Author Archives: gerard oosterman

Cyrus. Chapter 4.

14 Friday Aug 2009

Posted by in Cyrus the Great: Chronicles

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CYRUS

By

Theseustoo

As the guest of honour at the king’s banquet, Harpagus seated himself in the traditional position of honour at the king’s right hand, as many acrobats, jugglers, musicians and dancers competed with each other to entertain the king and his guests. The king’s own cup-bearer stood behind them and beside his normal duties kept Harpagus’ wine-cup filled as he enjoyed the spectacle which unfolded before his eyes, which were bedazzled by the brightness and colours of the gaudy costumes of the entertainers who had been hired to provide the evening’s entertainment. And all the while, many and various delicious aromas arose from the palace kitchens to tantalize the king’s guests; making their mouths water in anticipation as they watched the entertainment and chatted quietly amongst themselves.

Presently a line of a dozen servants trouped in, carrying large platters on which were laid all kinds of meats and other delicacies, which they placed on the tables in front of the guests, who then helped themselves to the feast that had been laid before them. Harpagus’ curiosity was piqued when he noticed a curious anomaly in the evening’s proceedings however; usually, the king’s table was served first; but for this evening’s feast the king’s table was left unserved until after everyone else had been served.

He could not help but wonder what this novelty meant; perhaps, he thought, it was some peculiar new protocol the king’s master of ceremonies had dreamed up to honour the king and his guest on this very special occasion. Serving the least important guests first and leaving the king and his guest of honour to be served last, emphasized, he could only suppose, the role of the king and his guest as the provider of and the reason for the feast.

Harpagus ignored the anomaly, however, as having no consequence. Indeed, he probably wouldn’t have noticed it at all; but he had not eaten anything since midday and his stomach was beginning to growl. He looked at the king, but the king acted as if nothing at all was out of the ordinary; so Harpagus could only pin his faith that he would soon be fed on his status as the king’s guest of honour. Finally, when all the other tables had been served, the kitchen servants laid several large silver platters in front of Astyages.

“Harpagus!” the king said, helping himself to several slices of meat from one of the platters in front of him as he smiled broadly at the minister, “I’m so glad you could join us this evening; I have a very special treat for you; I do hope you are hungry?”

“That I am sire!” Harpagus answered enthusiastically as the king clapped his hands together. Immediately servants brought in more silver platters, from which arose the most delectable and tantalising aromas yet, and placed them on the table in front of Harpagus.

“Excellent!” the king replied jovially, “These dishes have been specially prepared for you alone; please eat your fill… Whatever you cannot eat tonight you may take home with you…”

“Your majesty is most generous…” Harpagus said as he helped himself to the delicacies on the platters which had been laid in front of him.

“Not at all…” the king said graciously, “it’s the least I could do!”

Harpagus set to with a will, politeness dictating that he demonstrate his gratitude for the king’s generosity by his evident enjoyment. Though he could not possibly manage to finish all of the dishes that were set in front of him, at least, he thought to himself, he would manage to sample them all; thus the king would not feel slighted by any omission. After all, thought Harpagus, Astyages had quite evidently gone to considerable trouble to have all these recipes prepared for him alone; sampling them all was the least he could do.

Finally he could eat no more; he pushed the platter away from him, wiped his mouth on his sleeve and burped loudly in evident satisfaction to demonstrate his pleasure.

Hearing this, Astyages turned to him and enquired jovially, “Harpagus, did you enjoy your meal?”

“Indeed sire!” Harpagus exclaimed enthusiastically, “Such delicious spices; and such tender meat! I really can’t say which dish I enjoyed the most!”

Once again Astyages clapped his hands together and a slave brought in a large covered basket, which he placed on the table in front of Harpagus.

“This basket is also for you.” Astyages said, nodding to the servant, who raised the lid to reveal the basket’s contents. Inside were the severed head, hands and feet of Harpagus’ only son. Harpagus was shocked to the core as he instantly realised what this meant. Yet in spite of his shock, somehow he managed to maintain his composure as Astyages coolly asked him, “Do you know what kind of meat it is that you have been enjoying so much?”

“I do Lord…” Harpagus replied with some difficulty, as he struggled to keep down both his fast-rising anger and the contents of his stomach, “Whatever your majesty does is agreeable to me…”

Since ancient times the law said that the king can do no wrong. As the king’s servant, Harpagus knew better than to allow himself to lose control of his feelings; to do so would be to invite a spear through the heart from one of the guards who adorned the Great Hall at regular intervals. He must act as if this were a feast like any other. He collected together whatever scraps of meat still remained on the table and put them into the basket, which he then took up and, with a silent but deeply respectful farewell bow to the king, he left the feasting and the revelries to return home to bury what little now remained of his son, wondering desperately how he was going to explain this latest turn of events to his wife.

***   *****   ***

Early the next morning Astyages summoned his advisors to his throne-room to hear their opinion on this unexpected reversal of his plans. After explaining how he had discovered that his grandson was still alive, he asked the Magi if they thought he was still in any danger from the youth. The three Magi conferred among themselves for several minutes, until eventually Astyages impatiently interrupted their discussions, “Well, what do you make of it?” he demanded.

The Magister stepped forward and with a rather nervous smile, which he hoped looked reassuring rather than sickly, he hesitantly replied, “Majesty, if the boy survives, and has already ruled as a king without any craft or contrivance then you may cheer up… You need feel no more alarm on his account. He will not reign a second time. We have found that even oracles are sometimes fulfilled in an unimportant way; and dreams, even more often, may have wondrously mean accomplishments.”

“That is what I too, am most inclined to think…” Astyages said slowly, “The boy, having already been king, the dream is out, and I have nothing more to fear from him. But take good heed and give me the best counsel you can for the safety of my house… and also for your own interests.”

“Truly,” the Magister began reassuringly, “it is very much in our interests that your kingdom should be most firmly established for if it went to this boy it would pass into foreign hands, since he is a Persian. Then we Medes would lose our freedom and be quite despised by the Persians. But as our fellow-countryman, so long as you are on the throne all manner of honours are ours; we even have some share in the government. So we have every reason to forecast well for you and your sovereignty. If we saw any present cause for fear, you may be sure we would tell you. But truly we are persuaded that the dream has been accomplished in this harmless way; we recommend you to banish your fears. As for the boy, our advice is that you send him to Persia, to be with his father and mother.”

“Very well…” Astyages said. Then, turning to his guards at the door, he said, “Guards! Bring in the boy.”

The guards brought in ‘Ambares’, who had been waiting in the ante-chamber until the king decided what to do with him. In an unusually gentle voice, Astyages now addressed the still-astonished young boy, “My child, I was led to do you wrong by a dream which has come to nothing: from that wrong you were saved by your own good fortune. Go now to Persia; I will provide your escort. When you get to your journey’s end, you will find your real father and mother.”

***   *****   ***

(To be continued)

Traditional Leed’s piss-up!

13 Thursday Aug 2009

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Leeds Pub ( Duck and Drake?)

Traditional Piss up.

Perhaps those gloomy faces on the subway are only a sign of the looming day’s struggle ahead, to try and make the best of it, to overcome and conquer daily battle, to steel oneself against adversity. In any case, it explains the typical urge by the English, if all else fails to go for the ‘piss up’. The ‘piss up’ is the relief valve for the English what the mistress is for the French or the ‘tavola en casa’ is for the Italians.  Leeds has a famous Cricket ground and a Fish and Chips shop that, according to the locals is not to be missed, ever!   I am  ignorant of the game of Cricket and I must have insulted my hosts of not showing due interest in wanting to see their famous Cricket ground. I made up though by shouting them to a nosh-up of Fish and Chips from their world famous Leeds shop. Indeed, at the arrival there was already a formidable queue of keen Fish & Chips addicts.

It was a Saturday night and Leeds was loaded with expectations. When it was our turn, we ordered the Fish and Chips and duly collected the butcher papered steaming parcels and drove past the famous Cricket grounds. I murmured admiration and mentioned the names of a few Australian cricketers. That seemed to have satisfied my hosts and as soon as the fish and chips were consumed, the husband suggested we now go for a Saturday night ‘piss up’ at the local.  Unfortunately I have forgotten its name. Could it have been the ‘Bricklayers Arms’ or was it the ‘Duck and Drake’?

In any case after arriving, we got a beer and the evening started at a gentle pace, no sign of anything outrageous. The pub started filling with more and more people and I noticed the same habit of drinking as in Australia. For the most part, people stood up instead of being seated and drank fast and as the evening progressed the level of noise became louder. It was almost as if the evening was going to run out before one could get all words or ideas off one’s chest. The drinkers were mainly men but a few women as well. The girls for the most part would be sitting down and the drinking was a little less hectic or hurried. The host that had invited me had become embroiled in a discussion about how tough married life was and his drinking friends could be seen to nod and agree in an almost vehement fashion.

The third beer was now being consumed and things were well on the way. I was still on my first but thought it wise to show good manners and shouted the little group beer number four. The conversation was now almost impossible to follow unless one was within about thirty centimetres of the mouth of the speaker which most drinkers were doing. The din was now becoming overwhelming and I decided to gentle break loose from the group to sit down and observe this ‘piss up’ cultural phenomenon.

The man pulling the beer was now starting to become more alert in case of trouble and saw him cautioning a few young drinkers who were trying to crack on to some of the girls. I would have thought that the girls were there to be cracked upon but apparently the blokes were already known by them and perhaps a little déjà vu for the evening.  The make-up was rather heavy with thick mascara and lots of blush hiding valiantly an age more advanced than at first glance.

The ‘piss up’ was now gathering pace and caution by my host seemed to have gone to the wind. He was now in full stride with his tirade against the evils of being tied down in a marriage with a woman who did not understand him; neither did the wives in his entourage of men friends. They now started looking at the girls with the mascara and exchanged meaningful if somewhat cross eyed glances and smiles bordering on licentiousness, if a smile after 8 beers can be called by that word. The girls, who had drunk a couple of gin and tonics, were suitably impressed and responded by smiles and coyly cackling to each other.

https://i0.wp.com/www.freefunnypixs.com/images/media/11/drunk_people_6.jpg

The whole pub had now taken on a din of such proportions that nothing could be heard or made sense off. The ‘piss up’ was now at its zenith and our group had now become pissed, totally drunk. My host and friends had all sunk on their knees and proceeded to waddle towards the girls that were still seated on the other side of the bar; they all broke out in laughter with mascara running and the pink blush blooming bright red now. It was time for men to confess and conquer. The seduction of a woman with alcohol fuelled lust was coming to the fore and with thick tongue and  tear stained face, the host on his knees was confessing how the wife did not really, really understand him. The matrimony was lagging and the conjugal promise had faded, he wanted to just have someone understanding.

The next thing he was holding her hand and asking her for forgiveness.  My host, full of fish and chips with ten schooners of beer was almost catatonic. The girls were now hooting with mirth, the evening was exactly as they had hoped and for another gin and tonic, the men were asked to sit around and join.

However, the peak had passed and the alcohol in the men was now churning their stomachs a little.  The Fish & Chips were out for revenge. The queue to the toilets was growing and many now were seen to go and splash their boots outside. Our friend started to look decidedly seedy and he mumbled something of having to go for cheddar. I asked what cheddar meant. The girls did a good imitation of puking.  All seduction plans were off and he had also lost his keys now to get back in. This did not look good as I had my luggage at his place and intended to sleep there before catching the train back to London in the morning. He was now well beyond hope of recovery before heading back to his place and I could envisage a tricky situation trying to get back inside. I searched his pockets but no car or house keys. Was the zenith turning into its nadir?

The car was parked not far so I decided to go and see if the keys were there. They were. It took another ten minutes to drag him to the car and I took over the drive home with also giving a lift to one of the girls who lived near him. She fortunately was sober enough to guide me and as we got to the host’s place she even helped me drag him to the door. The wife was there but with a smile, she told me that this was his Saturday night outing and she knew the routine. The girl blinked at the wife and me and walked the rest of the distance back to her place. Next morning we got up and the husband was somewhat grumpy, but the wife was kind and full of understanding.

It was just a ‘piss up’, she said!

Cyrus ,chapter 3 and part 3.

13 Thursday Aug 2009

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Harpagus

CYRUS  Chapter 3,  part3

By

Theseustoo

As Harpagus entered the throne room, escorted by two guards, he saw Mitradates and Ambares standing in front of the throne; although he recognized the cowherd immediately he did not know who the youth was at all. Mitradates was hanging his head, but he looked up at the king’s minister sheepishly as Harpagus quickly approached the throne. As the conversation progressed between the monarch and his minister, the confusion which had expressed itself on the youth’s face gradually turned into an expression of wonder as enlightenment gradually adorned his handsome visage.

As soon as he saw the herdsman, Mitradates, Harpagus gave him a suspicious glance and fear began to rise in his breast. He wondered what this cowherd could possibly be doing here with a boy of that age, noticing the remarkable resemblance the young lad bore to Astyages. He dared not even think about what he now began to suspect, though the suspicion grew into a certainty as he approached the throne. Astyages was expressionless however, as he now asked his servant in a quiet voice, “Harpagus, how did you kill the child of my daughter whom I gave into your hands?”

Harpagus instantly knew now with dreadful certainty who this youth must be; he could only be the child of Cambyses and Mandane, whom he had long ago given into the hands of this cowherd to dispose of. Harpagus, as the king’s own personal minister, knew Astyages well enough to know that he would recognize a lie instantly and decided that his only hope lay in telling the whole truth… very carefully.

“Sire,” he began hesitantly, “when you gave me the child I instantly wondered how I could fulfil your wishes, and yet, without being unfaithful to you, avoid blood-guilt for shedding blood which in truth was your daughter’s and your own. So I sent for this cowherd and gave the child to him, telling him that by the king’s orders it was to be put to death. And this was no lie, for so you had commanded! I ordered him to expose the baby in the wilds of the mountains, and to stay near and watch till it was dead; I threatened him with all manner of punishment if he failed. Afterwards, when he had done all that I had commanded, I sent the most trustworthy of my eunuchs to view the body; and then I had the child buried. This, sire, is the simple truth, and this is the death by which the child died.”

Astyages showed not the slightest sign of displeasure, let alone anger as he said simply, “The child you buried was the stillborn son of this man’s wife; this lad here is my grandson!”

For a brief moment Astyages watched the fear rising in Harpagus’ eyes as it simultaneously drained the blood from his face. Harpagus watched the king’s face closely, trying to determine what he was thinking as the monarch continued speaking, still in a calm and steady voice which betrayed no emotion; apparently undisturbed by this startling revelation.

“So! The boy is alive;” the king was saying to him softly as Harpagus recovered his wits, “and it is best as it is. For the child’s fate was a great sorrow to me, and the reproaches of my daughter went to my heart. Truly fortune has done us a good turn in this. Go home now, and send me your son to be with the new-comer. Tonight I shall sacrifice thank-offerings for the child’s safety to the gods to whom such honour is due; I hope you will be my guest of honour at the banquet.”

Managing, with some difficulty, to hide both his relief and his surprise at the king’s mood, and this apparent change of heart towards his grandson which it now indicated; yet not quite trusting his voice to remain steady because his throat was dry from fear; Harpagus silently nodded his acceptance of Astyages’ generous, if rather astonishing invitation. Then he bowed more deeply than ever towards the king, and left the great hall.

***   *****   ***

The two guards who were on sentry duty at the city gates leaned heavily on their spears, looking forward to sunset, when the evening shift would be coming to relieve them; in a little over an hour’s time, they estimated, from the lowering position of the reddening sun as it fell towards the horizon in the western sky. Suddenly a young lad of about nine or ten years old strode up to them, as proud as a young peacock, and announced, “Guards, I am the son of Harpagus; the king has sent for me.”

The guards exchanged a knowing glance with each other and one of them, putting his arm around the lad’s shoulders, with exaggerated friendliness, said, “Oh yes… We were told to expect you; you are to come with us…”

Too young and inexperienced to notice anything the least bit unusual in their behaviour, the boy walked freely between them as the two guards escorted him unsuspectingly deep into the city’s interior. The pride the youth felt at having been summoned personally into the royal presence and which was clearly reflected in his cocky attitude, remained undiminished as, instead of taking him to the throne-room of Astyages, or otherwise to the apartment of the king’s newly-rediscovered grandson; whose companion the boy had been informed he was appointed to be; the guards escorted him directly to the kitchens.

The unfortunate youth was still looking forward to meeting his new companion when a sudden unexpected blow to the back of his head mercifully rendered him unconscious.

***   *****   ***

(To be continued)

Wombat calling.

11 Tuesday Aug 2009

Posted by in The Other Side of the Carpark, The Public Bar

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The most baffling aspect of the wombats is the way they communicate with those that happen to share their domain. We have been here over 13 years and each time we go somewhere it involves a drive to the front gate and a laneway that have poplars growing on both sides. Perhaps two hundred in total which we planted some 12 years ago  but which have at least tenfolded in hight during that time.

The laneway is not straight and with some imagination and squinting eyes, the poplars in full leaf, the laneway  could resemble a Vermeer painting.

When we arrive at the gate,which has to be kept open by a flat piece of stone to  prevent is from swinging back, never having invested in a fancy solar powered electric motor that will open gates remotely without the need to leave the car, this flat piece of stone always has the wombat’s calling card in the shape of green almost square nuggets of shit.  Why does it do this?

Is the wombat extending a hand of friendship or is it more sinister and telling us to bugger off?

They are capable of digging enormous homes underground with large dykes around it preventing flooding during rain. The previous owners have tried by ramming old vehicles and complete bogies into the holes to try and resettle them away from fences or dams. All to no avail. They simply dig back in the same spot and the fence posts will once again be dangling in mid air and the dam will start to lose its water again. 

We have never bothered them and the numbers are now huge. At night, and with the help of a moon you can sometimes see them sauntering by on their way to matings or just to the front gate, perhaps to drop another one on the flat stone.  They also insist on doing the same on the stump that remained after we cut a tree near our house. They love to shit on elevated surfaces.

 Is it their calling card to say hello?

The Hermitage (with intestinal hurry)

07 Friday Aug 2009

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A Super Realist view of the Hermitage

A Super Realist view of the Hermitage

The Hermitage Museum with The Winter Palace defies anything that I had seen so far. Not just the buildings but the space in front of it. The sense of what space can add to buildings in nowhere as clear as that of the Red Square in Moscow and the huge square in front of The Hermitage Museum. So, by the time you reach the front of the buildings you are already in awe of whatever there might be inside.

I suppose, this is also when you approach Sydney’s Opera House when viewed from the expanse of the Harbour.  The Hermitage Museum houses over 3.000.000 pieces dating from the Stone Age to the 20th century and presents the development of the world of culture and art throughout that period. You cannot possibly do justice in spending a few tourists’ hours but, alas, that is all we had time for.

I have always suffered from a kind of anxiety that breaks out in, what a doctor once described’ as ‘intestinal hurry’. It means that once you have ‘to go’ you have little time for contemplation or reflection. I virtually ran past dozens of Picassos and Rembrandts, even the Mona Lisa was forsaken for my urgent pursuit of a toilet, any toilet anywhere! After, what seemed like entire acres and miles of huge rooms were passed, final relief. I sighted the sign of ‘Toilets’.

At that time, this was the essence of what I needed more that all the Chagall’s or Van Gogh’s or Mondrian’s could provide me. The ‘intestinal’ hurry had well passed the critical stage of concentration on art or absorption of Stone Age culture in any shape or form. Finally, it came in sight, the toilet I mean. It was a huge toilet with dozens of cubicles where by many were visible on the ‘throne’. This is what I liked so much about Russia, the overnight sleeper train with the mixed sex compartments and now toilets with doors that many did choose not to close. There we were, all united in our common ablutional needs. Some behind, others with open doors, so many nationalities and all doing what we all do, at times.

At the corners of this huge public toilet, the obligatory ladies sitting on their chairs made the experience memorable as much as Rembrandts ‘The Prodigal Son’ which I still had time for to visit afterwards.

“The Prodigal Son” was surrounded by dozens if not hundreds of viewers and one could only wait and shuffle towards it whenever a space became vacant. Oddly there were no catalogues in English available. I came within about four metres of The Prodigal Son and I was sure that when I finally tore myself away that his eyes  continued to follow me. This is of course always proof of great art!

The collection and size of the gallery means that some tourists get so lost in time and space that buses have been known to leave without some and the lost souls then have to somehow find their own way back to hotel. It would take at least 4 or 5 days to just see the essence of what The Hermitage holds and the few hours that we spent there were totally inadequate, even so it afforded me to at least the opportunity to have seen some of it.

I must say, that many times I have returned there, even though just in my mind’s eye.  In getting older or better to say ‘old’, a reflective mind’s eye is better than an unreflective and boisterous blind eye.

Boeuf Tartare avec un oeuf.

03 Monday Aug 2009

Posted by in The Dining Room

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The Geoffrey Russell Nightmare Special

The Geoffrey Russell Nightmare Special

The walk around Montpellier resulted in needing to have lunch so we dove into one of those intimate little lunch and dinner places that seem to appear as soon as one gets hungry, especially in France and even more so in the south of France.

We were shown our seat and left to ponder the menu including a wine list. The atmosphere was intimate with lighting subdued and with all sound reduced to a sotto voce. The garcon in white jacket and with the right un-pretentious manner, putting even the most belligerent customer at ease, came around our table to take the lunch order. The choice by Helvi was a sound one, a piece of top side beef with vegetables and ‘Pomme de Frites’. She was asked for her preferred choice of the ‘boeuf’ to be rare, medium or well-done.  Medium was her choice.

I had chosen the ‘Beef Tartar’, and told the garcon to have it ‘medium’ cooked as well. He laughed heartily but I did not really understand the finer points of his laughter until after the dish arrived. A plate of raw minced steak with a raw egg in the middle of it was what finally turned up on our dimly lit table. There was nothing cooked about it, never mind the ‘medium’ part of it.

I bravely finished the plate but Helvi sensed my lack of enthusiasm and asked if everything was alright. I confessed my total ignorance of beef tartar and thought that the dish was a kind of steak done rare. A bit Russian perhaps, with images of horse riding Tartars doing the cooking of the meat on a fire after a fierce battle deep inside the Crimea.  This embarrassing dereliction of culinary knowledge has been a source of endless mirth and enlightenment to our friends when the tale of medium cooked ‘beef tartar’ at Montpellier gets re-told by my beloved wife. It has been an ice breaker at many a social evening.

In the case of readers being surprised by this embarrassment, please consider that so many of my friends probably think nothing of eating vegemite, a food so horrendous to look at, so terrible to contemplate inside its brown jar, that I feel justified in making slight of this minor slip up.

The Inner West of Sydney

17 Friday Jul 2009

Posted by in The Other Side of the Carpark

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Darling St Balmain

Darling St Balmain

Of times past.   (gerard oosterman)

Even in those late seventies years there were still some of the original inhabitants surviving in that part of Inner West Sydney, having resisted all lucrative offers from salivating estate agents, out for a killing. In our street, there was such a couple, the timber cottage not even connected to electricity, always those brown lager bottles on the footpath together with a slurred but friendly ‘howz’ee going matey, when walking past.

She was bone skinny, always in cotton skirt and with thongs on gnarled feet, summer or winter. I was taking down our old rotten picket fence facing the street and had the footpath littered with those  timber slats with rusty nails sticking out. She happened to come down, a bit sloshed and keen for a yarn.

She stepped on one of those bits of wood with upturned nail which impaled her thonged foot. I helped her away from the pile and wrenched the nailed bit away from her foot and went inside to get some iodine. She said, “I didn’t feel anything matey’, ‘don’t you worry the fucking mozzies for nuthin, she said.

She died well before him. Years later he was still going strong and seen, unperturbed by the “Johnys come lately’, rifling through all the Council litter bins in front of Woollies, the Town-hall, Cop-shop and parks. When he finally went to Rookwood Cemetery, the freestanding cottage was derelict and in the kitchen there was a kerosene cooker and stacks of Play Boys. That cottage sold for a fortune.

Home Birthing in the Inner West

01 Wednesday Jul 2009

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Porpoise-built Home Birth

Porpoise-built Home Birth

(Gerard Oosterman)

Home birthing.

In the same street but opposite, lived a man and a woman. She an artist, he an artist by exterior only. You know the type, totally esoteric in giving answers to even the simplest question. Unable to straight talk and everything imbued with a deep meaning but totally away from comprehension. He was on his third marriage and happily ignored his kids from previous encounters but always ready to criticise the terrible ‘middle classes’. His latest wife was pregnant and ready to ‘unpack’ the baby. Both were ardent believers in the alternative world of Bach remedies and early morning Chakras aligning themselves to magic columns and circles. The birth was going to be a ‘home under water birth’ in the garden and after baby just born but still attached to umbilical cord, would be kept under water for the first five minutes of his or her life. This was all part of the essential but incomprehensible deeper involvement of mysticism and very Sufism related multiple and opposite meanings.

The whole street would be kept informed and noise be kept to a minimum. The husband had rigged up an old cast iron bath with an empty 40 gallon drum elevated on bricks with a wood fire underneath next to the bath, and our old above ground pool pump would be circulating warm water from drum to the bath. The time had arrived and being mid winter the fire under the drum was kept up with a never ending supply of old timber remnants from renovations that seemed to be going on all year around everywhere.

Majestically and totally very hirsute, the huge form of the wife appeared. We had front stall looks from the upper storey of our house direct into their garden across the road. She plunged into the bath, ready for the delivery of this sub-marine baby. The moaning started and the husband was flat out stoking the fire and holding the wife submerged. The pump was revving at fever pitch circulating the water that was getting so hot at one stage that the wife had to get out letting things cool down a bit. In the meantime, the husband in an act of supreme solidarity, (his astral travel the night before had taken him to powerful and hitherto unknown regions) stripped off and stepped in the bath behind his wife. Both squatted down and he held her from behind, shouting ‘push, push’, you bitch, push!

She now had much less space and was holding her legs up in the air above the bath but also sometimes against the rim to help the pushing and straining. The screaming increased in intensity and volume, the timbre of her voice not unlike a badly tuned hurdy gurdy being played in a tiled underground rail tunnel in Moscow. Our kids and their friends were hanging out of the windows and still no sign of the underwater miracle. The dogs were howling and barking in tune with the screaming wife. This went on for a few hours with both getting in and out of the bath, adjusting the temperature and fire. Some of the neighbours were shrugging their shoulders and others voicing disapproval. Not a baby in sight and the crowds started dissipating. Out of the blue, a siren was getting closer and closer. An ambulance appeared, a stretcher was produced and the poor woman dripping and with skin like a plucked chicken was without further ado strapped in and carried to the ambulance. The husband still starkers standing on the road near the ambulance, with hanging testicles like walnuts in a sock, was muttering incantations, but the baby was delivered at the hospital, a little girl.

Up until this day no one ever found out who called the ambulance. I am still wondering myself!

Expensive Weddings add to Global Warming too.

02 Tuesday Jun 2009

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I just ran up a couple of these myself .....

I just ran up a couple of these myself .....

A few evenings ago I was totally sucked in by a TV program on weddings. We were taken for a long ride through all the various aspects of ‘wedding planning’. Who would have thought, even remotely, how simple weddings could turn into those outrageous levels of commercial exploitations as shown during the evening. I was astonished to hear that in America (where else?) the 2 to 3 million costing wedding is accepted now, and indeed something that we should all aspire to. Alas, here in Australia, one of the wedding consultants lamented, we are still stuck on the $ 200.000,- to $300.000.-wedding.’’We are getting there, it just takes more time’, she enthused.

The best part were the wedding preparation workshops called ‘seminars’ and run by a savvy looking bloke, competing against a young ambitious woman. Both were expert wedding consultants. Towards the end of the program, all the consultants confessed that none were interested in marriage. Perhaps they were also running a lucrative private post marriage counselling service as well!

The sums just in running the seminars were phenomenal, held in prestigious Melbourne exhibition palaces. Rows and rows of white stretch limousines, endless groaning racks of bridal gowns, table settings, acres of seductive lingerie. At one stage future brides, as a special promotion, were seen to dig into a huge wedding cake that had a $ 4000.- ring hidden inside. All this part of an exhaustive programme with the throngs of thousands future brides queuing and paying up big already just for the tickets and the ‘grooming up’ by consultants for spending fortunes for the ‘big day’, not far off. Bridal faces were flushed with regal expectations and future grooms were fixated on the tables exhibiting shapely plaster torsos and busts encased and eclipsed with frilly minimum lingerie and intimate apparel with pale pink satin lace stitched around the edges. I had to suppress a strong desire to compare lambs to the slaughter analogy and took a biscuit break.

‘ The attention to detail is what we specialise in’, the daughter and mother marriage specialists uttered during the evening. Indeed, there was a bit of a problem with the butter being served inside the foil wrappings that could possibly be seen as lowering the standards a little. Cool as a cucumber and with an expert hawk eye cast over the wedding participants, the mother specialist consultant, cheque in handbag, herded the entourage, couple by couple and equally spaced apart inside the church. The lovely and obligatory Bach’s ‘Ave Maria’ was carefully being played by real players with cellos, violins and singers. I almost expected the arrival of castrati to have flown in from Italy, just for the occasion. The weddings were grand affairs.

Someone mentioned, somewhat desultory, ’ it is the marriage that counts, not the wedding’. Far out!

Lying awake, tossing and turning, reflecting on the last remark by this cynic I wondered late at night about the prospect of starting a business on ‘reality- wedding seminars’. Perhaps consultants of wiry age and experience, matrons of multiple divorces and inequitable property settlements, those hardy souls having survived it all, could be engaged in running them. Hire a large hall, fill it with rows and rows of washing machines, the latest in ironing hardware, babies screams amplified a hundred times and DVD’s on large screens showing close ups of projectile vomiting. The soiled nappy essence wafting through aerators and sprayed on dainty bridal wrists. Cane laundry baskets and competitions of underwear finding their way inside without prompting from anyone. Tired simulated love making after a bout of horrific credit card bills screaming for attention on the bedside table. Those details can all be worked out. It might have to involve a couple of days in the toolshed, tinkering with routers and small sledge-hammers.

For those not so well off; pre-marriage ‘reality wedding workshopping’ could be done by trips to supermarkets. The visit to the dairy section divisions with special attention to the patience of the male groom participant when a choice of margarine or cheese has to be made by the future wife. Foster a deeper understanding of the subtle differences between Persil or Omo washing powder. How will the couple cope with the men choosing the ‘home brand’ but the future wives ‘a haughty, no way ever’, only the best for me, you Dutch uncle skinflint..?.. This is the stuff of future marital battles and possible divorces.

It is all very well at those ‘other seminars’ for the groom to lust, linger, and even finger the lingerie, but how well will he take to a resounding ‘NO’, coupled with a midriff elbow or a kick in the groin? The couple need to take special care with the NO issue and the male participant perhaps to compensate for the NO and take on extra lessons in ironing, showing what a real iron-man is made of. For a small extra fee, a tour and Q&A’s discussion with celibacy practising religious orders would be strongly advised.

For a fraction of the cost, slowly but surely, conversation topics could be touched upon. Simulated continuing discussions by men with future partners lasting at least for ten minutes in one hit might be envisaged.

And now last but not least. During the finals of whatever, cricket, football, rugby, even Olympics, the male has to practise switching off the plasma or small screen. (does it matter?) in mid stream. Watch facial expressions of male participants. Any expletives, a clear sign of storm ahead. How will he take to having to sooth baby, clean the cat vomit, missing out on his favourite sport?

Weddings and divorces. They cause massive GLOBAL WARMING.

Castoring Aspersions on Shopping Trolleys

29 Friday May 2009

Posted by in The Other Side of the Carpark

≈ 1 Comment

Shopping TrolleysShopping is not anymore what is used to be. Remember buying biscuits loose by the ounce and the shopkeeper knowing you by name? All gone now. A typical experience is now often bereft of contact with anyone, unless through a person with trolley rage. By the time one fights for parking with the usual hoons giving the two finger greeting, the tone is set and with grim determination one sets forth for the task ahead.

The wrenching of a trolley out of a long row of tightly jammed together stainless brothers is just the beginning. Of course after one goes through the one way electronic gates, the trolley decides to go off at a tangent when pushed, and as the return through the gates for another one has now been barred, one sadly tries to ‘shop’ with a dysfunctional trolley.

Silently one trundles through row after row of vegetables that are often now pre-peeled and mayonnaised, perhaps even pre-digested. Most meticulously sealed and ready to throw out. Lucky that the onions and carrots are still recognizable, so are beans and celery. On the left are the delicatessen and fish counters. By this time the trolley has been loaded with some items and now obstinately refuses to go straight at any cost and the hapless shopper is forced to counter this by pushing from the side and aiming for the next isle totally askew. This means that one side of the trolley is further away from the shopper than the other side. To compensate for this discrepancy, the pusher has to cross one foot over the other occasionally in order not to end up on floor.

With some basic maths and luck one might end up at the delicatessen side. After waiting to be served, and being the only customer with a cramp in one leg, a large bearded lady tells you to get a ticket. Finally: three hundred grams of double smoked ham, please. The bearded lady rubs a plastic bag between kransky like fingers, blows in it, sticks her hand in it and turns bag inside out. Now, ( get a little closer to the screen now) this is silver platter stuff and ultimate platinum service. She grabs a fistful of double smoked ham and forces it in the inside out bag, kneading the item unconscious and to a pulp. Will four hundred fifty grams be ok? Meekly, yes ok. Anything is alright now, hoping Mental Health will not be necessary.

Next, the dairy products need to be bought and isle after isle of the most miserable items are limbed through, also traversing past acres of toilet papers called ‘symphony’ (with a hint of Ludwig’s 9th and oh so choral) and ‘confidence’, then through a puddle of spilled mock vanilla slush. One finally arrives at the butter, frozen foods and cheese section. Bedlam here. Why are the isles so full of shoppers? What is it that seems to draw and fascinate shoppers inexorably to all those frozen boxes? Do they come here for a good read like to a library? One shopper is deeply immersed in studying the instructions on a frozen instant lasagne box while her three year old is scooping violent crumble bars out of a huge sack.

The only way to put up with this punishment and unrelenting abuse is to take a leaf out of how I bravely try to get even with the abusers.

I want to share this with you.

Go for ‘specials’ that have been discounted. Not so long ago at a carnivorous Woollies store, I bought smoked salmon that was on special as well. Going through the counter I was charged the full price. Overcharged items incur full return and item given for free. Check small print near check out. Try and concentrate on items that you could get overcharged with! That is the secret. You will get them free. A win win!

So, free salmon after going to the customer desk. It is important NOT to tell cashier at check out about mistake but calmly pay up and get refund and free item from customer service after. As you have been overcharged, show some indignation.

So, back I went for another smoked salmon. Another refund and more free salmon. I did this until I collected 2 kilos. This is all legit. Oddly enough, Helvi is not impressed by my canny devices to balance the injustice heaped on shoppers. I have now exploited this many times with different items and pride myself as a modern Robin Hood of the Shopping Mall. I always check for mistakes and the girls at the desk know me by now and are powerless, also don’t care.

Those trolleys of course are abused by hoodlums who skate them away for miles, across kerbs and open wastelands. Helicopters fly overhead, tracing them. Reward posters for errant trolley are on telegraph poles. Suburbia and shopping malls have become war zones.