Category Archives: Gerard Oosterman

Mango Happy Hour on the Hume

22 Monday Nov 2010

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Mango Happy Hour on the Hume

While driving back from Sydney and just past Campbelltown (The ghost of Fisher) turn off, we kept noticing colourful signs with “Happy Mango Hour”. After another five kilometres or so the signs kept on appearing, stating,  “3km happy Mango Hour”,  “2km happy Mango Hour” till we arrived at a large parking spot with many semi trailers parked, as well as cars near another large truck. “Happy Mango Hour Here now,” heralded yet another sign on the truck.

We had arrived at the “happy Mango Hour.” The area is a popular truck stop over, also has drinking water and public toilet. The toilet was unisex but ‘naturellement sans pissoir,’ and as we all know, male toilet habits are less precise as that of females so Helvi quickly darted out, decided she could hang in till we arrived back in Bowral.

For Vivienne.

The truck with mangos was at the tail-end of trade, packing up with just a few cases of mangos left. We hit the Jackpot and were sold 22 glorious mangoes at twenty dollars. Two golden syrups, tall skinny boys were running the show, black and eagle eyed with large sharp noses. “Sri-Lankans we are;” after I asked where they came from. Turned out they drive each week-end from somewhere up north and then get this spot on the Hume, rightly guessing that way south, there would be keener mango lovers, perhaps with people as yet to come out of hibernation? An early touch of the tropics down south, as it were.

 Clever blokes, savvy like anything, cheerful like buggery, cottoning on ‘happy hour,’ quick flash and making a bit of dough. Good on them

Bowral’s St Jude with Barbecued Sausages Fund Raiser

14 Sunday Nov 2010

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It’s all quiet at the Southern Highlands Front now after a couple of manic and hectic months aided and relieved by Coliseum’s take away Pizzas and Royal Hotel special pub nosh of $10.- rump Steak with chips and salad. Helvi, as always, remained a beacon of serenity, sanity and calm.

Yesterday, our first day of some time off. ‘Quality time’ as popular parlance prefers to call it. Popping into the local C&E St Jude’s church long awaited and well heralded fund raiser it gave us the first opportunity to meet and savour the locals at; I suppose one of their favourite haunts, the local church.

We sauntered, somewhat worse for wear, but with the church’s age old cypresses and huge conifers shading us, giving us respite from multiple trailers haulage of personal stuff, such as obstinate settees, thousands of spoons and hordes of as yet un-shelved milk crated books, between ex- farm, Moss-Vale and a final resting place at Bowral. (See Mount Calvary post)

There, at St Jude’s, the usual face painting, lucky dips and stalls of hopeless superfluous household goods were for all to buy and boost the congregation’s coffers. There was a 1989 computer with the keyboard welded to the screen, a handy cabinet with pull-out drawers for cassettes and many transistor radios with pull-out antennas. Even, and surprisingly for C&E terrain, a bottle opener in the shape of a lewd naked woman. Many video tapes of The Sound of Music and King and I. Lots of Jane Fonda’s girth and weight reduction tapes with coloured manuals.

In between all that, Helvi with her usual eye for another book, found Susan Kurosawa’s ‘places in the heart.’  ‘Thirty prominent Australians reveal their special corners of the world.’ All for half the cost of the barbequed  sausages.

The most fascinating stall was the barbequed sausages  stall. There they were, all staunch church goers, comfortably retired previous airline pilots, store managers, investment advisors and above all,  a sprinkling of ex Liberal premier bureaucrats. Now all aprons and gloved. An all male sausage team.

There was stacked a descent mountain of white Tip-Top bread which one bloke was buttering with no-frills margarine, another doing the Barbequing, yet another collecting orders and the fourth man the money. As usual at those kind of affairs, chaos reigns supreme and we all know this is totally peculiar to doing things the ‘English way.’ Why would it be any different in Bowral? This is what gives fund raising and community markets its piquancy and cultural originality.  If anything, Bowral is probably the place where Barbeque sausage fund raising chaos is continually honed to even higher levels than ever before.

On the table where the bread was being buttered, there were different relishes, including a green tomato, a normal sun dried tomato garnish as well as the obligatory mustard and barbeque and tomato sauce squeeze bottles.  The problem was there was just one knife. Each time someone wanted a garnish from the glass container, the buttering had to be stopped in order for this single knife to put to use extracting the garnish.  The tomato plastic bottle was empty. Of course, no kid worthy of any salt, age or description would buy a sausage roll without tom sauce. The paper towels had run out. No worries, a box of tissues would suffice. The tissues would be eaten as well, solidly stuck to the white bread. The whole affair was done with total bonhomie and not a single complaint. We bought two sausage rolls with the green relish and tasty tissue.

  A wonderful day for everyone.

The Mount Calvary model with Chrome handles

05 Friday Nov 2010

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Glad to hear you are still all passionate about the Pig’s Arms. I suppose in between reading all those lovely little snippets of wisdom, art or trivia you all have time to reflect on many things including life and what it is all ab0ut.

Well, I sure hope there is more to it than moving boxes, bed heads and filling drawers with knives and forks.

We still haven’t found the wheels underneath our settee yet. We had taped them together in order not to lose them but we have. Also my corn pads have gone on walk about again. Still, my toothbrush is safe and waiting for my teeth in a special metal container..

Sorry if I have been a bit slack with  responses but we are busy and are also having our grandkids over. At the moment one of our daughters and her son are here and we had some lovely pizza. One regular ‘meat lover’ and one regular ‘Italian”. You just phone up and after 20 minutes they are ready to pick up in a carton box with a nice Napoli-bay scene printed on top of the lid. Inside, apart from the pizza of course, is a special little spacer to prevent the lid from sticking to the hot molten cheese. I wonder how many years it took for that little invention to appear and who was the genius? Talking about carton boxes. I wonder why Ikea hasn’t come out with a fold out coffin a la the “Mount Calvary” model. It could come in a flat pack with its own Allen key. The chrome plated plastic handles neatly packed in its own little bag tucked in between the bottom and top board.

Here an old one for the friday evening.http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wyLjbMBpGDA

Cheers,

Gerard

Survival in Backpacking

13 Wednesday Oct 2010

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Watching some footage about our venerable leader Julia Gillard in Brussels at its historic centre, the memories came flooding back.

I had returned from a trip to Russia and had just finished painting the exterior of a house owned by Timothy Healy Hutchinson’ to help pay for the trip. (A bit of name dropping might be justified here, lifting PA to new heights)

 http://www.telegraph.co.uk/finance/2931996/Business-profile-Aristocrat-who-can-spot-a-good-title.html  

The house was situated in London’s Sheppard’s Bush, where the three story terrace needed the hiring of an enormous 60ft ladder, which the raising of it to its full height was helped by a man who, to my utter surprise, stopped his car, got out all dressed in a suit and tie, and helped me hoist the ladder up. He then, without a word as much, returned to his car and continued his journey. This ladder came in three parts with lots of pulleys and ropes and made of course from aluminium, still weighing a lot.

Little did I know at the time that this would be the closest I would ever get close to literary fame.

 But I regress. Back to Brussels where I had arrived with backpack and advice to potter about Brussels before catching a plane back to the delights of domesticity and The Inner West in Australia. The very hall where Gillard was filmed is also the centre of the world’s culinary delights. I don’t care about opinions from anyone or any Master Chef; Brussels is it when it comes to artistry of manipulating simple potatoes and salty prawns.

The amazing part of it is that the best of morsels, especially sea food morsels, are offered on  silver platters, held by white coated ‘ garcon’ out on the streets in front of the restaurants, for anyone to taste and perhaps decide to come in and order a meal afterwards. Perhaps this delightful cultural procedure doesn’t exist anymore but at that time I took  advantage of it, even to the extent of going full circle and honing in on another lot. It would certainly be helpful in case of being homeless or destitute. Would you not have done the same? Would you have gone back to your hotel room, changed your shirt and try look different and gone back for more? Be honest.

It was so nice an experience, and totally gratis…

Castoring Aspersions on Shopping Trolleys

09 Saturday Oct 2010

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Shopping 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.

 

Like Horse and Carriage

04 Monday Oct 2010

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pyjama Plights

28 Tuesday Sep 2010

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dog Ethics in Bowral

26 Sunday Sep 2010

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September 26, 2010 by gerard oosterman

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Milo is fine.

Coffee Grinder and Washing Machine

23 Thursday Sep 2010

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

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

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

It is a far cry from just a coffee grinder.

Till Death us do ( and the IPod) Part

10 Friday Sep 2010

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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