Category Archives: Gerard Oosterman

The Plight of a serial Seducer

15 Tuesday Mar 2011

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The plight of a serial Seducer

Some years ago at the time of cheap Fish & Chips and Barossa Pearl and Tooth beer, we knew a man called Shane. He was from Irish background with a penchant for loud singing and whistling… Apart from that there was nothing particularly remarkable about him. There was one aspect of him though that has kept us fascinated and spellbound for many years. He was an amazing character when it came to his adventures with the opposite sex.

He was as ugly as sin and as sinful as dirt. The one thing that outshone him above all was his art of seduction. He was ugly in as far as his facial features and body shape were concerned. Rake skinny, and with lean sharp pock marked facial features with a purple sheen, immediately giving a hint to over-indulgence of the Barossa Pearl!  He did walk with a swagger though and was blessed with a cheerful optimistic nature. That at least was the opinion of many of us totally perplexed by this almost inexhaustible line up of women that he used to date. They were mainly of short but not for long duration. Inevitably he would be going with yet another Susanne, Miriam, Virginia and too many to mention here…

It was at the time when people used to hold parties. Some of those parties had to have a theme. I don’t know the history of theme parties. One of the ‘themes’, doing the rounds at one stage was’ prostitute and priests’ and we were duly invited to travel to one of those held by someone living in Manly. There was a vague connection to Coca Cola, but pardon my lapse of memory, I haven’t the faintest idea of how that drink came connected to the ‘theme’. We were all supposed to dress as either priest or whore. I wasn’t at all surprised Shane was deftly attired in a black habit tied with a white knotted rope. His demeanor would be sublimely modest and yet utterly prurient.

The legendary exploits of Shane would now be open to an excellent opportunity to study. One thing with him, he would rarely have a relationship long and steady enough to get the opportunity to be invited with a partner. He used to be married and have children but, alas, it did not last and not surprisingly. He wasn’t a man given to talk too much about his past, and was more inclined to look to the future and next exploit. Definitely, not marriage material but that did not appear obvious, at least not straight-a-way, least of all to the many women perhaps secretly harboring dressed all in white and a ringed finger, a husband keen on Bunning’s and doing wonders with a laundry!

The question in my mind was always. What is it that so many women find so fascinating with the Shane’s of this world? This priest and prostitute party would offer me a once in a lifetime opportunity in observing this Shane phenomenon at close range.  What was the magic? What power did he have? I decided to keep at close range and take mental notes, observe and study this’ artist’ at work.  I am not getting into the argument of the good or bad of this behavior, nor admit to admiration or announcing rebukes. There are many experts on the Pig’s Arms forum much more qualified to do that.

 While I could see the attraction of good looking successful men with broad shoulders, scrubbing board, ribbed torsos, tanned, sporty and tall, hefty chins or determined noses, Shane did not fall in this category.  While we often used to ponder about him, there were some snippets that women used to offer for his legendary ‘Don Juan’ status. He ‘makes me feel special’ was one that kept re-occurring. One friend told us that at one party he took her wine glass away in exchange for a proper champagne glass, he told, quote” you deserve a champagne glass”, what are you drinking champagne out of a wine glass for?  She was overwhelmed.

At one stage Shane went to a female psychologist to get counseling for this seemingly endless pursuit of girlfriends not leading to anything more permanent. He at least felt there might be a problem. But, you have guessed right. He ended up taking her out as well and she was married!

 Some weeks later, there was a sobbing woman, desperate for Shane, ringing on our phone. Shane had made a plan and promise to take the psychologist and her children on a camping holiday after Christmas. We softened the blow by letting it gently be known that Shane wasn’t always the most reliable in keeping ‘dates.’  He never saw her again. She, however still rang a few times!

Apart from his quirky manner of making some women feel ‘special’ he also was a generous soul. He never had money but managed to convey generosity, sometimes at the expense of the host but mainly on his credit card, in any case, not a miser. Flowers would be delivered, boxed chocolates and perfume gifted, all discretely and with flair. Shane knew the way to hearts; mostly he was successful in winning over his conquests but only for a short time.

At the priest and prostitute party and queuing for my sausage, bread-roll and a wine, I tried finding, ever so discretely, the seducer. It took some time. Had he left? It was when I went to the back verandah that I noticed him crouched over a woman, locked in an embrace worthy of a theme out of a Harold Robbins novel. It was all over in just twenty minutes after arrival. He had already made his conquest. I had missed the vital moment and still clueless of how and why he seemed to have had this magic attraction over so many women. He politely refused my offer of a drive back to Sydney. No thanks, “I’ll be alright”.

 The trick with champagne glass was about as far as it went for details on his method of seduction. Some women mentioned something about his light heartedness. Not being serious. His swaggering walk was questioned and analyzed. The main attraction seemed to be his ways of making women feel ‘special’. We still try and figure it out. It has now faded into a history.  

He worked as a wool broker and dabbled in share trading. He was last seen in Goulburn and rumours have it he now lives in Adelaide. In between he had married, loved but left again, a second marriage on the slate. The psychologist lady has stopped ringing.

 It was a long time ago!

Libiam ne’lieti calici

13 Sunday Mar 2011

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Libiam ne’lieti calici

 

Over 900 people traipsed within an hour or so through the bush, all in single file. Some held hands, others held bundles of fold-up chairs or were jointly carrying eskies. They did this walk through native bush but followed a track. Here and there, there were areas roped off with a sign”re-generation taking place”. It seemed they all needed to arrive deep inside this bush-land at a certain time. The chairs and eskies indicated a stay of some length and the holding of hands had more to do with old age rather than romance. Indeed, some had hand-held guidance aided by a walking stick in the other hand as well.

The variety of fold-up chairs, eskies and shade hats, and umbrellas, plastic sheeting and large wine bags either indicated some sort of senior cult preparing for  mystery bush dance  meeting or a large communal  final love-in. None looked as if sex was in the offering, nor likely as if they could break into a wild forest dance. It all looked rather sober and somewhat sedated. No shrieking or renting of the peaceful bush by coarse oaths.

Opera in the Arboertum

 

None smoked, none were disorderly, and they just plodded on. They finally arrived at some clearance and it became clear what this was all about. People were checked for tickets and some that were without, put down the money and bought, not just tickets, also programs. The clearance in the bush, being somewhat remote had a sign Arboretum. They all seemed to know what to do and spread sheets, unfolded their chairs and put down wine bags and opened eskies. Some of the very old were gently lowered into some more comfortable camping chairs with arm rests and for extra softness, pillows.

 I noticed on the left a number of blue coloured plastic constructions with “Loo-mobile” and large phone numbers displayed on the doors. There was already a small queue being formed. Most in the queue looked towards the sky or talked somewhat hushed as if the real purpose of it all had nothing to do with urgency of bowels and/ or bladders after a long and strenuous walk.

Right smack in the middle on some pallets was a grand piano. Has anyone ever seen a piano in the bush? Well, we did and not just a piano. Many people dressed in black but mainly young,  arrived with a large variety of musical instruments. I also noticed a number of very sophisticated loud speakers on tri-pods in between the trees and a kind of machine with many sliding up- and down levers that I used to see at recording sessions, when for a short time I worked for a Swedish advertising agency, a hundred years ago.

Well, this was clearly a setting for an opera. Some women and men were clearing throats and voicing loud sounds, violin strings were tensioned, bows tightened and a short man with an apron was tuning the grand Steinway.

We had arrived at our destination of an opera at the Pearl Beach Arboretum. This was an extraordinary setting for a great afternoon. Music and champagne flowing and kookaburras listening.

 What a week-end.

Chess instead of sport

11 Friday Mar 2011

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It used to be that chucking out the sport-pages together with real-estate sections of the newspapers one would avoid the most tedious part of news. Even that little treat is now being denied. Sport is front page news and no sport seems more newsworthy than the latest punch-up. How sport and punch-ups, including glassing girlfriends, running/manufacturing/ taking drugs, drink driving etc ever became mixed-up so often with sport and mainstream news is not precisely known.

But, what is known, that for decades now while watching TV during news broadcast, especially on the Commercial channels, one would get treated to lengthy footage of sport-people in suits leaving a special Court. This was often followed by sections of film where some kind of brawl or small riot had occurred while playing sport.  The odd thing was that going to Court did not do much. Day after day, the same footage and often the same sportspeople would be strolling out of court. They were mainly rather brawny and muscular looking men with enormous chins given to big scowling smirks and also, going by their monosyllabic answers to journalist questions, not appearing to be the sharpest tools in the shed. ..Or if not appearing alert, they perhaps not had the benefit of a good English teacher some years before. Was education with so much emphasis on the ‘winning’ of sport already then grooming future young people into becoming first winners, then punch throwers and boozers?

 In any case, those endless repeat footages of those players leaving Court was not unlike cheap cow boy movies showing the same chase going past the same set of rocks over and over again. And so it was allowed to continue. In fact, I suspect, the whole idea of sport discipline was clearly seen as a charade, good TV footage, and perhaps even accepted as being part of sport. Sport became the ‘punch-up’.  If it involved a Court appearance, it just spiced it all up. Almost like a good free advertisement.

With the latest batch of brawls and punch-ups, the inevitable event is then often ascribed to having been ’fuelled’ by alcohol. It is again seen as something as part and parcel of sport. By the way, it is not always just a punch-up or  glassing that is fuelled by drink, no, some driving offences by sportspeople are also involving alcohol. You definitely get the impression that sport and alcohol does add up to bad behavior including violence, driving offences and a Court appearances. Overall though, we still seem to continue making exceptions for it. If it is sport and especially if they are well known sport people, anything in sport is possible and seemingly allowed.

Anyway, of late one could be forgiven for wishing and hoping that all those sports be banned, including the’ best of the players’, because even the ‘best’ are now seen to have caught the’ punch-up’ bug.  The violent outbursts, punching in public and ‘fuelled’ by alcohol are often done at the crack of dawn. That seems to be another mystery, what are they doing at that time? Are they not on a strict kind of routine, keeping good hours, good diets, drinking butter milk eating rye bread, and eating fresh fruit?

If sport ought to equal good robust health, fitness and agility, and something for our youngsters to aspire to, then that kind of brawling sport has hopelessly lost its way. There is no way that parents can be expected to continue to accept the present sport, especially those games with the oblong ball, as being   positive and healthy  for our young and vulnerable.  

Even, the way sport has been allowed to dominate our schools ought to be questioned.  The introduction of so much competitive sport seems to encourage and fuel ‘winning’ much more than just enjoyment and fitness. In any case it hasn’t led to fitness with our obesity amongst the young getting worse. Winning at all costs might well be why so many become to accept that violence is one way of winning. If you can knock over your opponent, you are closer to a win.  Once on this slippery road, a few years later and with alcohol now firmly entrenched, voila, another future football thug is on its way.

The way out would be to make physical fitness important and ease off on this manic obsession with competitive sport. Schools are where the young are supposed to grow into caring considerate people and not into ‘winners and losers’, whereby sporting achievements are often judged way above their true worth or value. Sport in Australia might have to be looked at and perhaps seen as somewhat overrated.

I would much rather have my kids be good chess players and be fit, healthy, considered and caring above all, than turn into some sport hero who can only express himself/ herself off and on field, by assaulting, taking drugs , and booze ups.  I have yet to hear of a chess player being in Court on punch-up charges or drink driving. Let’s hope that with the recent exposure of so much sport being brought into disrepute that those experts in education will lift their game and put gymnasiums for fitness and chess competition for brains into all schools and put competitive sport on the backburner.

You are nothing but a Latte Sipper

05 Saturday Mar 2011

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You are nothing but a Latte Sipper

latte

March 4, 2011 by gerard oosterman

The world even in its normal state and without dire future climate changes is on a roll: floods, earthquakes, fires, airports are frozen, planes can’t take off, cars are bobbing about in raging torrents, people clinging to trees and revolutions are toppling tyrants. All this is happening almost as a daily event. No sooner do we climb out of our bed, switch on the telly, and it starts again. Some sparkling ABC journalist is interviewing either a bearded climate expert or a shiny faced business expert, both telling us the world is getting better or getting far worse. The weather girl isn’t all that optimistic either: storms in the Illawarrah, hurricanes are reforming and there is a map where there are little zig zags or windy signals flashing ominously. Nervously we search for weather warnings on the net. El Nina is going berserk.

Politically, we are divided not just by poor or rich, the left or right, the moderately accepting or the fanatically opposing: No the criteria for the good or bad for any of us now depends totally on our preferred beverage. The battle lines are now drawn on what might be found at the bottom of our beloved Wedgewood beaker or the Royal Leerdam wine glass.

The masked shaman poring over the bleached and knuckled bones of our coffee dregs or corks, the veiled future teller at her tea leaves. All now are studiously peering into the remains of our daily imbibement.  This latest has  turned us into a divided nation, not based on just political leanings as in the past. All of a sudden we are judged by our liquid habits.

How did this ever come about? When did it all start? Can’t we just carry on without the lament of; “you are nothing but a latte sipper?”  Or, the war cry from the others, the tea drinking brigade, shouting from roof tops, “if it aint broke don’t fix it.” Only as little as two years ago it was ‘chardonnay’ drinking that carried the wrath of the right. This issue has become blurred where now both sides, including even Queenslanders, accuse each other of belonging to the Chardonnay set, irrespective of left or right..One would not want to stand in the shoes of the sommelier trying to predict future trends in wine consumption.

Does this coffee drinking somehow point to a form of unruly benevolence bordering on socialism that the knee sock wearers& tea drinkers are so suspicious of? Does latte sipping encourage riotous behavior?

 Years ago, someone remarked rather disdainfully,” Who are all those people sitting around drinking espresso?” “Haven’t they got something better to do?” This coincided when more and more shopkeepers started to display their wares spilling out on the footpaths. They were truly revolutionary times. Local councils were at their wits end trying to figure out the laws governing the public use of footpaths versus shopkeepers trying to make a quid. At first, only moderate and narrow bits of footpaths were allowed to occupy merchant’s wares. When this did not cause any breakdown of society or rioting pedestrians, more of the footpaths were given over to boxes of tomatoes, buckets of flowers and even hardware, including stepladders, wheel barrows. And so, the coffee drinking on the footpath was born.

These were also the times when dogs were still allowed to generously deposit their wares on the footpaths as well. It wasn’t uncommon to see brown foot-marks leading to the news agency on a Saturday morning.

Ah, they were such easy going times. Tolerance and community sharing and caring were still the norm.

Those walks to the news agency combined with the Vietnamese croissant shop are becoming a thing of the past. The piles of papers spilling out from News agency are becoming thinner. Instead, the tapping on our laptops in the solitary confinement of our home office are becoming the norm, and sadly without those flakey croissants.

But, the one thing that is not getting less and much to the chagrin of many still, is our relentless latte sipping. History tells us that this humble bean’s first entry into Australia were with those brave Afghans that helped Australia establish its first overland telegraphy between Adelaide and Darwin back in 1870’s. Ah, how they coped with heat and dust, the dark brew giving sustenance in the void of the outback desert.

It remains for historian to fill in the puzzle how this beverage got lost and how tea sipping became the norm. Alright, I concede that the vile habit of ‘Instant Coffee’ ingratiated itself just after the war. Real coffee was lost and when it reappeared it would be seen as something related to sub-ordinance or the opposite, subservience.  Communism was hinted at during the Menzies period, and to be feared. But soon after, the Reffos from the Balkans and Hungary were reintroducing it, disturbing the peace of afternoons with tea and the munching of lovely 1916 invention of the SAOs during Bingo.

 Here and there in Sydney’s underworld regions of inner-west and Palmer Street the coffee drinking became more and more brazen. Now, some sixty years later, coffee has become mainstream. Yet, pockets of resistance are still around. We must remain vigilant.

Remain the shout; stand up ever proud; “we are the Latte sippers.”

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Cheer up Man

03 Thursday Mar 2011

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home sweet home

There is nothing like home. You can imagine the people’s plight on being stuck renting on a 6month lease basis. I can’t understand how anyone can cheerfully change their home being at the mercy of a 6 month lease.

Yet, before we came out here, renting was the norm and most people would spend their entire lives just in one property.  I ‘earth-googled’ our old address back in The Hague. Sure enough it is as if we left it yesterday. The street is unchanged, the doors and windows still the same, and not a brick has changed. No doubt, all those living there are renting the same as when we lived there. Perhaps, central heating and bathrooms have been added and kitchens with hot water. We lived on the top floor. At the bottom floor there were gardens and many of those lucky bottom dwellers kept chickens. A city still had chickens and veggie scraps were collected each week by horse and cart.

Yet, going back to Revesby whose architecture is far more recent, all has changed and our house hardly recognizable, the walls covered with colour bond weather board and a solid terra cotta tiled roof instead of the cement tiles that were put on when built originally… Many of the houses have had stories added, some with columns holding up little Romanesque like triangle bits of roofing or other odd bits of architecture.

Coming across some old photos of my first year here in Revesby, I can hardly believe how time has passed, and yet, I don’t think I have hurried the years unnecessarily.  Have I stood still but the houses and surroundings changed? Would this, not having moved from Holland, have produced the reverse?

You’re getting old with retrospection a sure sign, many would argue, as if years ahead for them are still numbered in multiple of decades. Yet, reading the obituaries’, it is not uncommon for people to cark it quite happily at the age some of us are in now. Makes you think, doesn’t it?

Cheer up, old man. The best is yet to come.

Painting by Lehan Ramsay

Just look at Lehan’s lovely painting of the Pig’s Arms and The Pink Drink. It graces our wall but should be hanging in Canberra’s National Gallery.

It would cheer up anyone.

The ATM and a dying Uncle Toby

01 Tuesday Mar 2011

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 Surely, nothing can be more satisfying than when standing at an ATM and those glorious notes start to appear through the narrow slot, which then continue on their outwards travel to finally end up firmly clasped into one’s  waiting palm. Isn’t it amazing that by feeding a machine a plastic card and a few numbers, the machine produces money? I am always put into a good mood when this wonder of technology happens. It’s almost as if the machine is saying, “You have been a good boy, here is your reward.” It’s so reassuring to know the world is OK and all is well.

Apparently, our bank card technology is inferior to the rest of the world and gangsters make their way to Australia by the plane- load to capitalize on this inferior technology and cash in by copying the card number, even pin numbers. They somehow manage to delve into your transaction by sticking something above the key pad, and bingo. Next your account is empty. I believe the identification methods overseas doesn’t involve our system of pin numbers  and are far superior, less easily corrupted. This is why gangsters became so miffed over there, that, like bees to honey, they start to invade our shores to take advantage of our less sophisticated weaker systems. Next time you see someone loitering near your ATM, be alarmed and very frightened.

It seems that banks are keen on profits but not so keen to upgrade. Instead of a better more advanced technology warding off potential criminals, we get those messages on the ATMs with “Who is watching?” together with “Always cover your Keypad.” This makes me somewhat paranoid, especially when I turn around and see an old lady with a walking frame watching me .Could she just be pretending to be old?  Or is she going to knock me down with her walking frame and steal my notes?

 Even more challenging is to key in the pin numbers while covering the key pad. At my bank there is a picture of a Jack Russell that jumps up. Is there some clue there perhaps? I try and cover the whole machine and block out as much to the outside world as possible, even look up into the machine to see if there is some device spying on my card. I find that if I remember the outlay of the keypad I can indeed type in the 4 pin numbers and keep the pad totally covered. It requires practice but at least nothing gets stolen or copied and the Jack Russell picture vanishes as an extra bonus and encouragement.

When I finally have the money and receipt I still linger and nervously stash the money in my wallet. I then walk away, carefully avoiding looking the old lady in the eye. You never know! I then look around to see anything suspicious going on elsewhere before ripping the receipt in shreds and putting it in my pocket as well.

 It all makes for a very suspicious world and somehow takes the previous happy glow off this whole transaction. I don’t dare to leave the receipt in that little slot below the key-pad even if ripped up. There must be a good reason for all the banks to warn to keep the keypad covered up. Surely, any good credit-card forger/hoodlum could decipher and get something out of my torn receipt?

I can’t imagine what the sophisticated tourist would make out of those ATM warnings? Last week there was a lot of media focused on the billions made by banks on ripping off their own customers. The focus was on banks using ATMs as a cash cow which gets milked every time you use it away from you own bank. I must say I have difficulty defending that one on behalf of customers though. Provided you always use the allowable number of ATM’s withdrawals and use your own bank’s provided ATM, the transactions are free… I knew about that years ago and always make sure that there are no charges by using my own bank’s ATM.  Anyone who had the good fortune of overseas travel would know we are provided with more banks and their branches that you can poke a stick at. Try walking around Amsterdam and find a bank with an ATM. You might think a brightly lit window is an ATM but getting closer you could easily be tempted into a different kind of happy transaction all together. Be careful of Amsterdam as well!

 However, I am more than willing to concede I am of a generation where we were all brought up on a very healthy dose of frugality. It went together with drinking water and eating Uncle Toby’s Oats for breakfast. Sadly, both frugality and drinking water have disappeared and Uncle Toby is dying

Line Dancing at Brayton

25 Friday Feb 2011

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 The big distances between rural properties makes the supply of services very difficult. The telephone line goes zigzag from property to property and if one line drops out, the whole lot drops out. The same with electricity. It is not like in the cities and suburbs where everyone is provided from a main phone or power line going through the streets.

Even though we were within 170km from Sydney, many properties did not have power connected and used solar energy backed up by batteries. To get main power connected would cost $40.000 for just a single pole.

We had 5 poles on our previous farm and I was so sick of drop-outs that I would regularly inspect the poles. The main problem was drop-down insulators. They were a device that would allow electricity to drop out during violent lightning, preventing the burning of cables or power poles.

These insulators were at an angle so that gravity would allow them to drop easily out of their clamps. When they did, I used to phone Country energy and they would come with a huge grapple stick and push the insulator back in their clamps while standing on the back of the truck.

Sometimes a farmer would switch on a huge electric pump from miles away and that would then cause a surge with the whole area out of power again.

 It was all very rural and this is why you finally just go for line-dancing at the local art school to eat a home- made muffin, shuffle your RM Williams and donate to the VFB of NSW. The noise and the fiddle would somehow calm the whole of rurality and that’s how power failures became accepted and part of the parcel, almost to the point where one was expecting it when things were going well for too long.

I, as you would all imagine, was hopeless at line dancing which calls for some kind of spontaneity or letting go, an ongoing life- long task I am still working on. Even Peter Garrett’s dancing is a Nureyev ballet compared to mine. So, I would normally bide my time and only join in when most were too intoxicated to notice my bizarre effort at line dancing.

To think all those lessons at Phyllis Bates back in the late fifties or early sixties with Cha, Cha, and Foxtrot would have left some kind of elasticity.

It seems like yesterday Svetlana  and I were still doing the Lambada.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5AfTl5Vg73A

Earth Hour and the Art of Non-Consumption.

23 Wednesday Feb 2011

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In our household we have put into place the minimum use of energy and at the same time maximising the benefits of energy with minimum or no wastage. We have instantaneous hot water heated by gas. No more storing hot water, so gas is only used when turning the tap on. The temperature of the hot water is set at a comfortable 46c. We cook by gas and only heat water by gas. No electric kettles, no terrible wastage of energy by electric cooking and boiling water. All our 50 watt down-lights with 10 watt transformers are being replaced by either LED or 9 watt fluorescent lights. We were horrified that our town house had those very dangerous down-lights. They can produce 320C heat and are a fire hazard anyway. Not long ago our houses had one light per room and a couple of power points. Now houses are bristling with dozens of lights and all sorts of CO2 producing gadgetry. Our modestly sized town-house had 33 of those high energy burning down-lights. One bathroom had 3. Why? At the more advanced age that most of us are creeping into, even half a light would suffice. Burning just a candle would be even better, if not more romantic as well.
Of course, TV size is the next one to economize on. What about the 82 cm model to the max? Those giant screens are so ugly and dominating, who wants to see our politicians and their egos blown up even bigger? Why would you want to look at most of the TV programs anyway?
 For our kids, definitely no extra TV’s in bedrooms. Most experts reckon that we ought to get tough and ban kids from anything with buttons and remotes. Dr Spock had it all wrong and whole generations of scowling and nervous kids have been spawned by letting them set the agenda instead of parents and teachers. If they protest, let them take out the garbage or take the dog for a walk.
As for wasting water with those obsessive twice daily showering, stop it in the bud. Don’t even shower daily. It’s not the bunch of flowers that regulates this game of love; it’s our smell and pheromones that drive the opposite (or same) sex into frenzy. No wonder there are so many lonely but well scrubbed people about.
We complain about the rising cost of electricity, and no doubt, they will triple in the next ten years. The obvious answer is to reduce the power consumption equally. It can be done. Our last gas bill was $94. -. This was over a period of three months and included a $42. ‘-availability’ charge. Total usage for hot water, cooking and heating was $52.-, and to paraphrase a popular slogan ‘the lower costs are just the beginning’.
The lowering of energy consumption should be joined together with lowering consumption of all superfluous items as well, especially when those items are phrased in the most terrible two words ever to appear in a western consumer driven society, “LIFE STYLE”. Simply never buy anything associated with those words, if you have; repent and chuck them out or never plug them in. Do you really need an electric knife or lettuce spinner?
 Life style is simply not something you can buy.
Naturally, using conventional electricity to keep out solar energy to cool or heat our houses is pure tautology as well as total earth vandalism. Chuck the air-conditioner on the foot path or install solar.
Perhaps the idea of a total ban on consuming anything should follow Earth Hour? Don’t keep a date with the Earth Extinction, consume less.

http://www.earthhour.org/

The Slow Train to Sydney

17 Thursday Feb 2011

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We took the train from Bowral to Sydney yesterday, as a kind of test run for the future. Living just 100 kms from Sydney we thought we might reduce driving and use public transport.

We had enquired the day before and were told by the Station Master time of departure and cost which for us seniors was a mere $2.50 return. Wacko, who could refuse an adventure of this nature? Next day we got up early, all excited about the coming day. Arrived a bit early at the station and bought our tickets. When the train arrived we were surpised how new it was and spacious.  Many people hopped on-board incuding an elderly couple. The husband had a brand new dark blue checkered shirt with razor sharp pleats still visible on the sleeves. One almost expected the white collar bit of stiff carton to still be peeking from the back of his shirt.

The train took off on a rather somber and overcast day. We weren’t going very fast but time wasn’t important and we settled nicely. It took us past many stations including the one of killer Milat notoriety. The houses there were somewhat dilapidated looking with yards full of junk and cars propped on bricks with large dogs barking at the train. Bargo, Tahmoor, Dapto, Yerrinbool and many others we passed by. This was the train with only 4 stops between Bowral and Central, Sydney.

At one stage I noticed a very optimistic notice board on a terracotta roof. Painted on a large sign in bright blue was written; FUNERAL DIRECTOR and telephone number. The sign faced the train so it was clearly designed for the traveler but I wonder how many would get their address book out and scribble down the phone number. Who on earth would have that kind of foresight?

We arrived after almost 2 hrs (This is the fast Country Link) and sauntered down the platform but no ticket inspection. We walked up towards the Town-Hall soaking in all the changes since the last time we were there. As usual, there were huge cranes and dog-men directing great concrete panels hovering above building sites.  In all sorts of nooks and crannies were available coffees and cakes. Backpackers were spilling over the footpaths busily sending texts and pictures of exotic Australia back to Japan or Sweden. Many were  with those towering backpacks and some, which is’ par for course’ in going overseas, squatting down on the pavement cross legged.

Also, a disturbing increase in homeless, some with cardboard notices explaining their plight, others just oblivious to it all and seemed sound asleep. At the entrance to Myers was a small colony of homeless with mattresses and blankets, shopping trolleys, empty big M bags and a profusion of polystyrene containers. One desperate homeless and bearded man held up very bravely: FAMILY COURT VICTIM!

We were getting hungry and noticed a pub advertising food. It might have been called the King George but Helvi just now assures me it was The Edinburgh Castle. All patrons were seated. This is one of the most baffling cultural changes in Australia, where not that long ago, everyone in pubs would always be standing, except for some blue hair coloured patrons in the “Ladies Lounge”.

Not only were all seated they were also enjoying their beverage with food. We ordered two Heinekens with one Rump steak and one Chicken snitzel, both with chips and salad. This was about 1pm and the hotel was chockers, so were all other eating and drinking venues. What a buzz.

We decided to head home after this excellent lunch and slowly sauntered back to Central station where a sign told us to go to platform 23 for Bowral. Train after train did arrive but not a sign of anything going towards Bowral. We walked back to the entrance and a Rail Information Lady took it upon herself to guide us towards a train. Platform 23 is where you go to Cambelltown and then change over, she said. Oh, we did not know that nor was this indicated on the electronic sign or loudspeaker. She then went out of her way to say why you don’t get on the Country Link at 3.48PM. This leaves at platform 3.

There is a huge distance between both platforms, so we decided we needed another schooner to remain hydrated. This was lovely, seated away from the humidity of the Sydney Station in a air conditioned and licensed premise next to a McDonalds. I had the courage and gall to brazenly also ask for two fifty cent smooth-ice cream cones. Helvi declined, how can you drink beer and lick ice-cream?  I gave hers to a homeless looking man who also did not lick it. We finally walked to the platform and this smooth ice cream in its cone was still un-licked and might still be sitting on the table as far as I know.

After seeing a young man with both legs cut off below the knee and heavily bandaged attended to by an ambulance officer on a mobile phone, we decided to hop on the train. That same couple, with the husband’s sharply creased shirt were also in our wagon. Perhaps they were doing the same as us. Perhaps they might even have taken down the number of the Funeral Director? Who knows?

The return was just as good but we were feeling pretty shagged by the time we arrived back, which was at 6pm. I noticed that in the morning the train came from Canberra and the afternoon train was also destined for Canberra. There wasn’t a buffet or possibility for any water or a coffee on board, which is a bit rich if you are going Sydney-Canberra. It could be that after Bowral a buffet car would be linked to the train.

Who knows?