious reasons it could not have been filmed in America at the Martha’s Vineyard where the Blair-esque former UK Prime Minister lives and where the ghost writer of his memoir is going to write the book.  Instead it’s all done in Europe, in a bleak and grey seaside place in Northern Germany, where PM resides in a square, bunker style house.

The sea is menacing, the film has almost a black and white quality, which adds to its atmosphere. The casting is good, the only one not quite right was Pierce Brosnan as the ex-PM; the accent did not ring true. The others, the English actress Olivia Williams almost stole the show, and the handsome Ewan McGregor might have been a teeny bit too laid-back, but I’m not complaining, the well-known Brit playing the part of Prof Emmett did a stellar job just to mention a few.

A political thriller might not be my first choice of movie viewing, but in Polanski’s masterly hands this one got my attention and kept it for the one and half hours it lasted, not one minute too long for me. It was smart and stylish, somewhat Hitchcockian, and it has a sprinkling of humour, and some spirited swearing thrown in. The film follows the book The Ghost by Robert Harris pretty closely, but the amazing last scene where Polanski strays from it, is the most memorable, and it shows that Roman hasn’t lost his creative touch; quite amazing from a seventy six year old!

Dog Ethics in Bowral

26 Sunday Sep 2010

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September 26, 2010 by gerard oosterman

Bowral is really rocking. Tulip Time. Bus loads from Sydney. All rather senior looking and retirement at its best. Lives still being lived without fanfare or trumpets, like us and them and senior discounts. They file out with names such as Brian and Shirly stuck on their shirts and blouses, hunt out tulips and eat sausage rolls. Some have Dim Sims with  chili sauce  getting soaked up in the paper tissue as they walk and chew from the corners of their mouths.  The men are wearing stout corduroy with women in casual slacks and pastel coloured blouses or cardigans just in case a chill might roll down from the The Gib. It pays to be careful. The Gib is short for Mount  Gibraltar which is a hill overlooking Bowral. Mind you, the real Mount Gibraltar could  easily have people named Brians and Shirleys walking around as well. They now walk worldwide.

We, feeling quite smug must look like  locals because a group of tourists asks us for a nice place to have some nice lunch. “Somewhere ‘nice’ they all say”. Do we also now look as if knowing ’nice’ is something we have finally arrived at?

 ”What a lovely dog you have”, Milo looks up, expecting a pat. He knows the score by now. It’s not like the farm anymore, but is has its compensations. We gave the group two choices and continued on with Milo on a leash which is clicked on a kind of brace that dogs now seem to wear. As we pass a throng of people and just in front of a kitchen shop, Milo to my horror squats down and does an impromptu shit while still walking. An amazingly large one for such a little dog. Actually, one large and two little ones, all in a row with people doing an impromptu tango around them. I heard someone say ‘ohh nooo’.

I hope this isn’t what I think he has just done flashed through my mind. Where is Helvi?  Helvi briskly walked on. I had no plastic bag and not much dignity either.

We now entered the crux of this matter. With no plastic bag but with full posession of two hands; what would anyone have done? No way could I risk exposing any failure in good standing amongst the Bowral citizenry nor the good name of Milo, carefully nurtured by so many walks. Within a split second I stooped down and with one majestic scoop  collected the lot with my nude hand, while Milo looked on rather quizzically, the look that the Jack Russell is so known for.

I caught up with Helvi and explained I had a handful of still warm shit. “Put it there,” she sternly pointed at a metal bin. I shook it off into the bin but also realizing that Helvi knew what had transpired.  ‘Don’t put your arm on me’, and wash your hands at Woolies upstairs. It was a long walk zig zagging along a ramp up to Woolies. One man looked strangely at me while I washed my brown hand inside the Men’s.

Now, I know it wouldn’t have been very gallant to have a woman pick up shit, but sometimes I feel blokes are expected to do a little too much. At least she could have stayed with me and given me some encouragement. A kind of moral support or an urging on.

Milo is fine.

Coffee Grinder and Washing Machine

23 Thursday Sep 2010

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My mum’s only concession to modernity prior to our arrival here in 1956 was a coffee bean grinder and one of the earliest washing machines imaginable. The coffee grinder was bolted onto the wall and was operated by turning a small handle. The ground coffee ended up in square glass container which needed to be pulled away from the grinder when full. Instant coffee was unheard off. Even if it had been available, no normal Dutchman would be seen dead drinking it. Forty three beans per cup! Yuk

The washing machine was far more complicated. It had a large electric motor which would drive the propeller inside the wooden oak barrel which was the heart of the machine. Backwards and forwards it would grunt and rumble, for hours on end in Revesby. My parents had shipped the washing machine over! A good move, most people were still using boilers and mangles. The barrel was made of oak slats and held together with steel bands. Very much like the wine barrels. Above this oak barrel was the wringer. It was also operated electrically and belt driven. You still had to feed in the items but the rollers would do the rolling and wringing. A release mechanism  was on top in case your tie would get picked up by the wringer strangling you to death. The water could only be put into this machine by bucket and emptying was in the same manner. 

All the above reminiscing after yet  another trip to Aldi. They have a never-ending stream of electric gadgets, week in week out. The sort of gadgets that are not hand-held but in need of bench space and electrical power points. Where do people find the space for; mixers, water coolers, food processors, milk shakers, pop-corn poppers, toasters, chainsaw sharpeners,waffle irons,electric knives, pancake makers,salami slicers, yogurt makers, bread makers?

It is a far cry from just a coffee grinder.

Till Death us do ( and the IPod) Part

10 Friday Sep 2010

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There can’t be greater joy than in learning that the IPod has been responsible in a 20% increase in pedestrians being hit by cars crossing roads while caressing their IPods. Can you imagine? Well, actually I can.

During my ceaseless exploration and expeditions of large Shopping Malls, of which I have presently got a bee in my bonnet, I almost hit one IPod addict crossing River Road at Revesby last week. Of course, if I would have had more sense I should not have swerved and instead increased speed and aim straight for him. In a trance and totally out of it, this bloke of around 60 with a pony tail, not only was stroking or poking his mobile but crossed the road diagonally with turtle speed as well.

It was on a Sunday afternoon that we decided to see what happened to Nr 50 Mc Girr Str, Revesby, the abode where I spend so many formative years during the late fifties absorbing petuniated suburbia and its fenced off venetian blinded population of which bon-fire night was about the only time our street would be outside ‘en masse’.

I managed to talk Helvi in doing a double and combine it with the delights of a ‘Bankstown Square’ visit en route. Well, Bankstown Square exceeded all expectations even though we were a bit late of the Sunday. The car park was having gaps here and there; people must have had their fill of shopping and left. Some shops were also lowering their see through shutters. Never mind, it still did contain the vibes that are familiar to those that frequent those malls. In Bankstown it is where multi culture-ism is at its peak.  It is also the most horrible monstrously obvious a failure of aesthetics.

Dante’s inferno made visible in techno colour with an overwhelming hissing sound that, even for the deaf, dominated hearing aids and GPS’s. It must be the sound of the swishing credit card swiped and multiplied thousands of times combined with the licking of giant towering smoothies and slurping slushies by kids running amok. Bankstown square is where the hurling of credit cards towards the shops’ cash registers has reached the zenith of consumerism.  Not even Mr Harvey could have dreamt of such riches and from the poor as well. What proof of triumph over adversity could one still achieve?

Of course, nothing could have been further from Mrs Ross and my mother’s mind some forty years earlier. In fact it was the exact opposite, not to spend or loose, but to gain something from Bankstown Square. It was the year of 1966 that Bankstown Square shopping opened. It was after Roselands but even so, another 6 page spread in the papers and banners floating in the sky from twin winged planes that would take off from Bankstown aerodrome every couple of hours so.

What drew mum and Mrs Ross was nothing financial or need to consume. No, it was during winter that both used to get the bus on River Rd, Revesby to Bankstown Square in order to enjoy the warmth of the air-conditioning.  Waking up during winter was something and this, mum repeated endlessly, “not even during the war in Rotterdam”, had our family suffered cold as we did then in Revesby during winters. The locals were heroic as well as stoic and some in shorts defying the most flabbergasted of the Euro-centric. Mrs Ross simply spent entire winters in a good long duffel coat, wearing it both inside as well as outside, only to be taken off minutes before bedtime, diving below the blankets.

“Cold to the bones”, mum said as she and Mrs Ross used to step up into the bus to Bankstown Square. “It was so nice and warm there”, mum used to tell us.

Ol Man River at Roselands

04 Saturday Sep 2010

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It was many years ago, when children still had birthday parties in parks with friends and parents. A couple of kilos of sausages and some cordial were all that was needed. The barbecue was soon set up, the bread rolls buttered and gifts unwrapped. Not anymore now. It has to be at Fox-Tell studios, at MacDonald’s or at the Ten pin bowling alleys. They are all now screaming hordes demanding endless wallet openings of stressed parents unable to resist the exploitation by commerce. They capitulate, roll over and give up a battle that was never there to be won anyway.

I remember, again, many years ago, the start of a future of which wallet opening would become the norm. There was a six page spread in The SMH and bands playing on the streets with banging drums and blaring trumpets. It was the opening of Roselands shopping centre in Sydney.

 Opened in 1965, Roselands was Australia’s largest shopping centre in the Southern hemisphere for years, even though it is quite small by today’s standards.

 It had a magic waterfall of three stories high. Some liquid; was it water or oil? Whatever it was would be cascading down along nylon lines creating a faux effect of luxury and steaming jungle. It also had a restaurant with a small stage, called The Viking. We had dinner there with another couple some time after the opening, perhaps around the late mid sixties. Our choice was ‘chicken in the basket’; I suppose it came with baked potatoes. The desert was peaches with ice cream ‘a la framboise’, or some expensive name like that. The conversation was starting to falter; perhaps the Barossa Pearl had not yet worked its way down yet. Fortunately, the peroxide chanteuse started her show with a stirring rendition of ‘Old Man’s River’ albeit at a much higher pitch than usual. After all, Paul Robeson’s deep base would be a bit hard to follow for any man, let alone a woman. After the peaches arrived she changed the music to a less demanding, “I never felt like singing the Blues”. The rest of the evening I have forgotten accept than the wife of the couple solemnly declared,” she is not a good singer but she has a lovely personality.”

From then on it all became a world of fast bucks and faux reality, tingling cash registers and a world swept away by the money merchants and their seductive easy terms on everything. Wallet openings not only became the norm, it became the main driving force for families to continue. Now Roselands is dwarfed by much larger shopping centres which work like giant vacuum cleaners sucking in entire societies with millions of pale looking shoppers, hopelessly addicted to endless wallet opening giving a very faux respite from the ennui of everyday living. They then get spat out to the concrete reality of the car park.

There has to be more to life.

Excuse me Sir, your Bonnet is showing

29 Sunday Aug 2010

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As kids we all believed in dragons in the forests and monsters of the sea. What do grown men still believe in when looking at cars? We all know that clever car salesmen would not dream of starting a car yard without also decorating the yard with flags all strung around strings leading to the ‘special car’ usually elevated on a kind of scaffolding or throne. It all goes without saying that all cars for sale must have their bonnets open as well. Why?

What are the expectations of those interested in cars of finding underneath those bonnets?

This morning I promised to walk to the Moss-Vale shopping centre to buy our special Sunday treat, not a car, but a much more modest item, croissants that a Vietnamese bakery excels in making here locally. On the walk to the bakery one passes two car sales yards. The first on the left side is huge. It sells both second hand and new. Hondas, Hyundai’s, and Subaru’s. All bonnets ajar as if yawning, greet those that happen to drive or walk by. Below the bonnets and at the front there appear increasingly aggressive looking grills. With some squinting and going back to the years of ‘monsters in the sea’, they are looking like predatory fish, a mixture perhaps of shark and piranha.

The second car yard sells Skoda’s and Peugeots, new as well as second hand. Perhaps in keeping with a more modest and aesthetic Euro approach, there are no flags but just open bonnets. This morning I noticed a young couple standing in front of the first and very large car yard. The girl was standing somewhat away and was kind of moving both her arms up and down and sideways as if exercising or perhaps showing a bit of impatience or boredom. The boyfriend had his head hidden underneath the bonnet. Now, this head under the bonnet has always intrigued me. What are they hoping to see there? It is only ever men that look under the bonnet. Is it a sex differentiation thing? Are they doing a kind of metal muff diving here ( scusi signorina), or is it a genetic predisposition, afflicting both hetero and homo men? Surely all cars have an engine under the bonnet and what can you ascertain by just looking?

Only once have I seen a woman under a bonnet. Her car had broken down. I stopped and she was wiping the air-filter with a pink shopping bag rag. Trying to clean up a bit, I suppose. Her battery lead had disconnected and after I fastened it she managed to start the car and drove off.

After I bought the croissants this bloke had his head under another different car bonnet and the girl friend had given up her arm swaying, was sitting somewhat uncomfortable on a thick chain swinging between the car yard’s posts separating the yard from the grassy knoll. She was facing the road.

 I just walked by

Two Scoops of Rum and Raisin please

28 Saturday Aug 2010

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This morning we boldly decided to visit Campbelltown. Drivers in the fifties still had warnings of ‘driving-in’ hanging on the back of their new cars when I last visited that town. Perhaps it was also when I used to go swimming in a creek at Casula, not far from there, while a teenager with  totally uncontrollable and spontaneous twinges.

We put the Global Positioning System on ‘McArthur Square,’ Campbelltown, and clipped it on a special bracket inside the car window. It took us faultlessly and without exchanging any blows to our destination in just forty minutes.

Of course, after arrival we drove around trying to park with many others doing the same. We already had been told that McArthur Square is huge, and indeed, a Shopping Emporium unlike anywhere around the Southern Hemisphere.  A Mecca for lingerie, mobile phone covers, artificial hair extensions and food halls.  A behemoth of a roofed over city entirely dedicated to bright ‘down- lights’ and shops for shoppers shopping. We searched our minds what we had actually planned to do there. It was such a nice spring day with daffodils sprouting. What begot us?

Helvi had a sudden insight with wanting to find a book named ‘Mood Matters. Apparently it had been recently recommended by our literature cum laude expert and investigable Warrigal. We found an enormous bookshop named Borders, so big the books looked like postage stamps.  We had advice that the book wasn’t yet available in Australia. What to do next amongst the hordes of mobile swipers and triple story prams being pushed by bull-necked fathers/ husbands, wives/ partners with glittering jewel bedecked wrists, force feeding brats with chips, gravy and smoothies?

The relief of a food court.

” Two John Dory fillets with chips and salad please.” “It will take ten minutes,” The friendly shop assistant replied. The Fish shop front named itself ‘Shark’s delight.’ Who could resist that?  We were given the food on the plastic plates with two sachets of salt and pepper each. Now I am a careful distributor of salt over my food. I cautiously sprinkled half the salt over the chips and fish and stashed the sachet with half the salt remaining carefully under my plate for later use. I felt I was being watched.

Indeed, Helvi, without any qualms, filched my portion of salt from under my plate and calmly sprinkled it over her chips. I know she likes salt. I reminded her it was my salt but she accused me of being mean and making a fuss over salt. How petty. We finished our meal and walked around till we found DJ’s.  It rankled me still that I had had half a sachet of salt and she one and a half and yet my feelings of remorse and guilt went immediately into automatic.

Amazingly in most of those large shopping centres they provide huge leather chairs in the vast corridors for shoppers to lounge around in. Yet, away from food courts they often remain empty. I suppose, shoppers don’t have time to squander away from shopping? We had the Saturday Herald and sunk ourselves luxuriously down. I strolled off mulling over the salt incident and decided to make amends. I bought two scoops of Raisin Rum gelato from miles away, hiked back totally exhausted to our leather fauteuils and offered a few bites to Helvi. She took the whole lot and said,”why don’t you get your own?” Back I went, ordered another two scoops. This time, the’ Mixed Berries.’  “Gee, you like my gelato”, the Asian girl chortled.

 She gave me an extra half scoop. Perhaps there is justice!

Of Piglets and Archibald

27 Friday Aug 2010

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Helvi Oosterman

Stathopoulos, Nick - The bequest

Popping into my old branch of the ANZ bank to notify our change of address, I noticed a curious little ad at the teller: The Archibald Prize exhibit at the Goulburn Art Gallery. Better late than never we thought and rushed in.

We were hardly in, and hubby was advising me that this must be the store-room boys’ selection. He has not yet spotted the mini-sized winning portrait by Sam Leach, was my guess. So it was; putting my glasses on I could spot this miniature oddity amongst all the usual largish triptychs.

There were some good, and some not so impressive portraits of our celebrities and of lesser folk. I even found a painting, and a rather good one, by our previous neighbour Cherry Hood. I could not quite understand what the goat with its curly horns had to do with this portrayal of her fellow Brisbane artist…

Now Cherry was not the only one adding something unexpected to her work. There was Cate Blanchett’s husband in a little rowing boat; maybe the viewer is to conclude: Mr Blanchett (Andrew Urban) likes fishing! In one self-portrait the artist had a dead fish sharing the canvas with himself! Well, I get the impression here that the arts must not be taken too seriously in Australia, I like this playfulness as I tend to think that a bit of humour lightens almost any endeavour.

A thought crossed my mind about starting a Pig’s Arms portrait collection. As I have only met Mr Jones , I have to base my brush-strokes not on seeing you in front of me but on reading your writings here and on UL.  I’ll start with Mike, and as we all know he is a motorbike enthusiast, he no doubt would like his Dukati to be that bit of extra in the portrait. I’ll oblige and add the leather biking gear.

 I’ll sketch Hung One On only if he promises to keep his smile on, and no doubt he’ll insist in having a cricket bat in one hand and a glass of Shiraz in another. Not really complimentary to each other, but better than Howard’s cup of tea any time. I hope he’s not going to hit me with this cricket bat after reading this!

 At the gallery the weirdest painting was a naked back view of the well-known Australian schoolteacher, who has most of his body tattooed, very exotic and colourful but hardly a portrait. This gave me an idea to paint our elusive Warrigal from the behind as well; no need to panic, fully clothed.  As he is a bit of guru to us all here, he can stand in front of blackboard showing us how to spell ‘discombobulate’…

 Gerard has rejected his parents Catholicism, but as he is a natural preacher, I have to draw him shouting something evangelical from the churchy heights: You shall love your neighbour and not erect a zinc-alum fence between him and yourself.

Hood, Cherry - Michael Zavros

Mrs M is correct in saying that grey hair looks distinguished on males, so Mr Big M will keep his natural hair colour for the portrait. A white coat and surgical gloves will compliment his beaming smile when he’s painted holding a newborn, still crinkly, baby. The floral Mambo shirts can stay in the wardrobe.

 I’ll give Astyages a double shot; in the first he’ll be playing a guitar and the number two sitting at a desk surrounded with tomes on Ancient Greek history and philosophy. OK, I’ll put at least one adoring Karen in the picture, but no motorbikes…they have done enough damage.

Julian’s curls will be professionally tidied and you’ll find him looking very happy; he’s just purchased an old scratchy record by a minor English band from the sixties on E-bay. He has also found out that he’ll see his grandson sooner rather than later.

Algernon has to be seen passing on how-to vote pamphlets; I’ll put a big sign LABOR behind him, after all he has been our best and most optimistic campaigner during these horrid five weeks.

Vivienne, our food and wine expert, knows all about slaughtering goats I have learnt lately.  So maybe accompanying her with a live not a killed goat might be in order.  I don’t think Cherry Hood will come to Pig’s Arms and sue me for stealing her idea!

Voice can proud of her achievements in the garden; the Gerberas are in full bloom and even the severely pruned Bottlebrushes are starting to look good. The spring garden is a perfect place to seat her for the portrait, the cat in her lap and maybe a gin and tonic on the table!

McKenzie, Alexander - Andrew Upton

Gez has promised to do mine; I might have to pay him though to do some embellishments…