Category Archives: Gerard Oosterman

The dreaded C……t word.

24 Friday Feb 2012

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The dreaded C…..t word.( or,  how I became an ambassador for Cricket.)

February 22, 2012

Just walking the dog past a group of young cricket players here in Bowral, I wonder why we do not know any fifteenth century runners, swimmers or even sword fighters. Perhaps cricket hadn’t been invented then, so let’s just come to that sport later. Perhaps calling cricket a ‘sport’ might be stretching it a bit anyway.

We have all heard of Michaelangelo di Lodovico, Tintoretto, Dostoevsky, Mozart, Rembrandt Van Rijn, Shakespeare, Erasmus, Aristotle, Johannes Bach and so many more. They are all immortal and have passed the passage of time.  Yet, when it comes to sport fame, the heroes all seem to fade away. Why is that?

Some no doubt will vehemently protest and will immediately mention Emil Zatopek, Fanny Blankers- Koen and a few others, but… name a swimmer or athlete from more than a hundred years ago and…nothing much. This is why it was so baffling that one of our previous prime ministers, John Howard, contemplated asking intending migrants to have some understanding of Australian history and that that history should include an understanding of cricket and Donald Bradman. He must have assumed that Bradman would forever be part of Australia and its history, optimistically defying all previous sportsmen and women throughout the entire world that have sunk into oblivion.

Now, many would question cricket as a world sport. Indeed some assert it is more akin to ballet or pantomime with its strange exotic gestures, complicated numerals, and leaping around the grass. But even accepting it is a legitimate sport, will Donald Bradman also not slide into oblivion as all other champion sportspeople inevitably seem to do? It is a vexing question. Sportspeople just don’t make it into immortality as creative artists do. Perhaps, there is just not much that sports people leave behind. We can’t really re-live those achievements that are just purely physical. So what, many might ask, is the magic of running a bit faster than before, or hurling a steel ball further away than ever?

Sure, with modern technology, especially the camera, we can now play back interesting bits of sport history and once again watch the magic of a 1932 Olympic game. We can also saunter past an arrangement of sporting cups, caps, and medals but only if they have been donated to a specially designated museum and only if family members had the foresight to do so. I suspect many just get lost in backyard garages amongst rusty spades, jars of lonely nails, tired lawnmowers or remain utterly forgotten in dusty attics.

One can re- read a Shakespeare poem or Emile Zola’s books, gaze over the beauty of Pierre Bonnard’s spread eagled nude L’indolente or listen to the magic of a Bach’s cantata, but how does one re-live the excitement of Bradman’s magic swing of the bat or the fifty meter swim of John Konrad, having taken off another split second? Perhaps we have hit the nail here. Sport records are never the end, someone always has the temerity to shave off another split second of the swim or run. Inevitably, the ball or discus will land just another millimeter further in the grass. All records are forever being broken, thereby stealing the thunder away from the previous record holder. There is just no respite from this extreme form of vicious competitiveness.

I would have hated to have run the fifty metres in 10 minutes or less, only to watch it beaten by a kid in a pram. Sport and I never made it. I love a steady walk but only if broken up by a nice latte or a park bench. I just never really got into all that sweating and leaping around the grass. If a ball happened to come my way, I would either pretend to be a surprised onlooker or just pick up the ball to see if it needed pumping up. Being tall, I was enticed to join basketball. During the break between Bronte and Scarborough Park, I was spotted listening in to the opposite team and their coach, conspiring on what violent tactics to use next, when the game resumed. I did not even notice the difference in uniform. I was sacked immediately but was so happy on the train home.

It’s a story too long for this discourse on the fleetingness of sporting fame, of how I came to be an official ambassador for cricket. I am as amazed as my next wife, but in my wallet I have a card with my name on it describing me as “Bradman Experience Ambassador”. It proves there is hope for everyone. Never give up, is my advice to all of you.

OK, then, I’ll give you a synopsis of how this miracle came about. We were invited to a social fund raiser at…you’ve guessed right…The International CRICKET hall of Fame, here in Bowral. It was a very cheerful affair not the least with, as so often is the case in loosening wallets, copious quantities of fine wine and well malted ales. I was totally knocked out by all the historic cricket films swirling on every wall it was capable of being projected upon. Boy, did we see cricket bats in action. It was almost frightening.

At one stage, I noticed a couple of lovely, well groomed and high breasted ladies talking from a distance and at the same time throwing admiring glances. I sauntered past, holding forth with some elegance, my Shiraz between thumb and index finger. The taller lady asked: “What years did you play for Australia?” “Was it around 1963?”  “Oh, I am sorry, I never did “, I answered honestly. “I came close in basketball,” I added, while looking away.  I am not sure what happened or indeed, if this conversation added at all to being asked to promote this noble sport, but here you are. I am now a ‘Bradman Experience Ambassador.’

I did say; there is hope for all of us. (Cricket is a mighty fine Sport.)

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From Salon des ABC Refuses. The naughty F… Word

21 Tuesday Feb 2012

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The naughty F… Word.

The latest scandal shocking Australia is the revelation that a previous Prime Minister used words which, as far as I know, haven’t appeared on the ABC Drum as yet.

Well, let me be the first. For those easily shocked, move outside your room and close the door. Lock up your children and keep away all girls under sixteen and /or unmarried women. The word, and here it comes……f u c k…….

Unbelievably, we are still here, undamaged and much the same as before that word. No sword or hell-fire has struck us down. Open the doors and let in some fresh air. Phew! We must all have heard on the news that our previous PM, Mr. Kevin Rudd has uttered swear words in front of a camera. Dear oh dear, what has the world come to? Saying those ‘unseemly’ words have always been a difficult issue, especially in Anglo countries.

In the fifties and even sixties, swearing was common between men. But as far as doing it in front of a woman, it was definitely a no, no. Strange that swearing then was so delineated between the sexes. If swearing was vulgar, unseemly and a bad thing to use in our language, why was it perfectly alright between men but not in front of a woman? Of course now, 2012, women have heard those words and are very happy to swear amongst each other and in front of men as well.

Of course, those words such as fuck, cnut, ( see, even now I am cautious) dick, balls, tits and others have had some kind of liberation recently, they have been set free, unshackled by the conventions of a society which believed that those words should never be used except between men only and even then preferably only in pubs or factories. Never in polite company, and never in front of ‘ladies’.

But, lately and especially on the television and… especially… on the ABC television, those ‘naughty’ words have become almost the norm. Who can forget the run those words enjoyed on Chris Lilley’s “Angry Boys” with the Dunt twins Daniel & Nathan Sims and their prison officer grandmother Gran.. And as recent as some weeks ago we were treated to the same words on the start of the TV series “The Straits” and before that with “The Slap”. We loved those series, lapped up all the words including the four letter ones.

Of course the king-hit of the four letter word usage, unrivalled anywhere ever, would have to be the BBC’s political TV comedy drama “The Thick of It”. I believe that the success of those series was very much if not entirely due to the exquisite use, and hence our enjoyments, of the expletives. The odd thing is that even though bad language is used in all those series, it isn’t actually offensive. In fact, without the high level of bad language, the series would have been a lot less successful.

We claim that times have moved on, but have they? The triviality of a person having used expletives still deemed to be newsworthy seems to prove that the issue of some words being less palatable than others still exists. It is worth noting that those feared swear words in the Anglo world usually consist of vulgar forms of naming genitals or sex while in the languages of Europe, swearing is mainly in the domain of religion, calling down the devil and eternal hell fire etc, seeking the gods to vent their fury on our enemy…Why is it that so many expletives in English have sexual connotations? There is a lot still there to ponder about.

The video uploaded on YouTube containing Kevin Rudd’s swearwords is now seen as being the final act and catalyst in a predicted forthcoming challenge to the leadership. It’s whispered to have come from both sides, those opposing Rudd to the leadership from the present government side together with those on the pro-Rudd side of politics. It is just proof that whatever happens in the next few weeks, those four letter words still contain a mighty punch.

There are going to be some awful weeks ahead of us. Fuck! The media, as ever, has been braying for a leadership spill ever since Rudd was removed. They must be swirling and jumping around like besotted dervishes in what is to come, a dance macabre if ever there was.

Tags: abc., balls, BBC, Chris Lilley, Fuck, Gillard, K.Rudd, prick, The slap, The Straits

It used to be so simple before Face-Book and GPS

10 Friday Feb 2012

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It used to be so simple before Face-Book and GPS

February 9, 2012

If modern technology was supposed to make life easier, why has it become more difficult? We have a vacuum cleaner now instead of the simple broom. The broom never needed the dust bag taken out nor did we trip over any cords or twisting and warping extensions. It was a pleasure sweeping up. A ritual steeped in a pre-historic age of endless time and social intercourse. True, the broom has less ‘cyclonic’ properties but the children suffered less asthma, they were blissfully loaded up with plenty of good immunizing bacterial and dust particles preventing asthma. The broom never let us down, nor was there ever a problem with the retracting cord being stuck again. It also never had a red warning light come or gave us choking fits slapping the dust bag against the yellow lidded large garbage bin on wheels.

As for the modern car; do we really believe it has ‘climate control?’ Does it prevent thunder storms or ‘willy willies around the Nullarbor?  With our old car one had the option of winding down, opening the windows, let in fresh air and some lovely rain. Now, we remain cocooned inside, a cold and impersonal ‘climate controlled’ interior of a metal box, all anxiously waiting for the bleep of the next mobile call on the blue tooth enabled ‘application’.  The kids strapped in at the back getting hyped up on an incomprehensible video called Splat-a-Lot and inexhaustible supply of lollies.

The GPS keeps on blurting in a perfect female English voice; ‘You are over the speed limit’ intermingled with ‘ Doing new re-calculations’, meaning we have been aerially booked and are also hopelessly lost. After one hour the video and lollies at the back have run out and a riot ensues. In the sixties, kids in cars used to read Pick-Wick papers or P.G Wodehouse’s Jeeves. That’s now changed in fighting over who is hogging more than 50% of the back seat and ‘”you have your knee on my half.”  “No, but you chucked a lolly wrapper at me first.”  The ‘climate’ is now decidedly getting humid and with the GPS having guided the car into a dead-end dirt road, dad is fuming, ends up sobbing with rage above the retractable steering wheel. He violently puts the car into a traction control reverse and slowly loses the will to go on.  The GPS keeps rattling on “Doing Recalculation” on and on. It’s all so hopeless. Yet, it used to be so simple with the Gregory.

Of course, if there is one invention having complicated our lives beyond redemption it would have to be the IT technology and its murderous regime of demolishing our once highly held unassailable self esteem. With the explosion of IT I have come to the bitter realization that the rest of the world gets more clicks and followers than me. I understand and know that even my best friends on Face Book are avoiding me. Since two hours, not a single vibrating growl on my Iphone. A text sent to one of my Face Book “best friend” who I have never met (or ever will meet) is not responding. The bitch is now vetting my texts as well as my voice mail. I had a missed call but it was from someone that used to be a best friend but I deleted her twenty minutes ago. That will teach her!

I sit on a park bench now waiting for a call on my interactive multi coloured apps infused IPad mobile and am totally ignoring the cooing pigeons. I used to feed them bits of my sandwich. Now, I ignore and just hatefully scowl at them. Social Media has got me in and me bullying pigeons is now the logical result. I’ll kick the dog next. I am sunk in a thick gloom.

Remember the old telephone with its reassuring ring tone? People had the good manner to answer calls and it was never used as a tool to avoid people or as a device for torture. If the phone wasn’t answered it meant people were not home. Now, people glance at the caller’s ID and decide to ignore you or worse just give you the delete button treatment. You are at their mercy. Nice going, isn’t it?

It used to be so simple.

They work till they drop

08 Wednesday Feb 2012

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They stand until their legs swell and they can’t walk, and they perform repetitive motions on the production line for so long that some permanently lose the use of their hands. 

According to the New York Times, that’s what life is like for people working at a factory in Shenzhen, China, where Apple manufactures iPhones, iPads and other devices. To cut costs, managers even make workers use cheap chemicals that cause neurological damage.

Apple is hyper-conscious of its brand and reputation — so after this unprecedented international scrutiny, they’re scrambling to persuade the world they care about their employees. There’s never been a better time to demand Apple look after its employees.

Mark Shields, a self-described member of the “cult of Mac,” started a global petition on Change.org demanding Apple exert its influence on its suppliers to improve working conditions — click here to sign Mark’s petition right now.

Doing away with traffic signs

05 Sunday Feb 2012

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http://onthecommons.org/fewer-traffic-signs-better-safety

Imagine what would happen if you took down road signs and traffic signals. More accidents would surely result, or at least significant confusion and slower traffic. Or would it? The surprising thing is that a number of cities around the world have actually done this, and experienced dramatic declines in traffic accidents.

The idea is based on an urban design philosophy known as “shared space.” When drivers, pedestrians and bicyclists are forced to develop their own natural ways of interacting with each other, goes the thinking, they work out better social behaviors than the rule-driven behaviors dictated by professional traffic engineers. This does not mean an abandonment of design considerations, but rather a commitment to the larger public space designs instead of overly prescriptive traffic control devices such as traffic lights, signs and road markings.

The Dutch town of Drachten adopted this “unsafe is safe” approach in 2007 and found that casualties at one junction dropped from thirty-six over the previous four years to only two in the two years following the removal of traffic lights. Traffic jams no longer occur in the town’s main junction, which handles 22,000 cars a day. The town is “Verkeersbordvrij,” meaning “free of traffic signs.” (I am grateful to Jonathan Zittrain’s reference to Drachten’s experiment in his new book, The Future of the Internet and How to Stop It, and to Wikipedia for its account of “shared space.” )

What caught my eye was the explanation of why the elimination of strict rules can, in some circumstances, produce better outcomes. Hans Monderman, one of the pioneers of the shared-space approach, said, “When you don’t exactly know who has right of way, you tend to seek eye contact with other road users….You automatically reduce your speed, you have contact with other people and you take greater care.”

The idea is to return public spaces to people in order to encourage them to take greater personal responsibility. Monderman explained, “We’re losing our capacity for socially responsible behavior….The greater the number of prescriptions, the more people’s sense of personal responsibility dwindles.”

http://www.spiegel.de/international/spiegel/0,1518,448747,00.html

A project implemented by the European Union is currently seeing seven cities and regions clear-cutting their forest of traffic signs. Ejby, in Denmark, is participating in the experiment, as are Ipswich in England and the Belgian town of Ostende.

The utopia has already become a reality in Makkinga, in the Dutch province of Western Frisia. A sign by the entrance to the small town (population 1,000) reads “Verkeersbordvrij” — “free of traffic signs.” Cars bumble unhurriedly over precision-trimmed granite cobblestones. Stop signs and direction signs are nowhere to be seen. There are neither parking meters nor stopping restrictions. There aren’t even any lines painted on the streets.

The plans derive inspiration and motivation from a large-scale experiment in the town of Drachten in the Netherlands, which has 45,000 inhabitants. There, cars have already been driving over red natural stone for years. Cyclists dutifully raise their arm when they want to make a turn, and drivers communicate by hand signs, nods and waving.

“More than half of our signs have already been scrapped,” says traffic planner Koop Kerkstra. “Only two out of our original 18 traffic light crossings are left, and we’ve converted them to roundabouts.” Now traffic is regulated by only two rules in Drachten: “Yield to the right” and “Get in someone’s way and you’ll be towed.”

Strange as it may seem, the number of accidents has declined dramatically. Experts from Argentina and the United States have visited Drachten. Even London has expressed an interest in this new example of automobile anarchy. And the model is being tested in the British capital’s Kensington neighborhood.

The Bicycle as a mode for Transport and Romantic Interludes

30 Monday Jan 2012

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The Bicycle as a Mode for Transport and Romantic Interludes

January 26, 2012

The simple bicycle has been around for hundreds of years. It is surely one of the world’s most amazing inventions. Name just one invention, whereby with less effort and input, more output is produced. The bicycle seems to defy the Einstein theory whereby for every action there is an equally weighted opposite action. The Dutch seemed to have taken the ‘more for less’ with gusto. Every morning and afternoon millions jump on the bike, going to and fro work, going shopping or taking kids to school. There are more bicycles than people. Especially with romance, the bike in Holland has always been an essential extension for meeting mates. First dates are usually conducted on bikes. If the bike ride blossoms into romance, both bikes might be seen lying between the reeds along a dyke or canal with the couple hidden from sight, perhaps getting acquainted away from the harsh metal embrace with a more softer more tactile manner.   Not that riding bicycles in the Netherlands precludes having physical contact while cycling. Far from it, often the young and therefore more agile will be seen holding hands AND riding their bikes. I have often felt that the rhythmic moving up and down of thighs might well incur a hastening of passion, whereby the couple’s surging hormones might finally over rule and make for casting all cautions to the wind, hence those bikes hurriedly thrown amongst the reeds.

I was told by my mother that I was possibly conceived by this typical Dutch bicycle passion as well, not amongst the reeds but in the lee of a terrible storm. They had sought shelter from a really ferocious westerly behind a dyke and once out of the wind, one thing led to another, and nine months later… there, but for the grace of two Raleigh bikes, came I. Another very favorite form of couples getting together was the female getting a ride by boyfriend sitting akimbo on the metal brace between the handle bars and bike seat. A cunning and experienced male bike-rider would of course  not be too obviously rubbing his thighs against the girl’s on one side and her buttocks on the other side. He would just occasionally, perhaps while rounding a sharp corner, massage the girl’s thighs with his. It was called the ‘coffee grinding method’ of wooing while riding. I am not sure what coffee had to do with it. I would have thought ‘potato peeling’ would have been a better and much more suitable Dutch description.

It seems sad that bike riding here in Australia hasn’t taken a leaf out of the experienced and romantic Dutch bike riding phenomenon. The whole show has been hi-jacked by a kind of Tour De France obsession. I have yet to see couples lovingly and sensually riding bicycles. It is all far too serious, almost manically. Why on earth all this uniform wearing?   Who thought up wearing those sweaty Lycra tight fitting pants which according to medical experts kills sperms. Why on earth make wearing helmets law?  Could you imagine, the ultimate of femininity and elegance, a Parisian woman  on her way home from the Boulangerie with baguette in her basket, riding a bike with a helmet on? Non. Non.

Here bike riding is a sport not a mode of transport or encouragement for wild uninhibited sex. They, the riders, are hell- bent over their handle bars, hands gloved, heads sheathed, feet shod in expensive riding Nikes strapped into pedals… One hundred kilometers today-two hundred tomorrow! The wheels are so thin; there is hardly any surface area that touches the road. The slightest pebble or loose surface and arse over head it all becomes. This type of racing bike cycling becomes perilously close to being a very dangerous method of transport. Those bikes are lethal except on the velodromes. No wonder helmets are introduced. Still, it is encouraging more people are taken to the bike and many shires are now introducing bike lanes.

However, I am not sure that riding bicycles in Australia will ever reach the level of transport or romance (with wild abandonment of those racing bikes amongst the lemon scented Australian gum trees) that the Dutch seemed to have infused and combined in their culture.

Those were the Days my Love

25 Wednesday Jan 2012

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Those were the Days my Love

January 24, 2012

.[Hair-The-American-Tribal-Love-Rock-Musical-Broadway-Revival-Logo]

You thought it would never end, but while it might still be some years away; end it will.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2KODZtjOIPg

I remember those first memories as if it was yesterday. That of holding my mother’s hand, except it wasn’t mum but a strange lady in the soup kitchen of Rotterdam 1944.  In the confusion of many mums and many children with metal buckets waiting to be filled, I had taken a mum’s hand which wasn’t my mother’s. This was my first moment of total panic and of freaking out.  It was resolved within seconds but the forgetting of this, never. How odd, that links to mothers are so important that the comfort of holding a hand can leave such lasting impressions. I mean, I was holding someone’s hand and it was only when looking upwards I became aware of the hand not being my mother’s. So what was the big deal? Perhaps during those war years with cold winters and gnawing hunger, filling buckets with soup was the primary concern by mothers with skinny children. I am sure my mother hadn’t deliberately let go of her skinny son’s hand. The metal bucket that my mother carried was green as was the little kerosene cooking stove that she used to prime by pumping. It was my right hand that my mother had let go off.

The years rushed by and then we married, we had our first, our second, our third child…. Vasectomy…. Enough now of pro-creation. Dr.Barbara Simcock of the Australian Family Planning Association performed the operation. ‘Make sure you keep using condoms for at least the next 6 weeks,” was her sage advice.  Here take some, they are multi coloured and they glow in the dark, she added before tending to the next man who I had briefly met in the waiting room. He had a beard and looked a bit anxious and pale, but he also had four children. Then after six weeks I had to take a sample to the ‘semen expert’ who would try and detect if any life ones survived since the operation and the use of those coloured condoms (glowing under the bed sheets). The butcher who had watched a channel 9 TV segment on my vasectomy said triumphantly;” I saw you on the Telly yesterday, you had it cut off”, ha-ha ha…” Your usual two kilo of sausages?”

Those were the days, forever and for more. Those were also the days of the tribal rock musical ‘Hair’ with its’ Age of Aquarius’ with long hair and tentative first bong trials and errors. We rolled the bong and felt real ‘with it’ especially after having, for the first time ‘ever’ in public, seen the lineup of nudes at the Hair musical at Kings Cross theatre. The first display of pubic hair IN PUBLIC!  It had trouble getting through the sensors. One condition of allowing the nudity was that the actors were to stand frozen. Nothing would be allowed to move or dangle. Police on horse-back with batons drawn were outside the theatre.  Any body part moving and hell would break out. The actors were also not allowed to undress on the stage. The problem was resolved by the actors getting undressed under a huge canvas sheet. When the moment arrived that the whole audience had waited for, (with baited breath) you could hear a pin drop. The canvas sheet would be hoisted up, et voila, real live nudes. Standing, in situ, like a set from Madame Tussauds Wax museum. Eroticism came in modest form during those times.

The show was hugely popular and went on even longer than ‘The Sound of Music,’ which was not quite as erotic.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N9oq_IskRIg

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In the Name of the Father and the Holy Dollar

19 Thursday Jan 2012

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In the Name of the Father and the Holy Dollar.

January 18, 2012


Has anyone read the shemozzle over the attempt by Melinda Tankard Reist to charge Jennifer Wilson with defamation? The SMH has been running stories over this latest stoush between the Goliath of the anti abortion-anti-homo-sexual and anti- porn priestess and Dr Jennifer Wilson’s with her blog ‘No Place for Sheep.’ The online commentary is running hot, twittering and tweeting falling out of the skies and many bloggers looking nervously at their letter box or for the sheriff with a Court writ to arrive. Dr Wilson is faced with either conceding and apologizes or waits for the writ to arrive. It might all be bluff and the letter from MTR’s legal firm a mere scare tactic. Even so, it is rather unnerving that threatening litigation has reached such ridiculous levels and with so much ease.

http://newmatilda.com/2012/01/18/call-me-whatever

Dr J.Wilson is a small David compared with the Goliath and the hordes of right wing disciples that have been on the MTR side. We all learnt both biblically and mythically that David won out. A groundswell of M/s Wilson’ supporters are growing by the minute and so are the pledges of support, both by hearts and minds and from generous wallets. The extraordinary feature is that Jennifer Wilson has been running her blog for over two years and that both on her blog and her articles on The ABC’s Drum; the issues between Jennifer, MTR and the many contributors have been in open. At no stage did MTR object or put her, supposedly, opposing viewpoint. Not once a single peep or a hum out of her. By the threat of legal action MTR definitely did not turn the other cheek. She did not have to. She could simply have stated her point of view.

Now, all of a sudden and with nothing much of substance given, accept by some very vague marsh-mellow like few words, M/s Wilson is given the threat of legal action. It is not within limits of acceptability that Court Action is ever the only way of responding to opinions that have been widely given and discussed by many, including on the ABC and over a long period.

Surely, the Courts have better and more significant issues on their books

The Art of lying in the bed of own making

16 Monday Jan 2012

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The Art of lying in the bed of your own making.

January 16, 2012


We usually start off in life from a bed or if not a bed, something soft. Not many mothers would give birth to a baby on top of rocks or on a push bike. When the birth pain arrives and the waters break, a comfortable soft and safe place is what most would prefer. This is where you all started. That tabernacle of life. Of course, about nine months earlier there would have been some kind of mating going on, hopefully consensual and perhaps even loving. The glorious pleasure of two becoming one, limbs entwined with a joining that seems to be what most of us will also seek, once we have left the birthing bed, and grown up as well. Perhaps also a few of us might well be a result of illicit love affairs conducted with passion on the finery of satin sheets with Lilies of the Valley carefully embroidered. Perhaps blue irises on down pillows featured beneath the thighs of a voluptuous woman giving into complete rapture to her ardent lover…?

Perhaps, doing the rounds amongst those Vinnie’s fashion items from the past, we re-discover those sweet scents, those delicate fragrances of bygone years of the many souls of evaporated lovers. It’s all so long ago now. How did we fare since leaving the bed of our birth mothers, having to make our own? Do we still carry around and live off the love of rose petals strewn around so abundantly and carefree at our beginning?

Can anyone understand people buying new beds, beds to which no memories or cares are attached? I made our own bed from Oregon pine more than fifty years ago. It is still as good now as it was then and travelled with us between continents and cities many times. Our bed as would many of those belonging to others withstood the storms of tempestuous oceans as well as the joys of soothing, weaving grassy meadows strewn with buttercups.

It seems such an awful telling sign of those discarded beds that are now featuring at many a shopping centre car-park. People must, perhaps at the dead of the night, get up and lash the hated mattress on to the top of their Holden Ute, dump their beds. There are clear signs at those charity collection bins not to leave bedding. Yet, it seems the temptation to get rid of beds overcomes the warnings, and the soiled and stained remnants of bedding and dead loves are left there. At any given time there must be those, so utterly disappointed in what those beds produced, they feel the urgent need to jettison those hated items of joyless nights and loathsome sad embraces. They drive, looking for the graveyards of hopeless loves and hateful congress but end up in the grey concrete of Westfield’s car-park or the Vinnie’s bin in front of Woolies.

Is it not so true that we deserve the beds that we lie in?

 

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