Author Archives: gerard oosterman

Ten Mostly Mysterious Things to Me

21 Saturday Nov 2009

Posted by in Helvi Oosterman, Ladies Lounge

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By Helvi Oosterman

We make lists of our ten favourite books or movies frequently.  At dinner parties we have light hearted discussions about which ten items we would rescue from a burning house or what ten things we would need to comfort us if we had to spend a month alone on a lonely island.

There are things that have puzzled me in the past, some of these have been explained to me; most of them are utterly trivial, some irritating, and all of them just a source of amusement to me. Here they are, not in an order of importance as most of them are not overly important at all.

  1. Why do we dress baby boys in blue and girls in pink? Is it because we are shy about asking baby’s gender, or  that we don’t really feel like offering to change baby’s nappy to find out the sneaky way…
  2. Driving through lush green valleys of South Coast, I see a sign indicating that I have entered the City of Shoalhaven. Where , where…?  Not a house, nor a shop anywhere, plenty of cows, farmers on their tractors, but churches or city squares, no. Same in the city of Sydney, you arrive in a suburb of Campsie and I’m told in smaller writing: City of Canterbury. Maybe you have a town , thus named in England, but this is just another suburb and the only city here is Sydney.
  3. I’m in somewhere, in someone’s office to sign some transaction or other; I’m well equipped with my driver’s licence, my passport, my rates’ notice, my husband with all his papers. This is not good enough; you have to go and sign this in front of a justice of peace, there’s a dentist on the second floor, madam. No way am I going to interrupt a busy tooth doctor at work, he doesn’t know me any better than this lousy clerk. Time to throw a little tantrum and time to ask his name and to call the boss. The boss wants me out and signing happens without any dental surgeons at present.
  4. I’m a member of a local club and showing my card, any card really will do as I sometimes accidentally show healthcare card, and yet the girl at the desk waves me in. If you are not a member you are forced to sign some papers, put your address in, just to have a chance to eat a bowl   of pasta with a glass of white.
  5. I still sometimes enter a chemist shop, where the chemist himself, the mixer of potions, stands on something elevated, on a kind of podium. Why? Is he better than the newsagent bloke next door, humbly standing there at the level of his customers? Is the chemist keeping a sharp eye on shop lifters; you can spot them better from his lofty position?

Now, folks, I need a rest and a coffee break; these baffling things take a lot out of you. On your permission, I’ll stop now, and if you absolutely demand, I’ll reveal the remaining five…

Old Biddies from Hell.

12 Thursday Nov 2009

Posted by in Gerard Oosterman

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The ‘old biddies from hell’ milk-bar was just around the corner from where the primary school was situated in East Balmain. It dated from pre-war, either the first 1914-1918 or the second 1940-1945. It would not have mattered, the service was the same as that Sunday arrival at Fremantle 1956, when all those dapper migrants in suits and white shirts sauntered off-board to get their first taste of Australia after the long five week ship journey from Europe. To be seen as helpful was grovelling to the Gov’nr and those old shop’s milk-bar traditions such as the one my dad tried to buy lamingtons from in Fremantle 1956 had passed on their sullen services across the Nullarbor and survived well into the 1980’s at East Balmain. To enter the shop for a packet of ciggies was risky and such a downer, that the only rightful response was to immediately light up in the shop and blow the first lungful towards the old hags and make a run for it.

The kids who had no option but to sometimes order the school lunch there soon also learnt to give as much as they were receiving. The shop and its owners showed their contempt for kids and adults by selling the minimum of goods and with such vehement reluctance, that only the foolhardy and the most determined would enter. They refused to display what they were selling. The shopwindow’s only items on display were a yellowed packet of Bex powders and a Camel cigarettes poster with goggled US fighter pilots lighting up, stuck on a piece of ancient vitrage hanging there to obscure any view into the shop… The flies were old and spiders spun webs to keep a balance between the different species but would prefer only the freshest and largest.  Inside the glass counter with chrome edges and sloping menacingly towards the customer, there were live flies (but no webs) zooming in onto lamingtons and custard tarts sprinkled with cinnamon. One of the old girls was doubled over with osteoporosis; the other one in charge of sandwich making,  had a permanent dripping nose which she kept on wiping on her left arm which was inside a raglan sleeved cardigan, while taking the Edgell pre-sliced beetroot out of its tin and placing it with gnarled fingers onto the pre-buttered Tiptop.

The relationship between schoolkids, customers and shop owners was symbiotic but that’s all, nothing more, nothing less. This is why the business was stagnant and had been for many, many years. They each accepted the exchange of money for the goods as an almost necessary evil. Our neighbours’ daughter told the old ladies to get fucked and was hence banned. There were standards to uphold. The owners of the shop were totally unconcerned though. Sick as!

What not to Wear.

09 Monday Nov 2009

Posted by in Helvi Oosterman, Ladies Lounge, The Public Bar

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Just to get you boys here.

By Helvi Oosterman

You older folk here might remember the times, when anything Indian was all the rage; long cotton caftans for the girls and rough hewn grandpa shirts for the boys. Those were the days when your tie-dyed, floor length wrap-around skirts, not only kept your legs warm but at the same time swept the streets or maybe just the foot paths clean…

The council workers whistled at you, not because they admired your legs, but because you were doing their job for them. I remember wearing a long caftan when six months pregnant, looking rather majestic, almost a cross between Maria Callas and Joan Sutherland, Brunnhilde from Wagner’s Ring comes to mind. Hubby too suffered for his latest acquisition, sandals made from old car tyres with some brass buckles tagged on them that gave his feet bad rashes.

Many years later  the tights arrived on the fashion scene; welcomed by all comfort loving females, mums, daughters and grannies. They were taken up by skinny girls, fat sheilas, old and young, tall and short. My slightly underweight girlfriend gave me a backhanded compliment: “Helvi, you look good in them because you got big legs, I look like a starved baby bird in those”. Ah well, who needs enemies when your friends tell the truth about your short  comings. These tights, as you all know, were usually teamed up with oversized t-shirts or large tops  with huge shoulder pads. These pads were not sewn but usually Velcroed to shoulder seams and easily removed. On long train trips they could double up as pillows, after all some were almost bigger than average size Tontine.

Not all that long ago the fashionistas got inspired by India again; the bright colours were in and black was out. Tired of looking like Sicilian widows, we now took to rainbow colours, glitter and sequins like ducks to water. Many of us suburban mums   of course even looked like ducks, waddling in our tiered skirts and heavily sequined tops weighing us down. All those vivid colours that so flatter darker skinned slim Indian girls, made us look like stumpy Christmas trees.

Oops, almost forgot about those hipster jeans, maybe it is because I really want to forget about them; all those tummies and bottoms bared, and in country towns still bravely exposed, even  when the city girls have moved to the” waist highs” a long ago.

This morning I had to go to town early for an appointment. Popping in to buy a newspaper at the mall, I noticed a group of young girls still in their nighties hanging around. I assumed they had had some kind of sleep out or a pyjama party and were on their way home. The polyester swishing could be heard as they walked past. Later on I came to realise they were not nighties,but this season’s new look: floor-length summer dresses that reminded me of those caftans. Only the caftans were cotton and pleasant to wear, these long  poly dresses must be as hot as a visit to a sauna.

I feel like a cooling swim is needed right now!

The BIG lollie houses are in Shepherd Street.

04 Wednesday Nov 2009

Posted by in The Public Bar

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Max playing for lollies

 

As we planned to live in Bowral we thought it wouldn’t be a bad idea to experience how Halloween was celebrated there. The grandsons, all three of them, had been preparing for the event and their mothers had rummaged in wardrobes to retrieve last year garbs, knuckle dusters, fierce looking hatchets and of course the conical hats with the skull masks.

Little 6year old Max, who would like nothing more than to grow up on a diet of lollies was especially excited about the prospect of bulging bags with sweets.  Back in a very leafy suburb where they live, each year’s Halloween had been highly successful. Of course, those very green suburbs were always terrific for Halloween fans. The last few years many single houses with huge gardens were easy pickings for the money merchants to demolish and put up 8 townhouses instead. The ‘treat and trick’ kids get 8 chances instead of just the one. Against that, some of the latest now have formidable electronic gates which can only be opened by proper identity checks and clearances through the use of a walkie-talkie system and remotes. None the less, bagfuls were collected and the Bowral environment would have to do a lot to even come close.

The big day had almost arrived and the night before our daughters and their sons managed to liaise and merged together at Bowral and had settled in a friend’s house with take away Chinese meals, Harry Potter movie on the telly, and the knuckle dusters and other Halloween paraphernalia tucked under the kids beds.

Halloween was only hours away. The question; what would be the differences between the Halloweens of Sydney and Bowral, if any?  Could those differences be based on the social aspects of the inhabitants?  Some of the more salubrious suburbs of Sydney are very much populated by social climbers keen on material goodies rather than, well, not much else, according to our daughters. Bowral, on the other hand is very much the territory of the ‘arrived’.  Retired politicians, (Hewson is selling his abode at a mere $11.000.000) and successful race horse breeders, notable TV personalities , a mixture of gangsters and some poor sods that still catch the daily train to Sydney for work,  but, hopefully, not much longer . Those gated communities are on the rise there as well but nowhere like in Sydney.

The next morning, the Bowral community woke to a sunny day. The newsagent girls had already donned conical hats; their hair dyed a ghoulish blue. This was a good omen and I told the kids so at my return home with newspaper tucked under my arms. I also bought some lollies just in case of a disaster. The gardens are huge and it takes almost a hike to just reach the front door. How much stamina would our grandsons have to traverse those large gardens with miles of delphiniums and acres of petunias?

At about 5.30 pm we set off in 2 cars with the 2 mothers, three grandsons and me.  It was hot and the Halloween outfits were made of impenetrable black Nylon. The kids had also grown and the outfits were tight around the crutches. The mothers had suggested making cuts to give more room. But ‘my undies will show’, the kids retorted. Well,’ put on black underpants and no one will notice’. ‘No way’, Jak said. Off they went. The tight crutches a small price to pay for retaining dignity.

The first few attempts were lousy. The long walk-ups to the front door, past the parked car and barking terrier, and back again without as much as a single person opening doors were discouraging. Perhaps the residents had locked themselves up in anticipation of a real Halloween or were of Scottish descent. After some five doors knocks, some success. Thomas and Jak came back smiling.  Only Max was still miffed. They each had a packet of raisins!

All of a sudden another competing group of Trick and Treat kids came on the scene, accompanied by conical attired mothers with flowing witches’ dresses and wildly waving arms. ‘It is in Shepherd Street’ one mother told Max. ‘That’s where the really BIG lolly houses are’, she added.

We, of course forgot to ask where Shepherd Street was. No worries, my daughter looked up on her Sat Nav gadget and we all jumped in the two cars and in no time found the right street with the big lolly houses. It turned out that an old lady had arranged a street meeting with other owners and they all decided then to make an effort to make Halloween special for the local kids. Balloons and signs would be put on gates indicating that treats were there for the ‘tricking’.

What lovely social enterprising by this old lady. Bowral might be the place to retire to.

Remember; Shepherd Street is where the really BIG LOLLIE houses are

Maggots at Scheyville Camp.

23 Friday Oct 2009

Posted by in Gerard Oosterman

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This game, this life.

If any more proof was needed to show the abundance of Australia, of course shown already on the day after arrival at Scheyville camp with all those oranges on trees, it would have to be the provisions in that huge communal dining room during breakfast, lunch and dinner of huge gallon drums of very chunky IXL melon and pineapple jam, with no control on how much one ladled out.

Real fruit jam in Holland was expensive and mother just used to give our sandwiches not much more than a slight hint of jam in order to save for our future. Imagine our joy with being able, and totally unshackled from any restrictions, to scoop unlimited ladles of jam out of those huge drums of fruit laden conserve on top of mountains of pre-sliced white bread. It was totally out of dad’s control but he managed to accept it for what it was.

A few days later our perception in all that abundance of goodness and sweetness was somewhat dented and damaged. We often just used to ladle our food on plates and walk to our hut, eat in private, away from the swills and spills of the food hall where everyone just used to eat sitting on large benches and wooden tables.  Well, eating was a bit of a euphemism, more as if the whole of Europe were on a trough and had been waiting for a good feed. Some of those hungry souls used to straddle the wooden seats horselike and eat with the food plate tucked between their legs. Perhaps they felt is was a more secure way of remaining in possession of the food.

It was when we had just arrived back to our hut with plates full, got seated and ready to fork into the lamb chops, when a man on a pushbike was riding fast from hut to hut shouting,  ” there are maggots in the meat.”  Now, we had experienced war and famine, head lice, tobacco shortages and indeed food shortages but no way would it have been even remotely possible to have had the experience of ‘maggots in meat’. There simply never was any meat during the 1940-45 second world war.

Peering onto our plates and deep into the crevices of the chops in particular, it only took a second to see what the pushbike man had heralded a minute earlier. Maggots indeed. This of course took the edge of our sojourn into this new country somewhat, if not those chops as well, but what the heck; we were told Australia needed people with pioneering spirit.

Warrigal’s Magic is Amazing.

18 Sunday Oct 2009

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While most of you are still deeply immersed in working out how wombats can produce square nuggets out of round bum holes, lend me your ears for what Warrigal of Fraser Island are capable of. Some decades ago, when everyone was still so young and adventurous, my brother and I with my 10 year son and his twinned similar aged sons decided to go to Fraser Island. My brother had been before and many times afterwards and while camping on the South coast, he would regale stories of phenomenal fishing expeditions, straight from the beach, he would always add, spreading his arms wide to indicate the sizes of fish. Fraser Island is to fishermen what Paris is to fashionistas.

I am not so keen on beaches and loath sitting in blinding sun surrounded by loose sand, am much more content in caves or under rocks with shade soaking up all light. Anyway, I succumbed and decided to visit Fraser Island with my brother and three sons. The Land rover was packed with an electric/gas/battery fridge and a nice frozen lamb curry. From bitter experience I had learnt not to venture away from inner cities and risk starvation or/and food poisoning. We had also packed tents, fishing rods and even a metal chain to haul in the ‘big one’.

During those South Coast camping trips, the fish always got bigger and the empty casks of Coolabah next morning outside the tents witness to more fishing stories than the whole of Iceland. We left Sydney during summer and drove to Tin Can Bay in Queensland where we took the ferry across to Fraser. It was sunny indeed and we set up camp somewhere on the beach near the dunes. Next morning we unpacked our fold out canvas camping chairs, oiled our fishing rods and spools, tied hooks and bait and threw in the lines on the edge of the sea.

Fraser Island is supposed to be the largest sand island in the world or Southern Hemisphere. Wherever we travel to, something is always the largest or biggest or best, isn’t it? The largest sand island did not appeal so much to me, and I was vindicated when I noticed enormous flies landing unnoticed on my legs and arms. Those flies had some kind of helicopter way of landing whereby you would only become aware after the biting and sucking. I asked another fisherman and was told they were horse flies. I then thought to wade into the sea hoping for relief from those large fly horses.

Please, all come now a little closer to your screen

Those flies stayed on the landed area of my body under water. Their grip was so strong, no wave would dislodge them. I lost all interest in fishing and life. Deeply depressed I went back and remained seated in my canvas chair whacking the flies after landing but before biting, they would end up dead or struggling around me on the sand. In no time an army of large ants came and started eating the carcasses which gave some satisfaction.

When I got back to the tent my toasted muesli had been broken into and trails of it lead back into the dunes. A warrigal had been and broken the packet before dragging it with him (or her) back to the rest of the family. I had heard that the Fraser Island dingo was still fairly pure and had not interbred with other dogs. I did not mind my muesli getting pinched; after all it is their territory. No fish was caught that day nor on any of the following days. My brother was deeply worried and could not understand it. The second last day he buried the rest of the bait in the sand near the high tide mark.

The next day I got up early, well before those fly horses, and noticed a straight trail of dingo prints from the dunes right up to where the bait had been buried. A neat little hole had been dug and the bait was gone.

So, the dingo made his way to the bait in a straight line. No dithering or sniffing left or right, zig zagging. Now, he either did this by having observed us burying it the previous day, or, their olfactory sense is so acute, even way back in the dunes, that no diversions needed to be made. He followed his nose in a line which was the shortest possible route. Still, I am amazed..

Was it you Warrigal?

iSnack 2.0 and then Golden deceit

04 Sunday Oct 2009

Posted by in The Dining Room, The Public Bar

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When all the grand kids are over on the farm with traditional pancake eating as part of school  holiday, we discovered  Golden Syrup is not what it used to be. It started with the brutalisation of vegemite. I am no fan of vegemite. Anyone who can look deep inside a jar of vegemite and then still able to spread it on bread has my respect, even admiration. My mother opened up a jar back on a sunny Saturday afternoon in 1958 on the advice of a Polish refugee. She of course immediately recognized endless possibilities of savings to be made when she read ‘spread sparingly’.

Vegemite is under attack and I will, as a good and proud Australian always defend to the death the right for anyone to eat it with staunch impartiality no matter what the colour of anyone’s political persuasion or for their preferred food.

According to the vegemite lovers, it is now marketed mixed with cheese and called ‘vege-mate’ and another mixture named a phoney patriotic ‘Our Mate’ and another iSnack 2.0 the latest named by popular vote.  Of course, any product now has to have both numbers and letters in higher and lower case in order to confuse and make for easier selling to the harassed and comatose consumer.  Sausages will soon be sold as SAus 69 Griz.

The Golden syrup has always been the world’s favourite pan-cake spread.  Ok, at least in the world of Brayton on the Wollondilly, (with the hordes of defending wombabats manning the ramparts against the evil weed inspectors).  Anyway, the grandkids arrived and during pandemonium and general chaos put in the order for the morning pancakes before collapsing in a random and haphazard way to their matrasses. Helvi often tells me to let the mothers do the pancakes but that is also always, as a matter of tradition now, met by protesting grandkids, as  ‘Opa can only make the pancakes just right’.  ‘He makes them with the golden crusty edges and thin as well ‘, Jak says smoothly. With grandkids’ growing appetites the heap of pancakes are in tandem and this now calls for 2 cast iron fry pans. One is a surviving wedding present, made in Finland and superb for pancakes. The other is a Taiwanese cast iron alloy job with black colouring, as proof of its dodgy quality, appearing on the dish cloth.

The milk and water is added to the plain flour with a couple of eggs and pinch of salt. The mixture is thin and pure salted butter is added to the very hot pans. The whole procedure for perhaps 30 pancakes takes no more than 30 minutes with the eating perhaps no more than 7 minutes.

The Golden Syrup is not anymore what is used to be. Does anyone remember the yellow metal tins with black lettering and with a lid that used to be prised open with a knife?  The colour was dark and the bouquet brooding with a mystery and hint of an almost Oriental nature.  I think Raffles used to serve it up to Somerset Maugham in Singapore for breakfast, while I believe, he was writing ‘Razor’s Edge’.

Perhaps it contained treacle or molasses but it was just right for the crispy, golden edged pancakes. Now all that glory and joy has changed and gone. It was decided that it had to become’ committed’ more wasteful and turned over faster, make more and better money, and what better than to make it thinner and sell in  squeeze plastic bottles that would malfunction after a couple of tries.  It is a shadow and fake Golden Syrup now but makes a fortune for the Emporiums of the money merchants. It will soon be called GLod Mr3 S and Golden Syrup ‘flavoured’ in small lettering to hide deception and join Maple syrup ‘flavoured’ and Vanilla ‘flavoured’ ,but nothing real anymore.. A bummer.

Foreigner’s Woes…

29 Tuesday Sep 2009

Posted by in The Public Bar

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By Helvi Oosterman.

Foreigner’s Woes…

Years ago you actually had to go to ‘The Office of Births and Deaths’ to get your certificates, no on-line quick fixes in those days. So off I went to town, by bus and in my best attire.

Before setting my foot in the office, I whispered a little prayer: Dear God let the nice young apprentice clerk to be there today. No such luck; it was the dragon herself manning the boot; the fat lady that is. The word obese had not yet crept in our vocabulary or collected on our hips or thighs.

She was a large stern looking woman with equally forbidding looking glasses. As fairly new to the country I had practised what to say and how to say it: Could I have a birth certificate for my child, XXXX  Oosterman;  I added  Oosterman with double ‘o’…

That was a mistake; she thought I was talking about double ‘w’. Those were kept close to the floor at the bottom of her huge filing cabinets, and she would have to bend down and she wasn’t very bendable. I could see that this could get very unpleasant, so I quickly uttered:  Oosterman with two o’s, o, o…

Oh, oh, Oosterman, she muttered relieved. This was much better as the o’s were housed quite high in cabinet hierarchy, no unnecessary unsightly bending needed. Still, heart in my throat fearing further problems, I squeaked: It’s Oosterman with one ‘n’, not with two…like in German.

I don’t think she heard or understood me. Thank God 

 

Of Proust and Penguins

19 Saturday Sep 2009

Posted by in Helvi Oosterman, Ladies Lounge, The Public Bar

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By Helvi Oosterman.

I’m standing in front of our floor to ceiling book cases and I don’t know where to start my weeding; we are moving to a smaller place and I have to select which books to take and which not. I have three milk crates on the table: one for daughter, one for charity and one for the cottage. The ones I want to keep can stay until we actually move.

I take books out at random. ‘The End of Certainty’ by Paul Kelly is the first one. It was a birthday present from Allan, who passed away far too young at fifty. His beautiful hand writing makes me choke at the loss of a dear friend and I want to keep the book. ‘In the box’, says the boss who hasn’t even read it. The next one happens to be a slim volume by Marguerite Duras, a French writer who used live in Vietnam when it was still Indo-China. I start reading ‘Practicalities’; beautiful short essays about life, love, writing, Paris and wasting time. I feel I’m not wasting a minute re-reading this and not sticking to the task at hand: I have to keep this one;  it’s only a slip of a book.

On the bottom shelf, out of sight are my yearly diet books; I have bought one every January, new year, new me. Easy goodbyes to all; from Atkins to Scarsdale to South Beach. I count only seven;  many of them have already left the house to end up fattening girl friends’ book shelves. Then I pick a stack of yellowed old Penguins, Mishima, Kawabata, Hermann Hesse and Böll, which have escaped the previous throw-out. They are like very old friends now;   I put them back on the shelf.

I’m not doing too well, and I decide to take a break and walk to check the cottage collection. I find that most of them are results of previous culls, books that I had not chosen myself. Even so I managed to bring back an armful: a book on Finnish art, a long lost one of V.S. Naipaul and ‘By Way of Sainte-Beuve’ by Marcel Proust.

I have spent some hours by now and not much to show for; maybe the best thing to do is to tackle one shelf daily until the job is done. We have time;  we haven’t even put the house on the market yet. Husband walks by and looks at the empty boxes, he can see that I’m getting a headache and am close to tears: Maybe I can help tomorrow? This is not what I want;  he’ll only leave his Patrick Whites and some boring stories about Aussies migrating to Paraguay and maybe George Perec’ s  ‘Life, the User’s Manual’. ‘You can help with the cook books and the gardening ones’, I say as I have already promised to give them to family members; I have enough recipes in my head by now and my new garden will  be very small.

Oh no, I have totally forgotten about dictionaries and other language and reference books in the office and all my favorites in the bed room!

The drunken train guard.

17 Thursday Sep 2009

Posted by in The Public Bar

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Train guard

Our time spent at Scheyville Migrant Camp was not according to the original plan. The Van Dijks were going to provide us with accommodation at their place direct after landing, indeed, an extension would be built that would give us adequate space for the whole eight of us. But for one reason or another it would be best to get on our feet with rest and adjust to a new country and its ways. It was suggested that we would be better placed in understanding about Australia if we had some experience in this Scheyville camp. It would just be for a few weeks and then we would all move into their place.

This gave us some time to reconnoitre the surroundings and perhaps do the basics of trying to start normal life in getting through some of the formalities, enrolling the young ones for schools, and in the case of dad, me and Frank, finding work and earn money that would certainly help us a leap into the future.

It was therefore decided to get the Pole and his top secret route with his taxi service to take us through the flooded surroundings and back roads to the nearest railway station. It would just be a nice train trip to see more of Sydney. A bit of a holiday in fact. We were dropped off early in the morning; the Polish car driver had given us the timetable of train to Sydney and back. Dad asked for the return tickets in French a ‘retour de Sydney’, he was a bit nervous, after all it was his first attempt at English.

His knowledge of English was based on his schooling, alright by many standards, certainly better than the train guard who asked to see the tickets after we had been on the train for about one hour. “CCsHows yer frigginen thikets”, he demanded, lurching rather dangerously towards my mother.  What was this now? “Pardon”, my father asked. “ STicketts mate,” was his answer. Well, it was an improvement on being called ‘love’ back in deserted Fremantle. Even so, the consternation was rising in our little group. Our concern was noticed by a fellow train passenger. Don’t worry, the friendly train traveller assured us, ‘he has been on the turps’. Turps?  My father was racking his brains about turps, but slowly it must have dawned on my parents that the train guard was drunk. Stone, and totally drunk. How was this possible? In a country that was supposed to be a better place for the children’s future? This was totally unexpected and unsettling. What was waiting for us in Sydney? Instead of healthy fence leaping by postmen and newspaper deliverers, as on the promotional film in Holland, we were confronted with a drunk. This was totally out of the norm by any standard.

In Holland none of us had ever experienced even seeing wine or alcohol, let alone anyone drunk. Well,’ never seen alcohol’, might be a bit of an exaggeration, father and mother did have a New Year’s single small glass of sherry every year.

jam sandwich

Our arrival in Sydney was drunk-less and a great relief for all of us. We walked to Hyde Park and mum distributed all the ready- made IXL jam sandwiches, but not with as much jam as we would have liked. Old habits die hard, they say.