16 Monday Nov 2009
Posted in The Public Bar
Sorry, folks. Moderately flat out on the making a quid front.
Meanwhile …..
First Dog on the Moon - Crikey Mon 16 November 2009
Our thanks to First Dog and Crikey …. DO take out a subscription …. if you can…..
09 Monday Nov 2009
Posted in Helvi Oosterman, Ladies Lounge, The Public Bar
Just to get you boys here.
By Helvi Oosterman
You older folk here might remember the times, when anything Indian was all the rage; long cotton caftans for the girls and rough hewn grandpa shirts for the boys. Those were the days when your tie-dyed, floor length wrap-around skirts, not only kept your legs warm but at the same time swept the streets or maybe just the foot paths clean…
The council workers whistled at you, not because they admired your legs, but because you were doing their job for them. I remember wearing a long caftan when six months pregnant, looking rather majestic, almost a cross between Maria Callas and Joan Sutherland, Brunnhilde from Wagner’s Ring comes to mind. Hubby too suffered for his latest acquisition, sandals made from old car tyres with some brass buckles tagged on them that gave his feet bad rashes.
Many years later the tights arrived on the fashion scene; welcomed by all comfort loving females, mums, daughters and grannies. They were taken up by skinny girls, fat sheilas, old and young, tall and short. My slightly underweight girlfriend gave me a backhanded compliment: “Helvi, you look good in them because you got big legs, I look like a starved baby bird in those”. Ah well, who needs enemies when your friends tell the truth about your short comings. These tights, as you all know, were usually teamed up with oversized t-shirts or large tops with huge shoulder pads. These pads were not sewn but usually Velcroed to shoulder seams and easily removed. On long train trips they could double up as pillows, after all some were almost bigger than average size Tontine.
Not all that long ago the fashionistas got inspired by India again; the bright colours were in and black was out. Tired of looking like Sicilian widows, we now took to rainbow colours, glitter and sequins like ducks to water. Many of us suburban mums of course even looked like ducks, waddling in our tiered skirts and heavily sequined tops weighing us down. All those vivid colours that so flatter darker skinned slim Indian girls, made us look like stumpy Christmas trees.
Oops, almost forgot about those hipster jeans, maybe it is because I really want to forget about them; all those tummies and bottoms bared, and in country towns still bravely exposed, even when the city girls have moved to the” waist highs” a long ago.
This morning I had to go to town early for an appointment. Popping in to buy a newspaper at the mall, I noticed a group of young girls still in their nighties hanging around. I assumed they had had some kind of sleep out or a pyjama party and were on their way home. The polyester swishing could be heard as they walked past. Later on I came to realise they were not nighties,but this season’s new look: floor-length summer dresses that reminded me of those caftans. Only the caftans were cotton and pleasant to wear, these long poly dresses must be as hot as a visit to a sauna.
I feel like a cooling swim is needed right now!
06 Friday Nov 2009
Posted in The Public Bar, Travels
Hussein (photo by Reuben Brand)
By Reuben Brand
It was the middle of summer, the middle of Ramadan, most of the country was fasting, all of the country was thirsty and there was not a drink in sight for miles. “It’s so bloody hot!” I said aloud, as my friend and I trudged wearily beneath the 40 degree Syrian sky towards the ancient citadel in Aleppo.
Parched, we arrived and quickly found refuge in the shade of one of its giant walls, “there he is again,” I said, pointing to a little boy we had seen the day before. His big eyes seemed to be overflowing with an unquenchable sadness as they followed our every move.
He once again walked sheepishly back and forth, just as he had done the previous day, as if he was studying us as part of a school project – all the while, never taking his gaze off us.
He tentatively made his way closer and finally perched himself on the wall beside us. “Hi, my name is Hussein,” he said in Arabic, as a smile broke his solemn stare and lit up his now bright face.
We sat talking to Hussein for some hours, he was a skinny little thing and looked about eight years old, although he assured us he was 11. His tiny hands were covered in dirt all the way up to his long fingernails which were stained red from henna, his shirt and trousers were as dusty as the hot surrounding landscape and in need of a good wash, but despite his circumstances he seemed overjoyed to just sit and talk.
“Where do you live?” we asked, he told us he lived in a house and pointed vaguely towards the city.
“There are eight of us in my family, but I didn’t go home last night, I slept out here under the stars,” he said with a grin. Hussein later told us that he had run away from home and hadn’t been back for a long time, so every night he was on his own.
Hussein lives on the streets along with a motley crew of other young vagabonds and runaways, but he is different, not like the rest of them, who, as we sat, darted in and out of conversation – little Hussein possesses a strength of character and integrity the likes of which some people take years to acquire.
He began to tell us that he had been subject to some kind of medical operation, or something else which he didn’t really want to talk about, the meaning of which was either lost in translation or obscured by embarrassment and shame. I can only imagine that it must have been something of a terrible nature to make him run away.
At that point a man on a bicycle rode up and angrily chased Hussein off as if he were nothing more than a stray dog, to which Hussein responded and darted off at top speed. The man saw that we were foreigners and thought that he could sneak a quick cigarette with us away from the prying eyes of the rest of the people who were fasting during Ramadan. “Be careful of these street kids,” the man said gruffly, “they will try to trick you and steal form you.” He nervously finished his cigarette and went on his way. “If only he would talk to some of these kids and give them a chance, maybe he would learn a thing or two,” I thought to myself.
Not a moment had gone by when Hussein’s smiling face returned, he asked if we would like to come and see his garden and led the way to a small patch of grass behind a nearby mosque.
It was getting late and was time for us to go, we said our goodbyes but Hussein didn’t want to leave us, his big eyes became foggy and it seemed that a tear would strike his cheek at any moment.
“Are you hungry?” We asked. “No, no I have already eaten,” he told us. But we insisted and invited him to join us for dinner, again he declined saying that he had eaten a sandwich sometime earlier, today? Yesterday? He wouldn’t say. Finally the promise of an ice cold Pepsi was too good to resist and we all made our way up to one of the local restaurants.
We were a sight for sore eyes, little Hussein, my Italian friend Daniele and my unkempt Aussie self, quite the unusual trio. Curiosity got the better of all the waiters, other patrons and even the manager, but nevertheless we were seated and treated to a lovely meal, the waiters and manager giving special attention to our young friend.
We asked Hussein if he went to school, he said that he didn’t want to because if he completed his school diploma he would be sent into military service. I couldn’t believe that at such a young age Hussein was already worried of being sent into the military and would forgo any form of education just to escape it. Most other kids of his age are only concerned with playing soccer, the latest Playstation game and watching TV.
Conscription is a dread that faces every young male here, it reminded me of a conversation I’d had the night before with a young man who worked at the hotel we were staying at. “It is one of the toughest armies in the world, some people die just in the training – I really don’t want to go, it takes two years of your life away from you. The only good thing about it is that you go into the military like a mouse and if you survive, you come out as strong as a lion,” he said.
We urged Hussein to go back to school, and told him the importance of a good education and the opportunities that lay ahead for him if he studied hard. He said he didn’t know what he wanted to do when he grew up, but agreed none the less to go back to school and try.
With a full belly and a smile from ear to ear it was once again time to go. After a strong handshake from such a small hand he looked up at us, smiled and slipped away into the night. I stood and watched as his tiny figure disappeared into the darkness, wondering if I will ever see him again.
Adoption crossed my mind many times as I walked home, “Where is UNICEF? Where is Save the Children?” I thought to myself.
God only knows what will happen to little Hussein and the countless others like him, for my part, I will do all I can to make it back to Aleppo to check up on my new little friend as often as possible.
Reuben Brand is an Australian Freelance Journalist currently based in the Middle East. For more information please visit his website at www.reubenbrand.com
04 Wednesday Nov 2009
Posted in The Public Bar
Max playing for lollies
As we planned to live in Bowral we thought it wouldn’t be a bad idea to experience how Halloween was celebrated there. The grandsons, all three of them, had been preparing for the event and their mothers had rummaged in wardrobes to retrieve last year garbs, knuckle dusters, fierce looking hatchets and of course the conical hats with the skull masks.
Little 6year old Max, who would like nothing more than to grow up on a diet of lollies was especially excited about the prospect of bulging bags with sweets. Back in a very leafy suburb where they live, each year’s Halloween had been highly successful. Of course, those very green suburbs were always terrific for Halloween fans. The last few years many single houses with huge gardens were easy pickings for the money merchants to demolish and put up 8 townhouses instead. The ‘treat and trick’ kids get 8 chances instead of just the one. Against that, some of the latest now have formidable electronic gates which can only be opened by proper identity checks and clearances through the use of a walkie-talkie system and remotes. None the less, bagfuls were collected and the Bowral environment would have to do a lot to even come close.
The big day had almost arrived and the night before our daughters and their sons managed to liaise and merged together at Bowral and had settled in a friend’s house with take away Chinese meals, Harry Potter movie on the telly, and the knuckle dusters and other Halloween paraphernalia tucked under the kids beds.
Halloween was only hours away. The question; what would be the differences between the Halloweens of Sydney and Bowral, if any? Could those differences be based on the social aspects of the inhabitants? Some of the more salubrious suburbs of Sydney are very much populated by social climbers keen on material goodies rather than, well, not much else, according to our daughters. Bowral, on the other hand is very much the territory of the ‘arrived’. Retired politicians, (Hewson is selling his abode at a mere $11.000.000) and successful race horse breeders, notable TV personalities , a mixture of gangsters and some poor sods that still catch the daily train to Sydney for work, but, hopefully, not much longer . Those gated communities are on the rise there as well but nowhere like in Sydney.
The next morning, the Bowral community woke to a sunny day. The newsagent girls had already donned conical hats; their hair dyed a ghoulish blue. This was a good omen and I told the kids so at my return home with newspaper tucked under my arms. I also bought some lollies just in case of a disaster. The gardens are huge and it takes almost a hike to just reach the front door. How much stamina would our grandsons have to traverse those large gardens with miles of delphiniums and acres of petunias?
At about 5.30 pm we set off in 2 cars with the 2 mothers, three grandsons and me. It was hot and the Halloween outfits were made of impenetrable black Nylon. The kids had also grown and the outfits were tight around the crutches. The mothers had suggested making cuts to give more room. But ‘my undies will show’, the kids retorted. Well,’ put on black underpants and no one will notice’. ‘No way’, Jak said. Off they went. The tight crutches a small price to pay for retaining dignity.
The first few attempts were lousy. The long walk-ups to the front door, past the parked car and barking terrier, and back again without as much as a single person opening doors were discouraging. Perhaps the residents had locked themselves up in anticipation of a real Halloween or were of Scottish descent. After some five doors knocks, some success. Thomas and Jak came back smiling. Only Max was still miffed. They each had a packet of raisins!
All of a sudden another competing group of Trick and Treat kids came on the scene, accompanied by conical attired mothers with flowing witches’ dresses and wildly waving arms. ‘It is in Shepherd Street’ one mother told Max. ‘That’s where the really BIG lolly houses are’, she added.
We, of course forgot to ask where Shepherd Street was. No worries, my daughter looked up on her Sat Nav gadget and we all jumped in the two cars and in no time found the right street with the big lolly houses. It turned out that an old lady had arranged a street meeting with other owners and they all decided then to make an effort to make Halloween special for the local kids. Balloons and signs would be put on gates indicating that treats were there for the ‘tricking’.
What lovely social enterprising by this old lady. Bowral might be the place to retire to.
Remember; Shepherd Street is where the really BIG LOLLIE houses are
02 Monday Nov 2009
Posted in Entertainment Upstairs, The Public Bar
Andrew Peters - or something to do with Katie Price - whoever she might be
by Jayell
Just to get a better perspective of this glam affliction that the newspapers have. Here is a short note to go in tandem with the Unleashed story that has just appeared.
It is a constant observable phenomena that the public are obsessed with celebrities. It has been that way for centuries. But of course with instant transmission of digital photographs by satellite, for instant publication, it is a frenzy that produces frantic ‘nowism’. I can almost imagine youngsters running to the news stands, newsagents or ipods to get it first.
However in this story we have one-upmanship on Unleashed.
Peter Andre was a student with my kids at a local Gold Coast School- and a pupil of my other half to boot.
He was/is a good singer and was in the Rock Eisteddfods’, Dracula Spectacular, a local production- and a show put on by his family at the local Arts Theatre- where local kids performed.
His family are friends and our kids were always in each other’s houses.
So why am I writing this?
Well obviously the ABC article prompted me. And…
….And, it is Halloween, a celebration that is new to me. I always thought that it was American. But it goes hand in glove with the topical (Halloween)references that I have included here.
Peter is a down to earth lad and the publicity surrounding his ex-wife, will hopefully leave him untarnished. His character is the antitheses of hers.
In fact my Mother has fond memories of the band of friends; my sons, alias JL juniors; Peter; Cardiff; Craig and Shane gardening on her acreage years ago. They used to wear bandanas in the summer and get stuck in with lawnmowers and scythes, quenching their thirst with lemonade and juice.
Of course they graduated to beer and nightclubs later- and are still all great friends today But more of that another day.
Last time he was here, he confided to my wife (when they shot a scene for a doco, or something….which we haven’t seen),that it was all razzmatazz to keep the business income stream running.
And of course that is the crux. As someone said on Unleashed, “It’s all about the feelthy lucre”.
Why are we lured here? It can’t be the money (well yet Emm).
Do we crave notoriety and do we suffer from celebrity anxiety?
Or, are we unrequited artists, frustrated artisans, feeble writers cloistered in our expanded dot?
18 Sunday Oct 2009
Posted in The Public Bar
While most of you are still deeply immersed in working out how wombats can produce square nuggets out of round bum holes, lend me your ears for what Warrigal of Fraser Island are capable of. Some decades ago, when everyone was still so young and adventurous, my brother and I with my 10 year son and his twinned similar aged sons decided to go to Fraser Island. My brother had been before and many times afterwards and while camping on the South coast, he would regale stories of phenomenal fishing expeditions, straight from the beach, he would always add, spreading his arms wide to indicate the sizes of fish. Fraser Island is to fishermen what Paris is to fashionistas.
I am not so keen on beaches and loath sitting in blinding sun surrounded by loose sand, am much more content in caves or under rocks with shade soaking up all light. Anyway, I succumbed and decided to visit Fraser Island with my brother and three sons. The Land rover was packed with an electric/gas/battery fridge and a nice frozen lamb curry. From bitter experience I had learnt not to venture away from inner cities and risk starvation or/and food poisoning. We had also packed tents, fishing rods and even a metal chain to haul in the ‘big one’.
During those South Coast camping trips, the fish always got bigger and the empty casks of Coolabah next morning outside the tents witness to more fishing stories than the whole of Iceland. We left Sydney during summer and drove to Tin Can Bay in Queensland where we took the ferry across to Fraser. It was sunny indeed and we set up camp somewhere on the beach near the dunes. Next morning we unpacked our fold out canvas camping chairs, oiled our fishing rods and spools, tied hooks and bait and threw in the lines on the edge of the sea.
Fraser Island is supposed to be the largest sand island in the world or Southern Hemisphere. Wherever we travel to, something is always the largest or biggest or best, isn’t it? The largest sand island did not appeal so much to me, and I was vindicated when I noticed enormous flies landing unnoticed on my legs and arms. Those flies had some kind of helicopter way of landing whereby you would only become aware after the biting and sucking. I asked another fisherman and was told they were horse flies. I then thought to wade into the sea hoping for relief from those large fly horses.
Please, all come now a little closer to your screen
Those flies stayed on the landed area of my body under water. Their grip was so strong, no wave would dislodge them. I lost all interest in fishing and life. Deeply depressed I went back and remained seated in my canvas chair whacking the flies after landing but before biting, they would end up dead or struggling around me on the sand. In no time an army of large ants came and started eating the carcasses which gave some satisfaction.
When I got back to the tent my toasted muesli had been broken into and trails of it lead back into the dunes. A warrigal had been and broken the packet before dragging it with him (or her) back to the rest of the family. I had heard that the Fraser Island dingo was still fairly pure and had not interbred with other dogs. I did not mind my muesli getting pinched; after all it is their territory. No fish was caught that day nor on any of the following days. My brother was deeply worried and could not understand it. The second last day he buried the rest of the bait in the sand near the high tide mark.
The next day I got up early, well before those fly horses, and noticed a straight trail of dingo prints from the dunes right up to where the bait had been buried. A neat little hole had been dug and the bait was gone.
So, the dingo made his way to the bait in a straight line. No dithering or sniffing left or right, zig zagging. Now, he either did this by having observed us burying it the previous day, or, their olfactory sense is so acute, even way back in the dunes, that no diversions needed to be made. He followed his nose in a line which was the shortest possible route. Still, I am amazed..
Was it you Warrigal?
04 Sunday Oct 2009
Posted in The Dining Room, The Public Bar
When all the grand kids are over on the farm with traditional pancake eating as part of school holiday, we discovered Golden Syrup is not what it used to be. It started with the brutalisation of vegemite. I am no fan of vegemite. Anyone who can look deep inside a jar of vegemite and then still able to spread it on bread has my respect, even admiration. My mother opened up a jar back on a sunny Saturday afternoon in 1958 on the advice of a Polish refugee. She of course immediately recognized endless possibilities of savings to be made when she read ‘spread sparingly’.
Vegemite is under attack and I will, as a good and proud Australian always defend to the death the right for anyone to eat it with staunch impartiality no matter what the colour of anyone’s political persuasion or for their preferred food.
According to the vegemite lovers, it is now marketed mixed with cheese and called ‘vege-mate’ and another mixture named a phoney patriotic ‘Our Mate’ and another iSnack 2.0 the latest named by popular vote. Of course, any product now has to have both numbers and letters in higher and lower case in order to confuse and make for easier selling to the harassed and comatose consumer. Sausages will soon be sold as SAus 69 Griz.
The Golden syrup has always been the world’s favourite pan-cake spread. Ok, at least in the world of Brayton on the Wollondilly, (with the hordes of defending wombabats manning the ramparts against the evil weed inspectors). Anyway, the grandkids arrived and during pandemonium and general chaos put in the order for the morning pancakes before collapsing in a random and haphazard way to their matrasses. Helvi often tells me to let the mothers do the pancakes but that is also always, as a matter of tradition now, met by protesting grandkids, as ‘Opa can only make the pancakes just right’. ‘He makes them with the golden crusty edges and thin as well ‘, Jak says smoothly. With grandkids’ growing appetites the heap of pancakes are in tandem and this now calls for 2 cast iron fry pans. One is a surviving wedding present, made in Finland and superb for pancakes. The other is a Taiwanese cast iron alloy job with black colouring, as proof of its dodgy quality, appearing on the dish cloth.
The milk and water is added to the plain flour with a couple of eggs and pinch of salt. The mixture is thin and pure salted butter is added to the very hot pans. The whole procedure for perhaps 30 pancakes takes no more than 30 minutes with the eating perhaps no more than 7 minutes.
The Golden Syrup is not anymore what is used to be. Does anyone remember the yellow metal tins with black lettering and with a lid that used to be prised open with a knife? The colour was dark and the bouquet brooding with a mystery and hint of an almost Oriental nature. I think Raffles used to serve it up to Somerset Maugham in Singapore for breakfast, while I believe, he was writing ‘Razor’s Edge’.
Perhaps it contained treacle or molasses but it was just right for the crispy, golden edged pancakes. Now all that glory and joy has changed and gone. It was decided that it had to become’ committed’ more wasteful and turned over faster, make more and better money, and what better than to make it thinner and sell in squeeze plastic bottles that would malfunction after a couple of tries. It is a shadow and fake Golden Syrup now but makes a fortune for the Emporiums of the money merchants. It will soon be called GLod Mr3 S and Golden Syrup ‘flavoured’ in small lettering to hide deception and join Maple syrup ‘flavoured’ and Vanilla ‘flavoured’ ,but nothing real anymore.. A bummer.
29 Tuesday Sep 2009
Posted in The Public Bar
By Helvi Oosterman.
Foreigner’s Woes…
Years ago you actually had to go to ‘The Office of Births and Deaths’ to get your certificates, no on-line quick fixes in those days. So off I went to town, by bus and in my best attire.
Before setting my foot in the office, I whispered a little prayer: Dear God let the nice young apprentice clerk to be there today. No such luck; it was the dragon herself manning the boot; the fat lady that is. The word obese had not yet crept in our vocabulary or collected on our hips or thighs.
She was a large stern looking woman with equally forbidding looking glasses. As fairly new to the country I had practised what to say and how to say it: Could I have a birth certificate for my child, XXXX Oosterman; I added Oosterman with double ‘o’…
That was a mistake; she thought I was talking about double ‘w’. Those were kept close to the floor at the bottom of her huge filing cabinets, and she would have to bend down and she wasn’t very bendable. I could see that this could get very unpleasant, so I quickly uttered: Oosterman with two o’s, o, o…
Oh, oh, Oosterman, she muttered relieved. This was much better as the o’s were housed quite high in cabinet hierarchy, no unnecessary unsightly bending needed. Still, heart in my throat fearing further problems, I squeaked: It’s Oosterman with one ‘n’, not with two…like in German.
I don’t think she heard or understood me. Thank God
22 Tuesday Sep 2009
Posted in The Public Bar
My favourite cartoonist works for Crikey.com.au
He goes by the name of “First Dog on the Moon”.
I find his work brilliant day after day.
But this one today is truly wonderful.
22 Tuesday Sep 2009
Posted in The Mens, The Public Bar
By Theseustoo
Left foot showing pin and scar from operation to replace my ankle-joint back on my foot.
This pic shows my left foot, including scrap metal collection.
Left foot showing selector for low range hill climbing
Insert Bolts here and fold back tab A
My Left Foot showing bolt insertion points; the bolts and the pin in these pics are about 10 cms in length and are screwed straight into the bones; the external bar applies traction.
First let me apologize for the quality of these pics; they were taken in poor light on a very old digital camera and getting the right angles was not easy…
On Tuesday 15th September, I went back into hospital to have all the scrap metal I’d collected in my foot removed. This was a straightforward enough ‘day surgery’ and I would have been sent home after the operation, (the fifth, I think, thus far), but as I’d had a general anaesthetic and there was nobody to keep an eye on me for the next 24 hours at home, as required, I was sent for an overnight stay for ‘observation’ at Gleneagles; an old folks’ home out at Mawson Lakes or thereabouts.
This was an interesting enough experience, though it leaves me not optimistic about getting old… This is something I simply refuse to do… except that, of course, it creeps up on you while you’re not looking and then suddenly, Bang! There you are, old…
But while at Gleneagles, a pleasant enough place, with friendly, caring staff, I met an ‘agency’ nurse by the name of Paula White. Paula had just had a lot of sheet music left to her by one of the old guys she looked after and didn’t know what to do with it; she asked me if I’d like it… Now this was obviously an old guy’s collection of music which went back as far as the 1930’s so I said, “Sure, I’ll have it!”
Later, however, I had second thoughts; I couldn’t accept them before I’d told Paula that because of their extreme age, one or two of them might just possibly be valuable… Does anyone know anything about the value of old sheet music? Including such wartime faves as Gracie Fields’ ‘Bluebirds Over…’ and ‘Kiss Me Goodnight Sergeant-Major’, ‘Red Sails in the Sunset’ and many others… I suppose most of them aren’t worth more than about 50 cents each, but I don’t know anything about what some of these might be worth to a collector… It IS possible one or two might be worth something.
Anyway, Paula also invited me out to the Café Primo at Tea Tree Gully to a little ‘do’ they were having to celebrate her birthday and that of her ‘Virgo’ friend, Elaine…
She’s a real bundle of energy, that Paula, I can tell you! She picked me up at 2.45 straight from work and we drove up to her house where I looked through the sheet music while she did some odd chores and prepared herself for the evening.
Her current partner, ‘Swannee’ arrived, a tall rangy bloke with a face reddened from a fishing trip which had left him currently in the doghouse. More people began to arrive, including Paula’s friend, ‘Renee’ and Paula’s eldest son, Lee.
Eventually we drove to the restaurant, where I met Paula’s other two sons; all three boys came and shook my hand to introduce themselves and politely inquired as to the nature of my injury… Boys are easy to impress! A good ‘accident’ story, especially a ‘motorcycle accident’ story will impress them every time!
The pizza (with the Lot) at café Primo was the best pizza I’ve eaten in quite a while… anchovies, prosciutto, mozzarella cheese and whole pitted Kalamata olives made it really something special… my compliments to the chef!
And it was so nice to see a good old ‘family gathering’, with Paula’s family as well as several other nurses; friends of Paula’s from work all having a good time and enjoying themselves. Paula at several stages exclaimed ‘You’ll have to excuse us… we’re all a bit mad…”
But I don’t think so at all; in fact I think Paula and her friends have discovered the secret to living a good life; they all work hard in a career which is both very challenging and very rewarding; and they all play hard and understand the value of having their families around them. They were a very happy bunch and I’m pleased to be able to say that I don’t think I’ve seen the last of them.
But have you ever heard the expression, “It never rains, but it pours!”
Now this is the first time I’d been out of the house apart from trips to the hospital; and the first social invitation I’d received in longer than I’d care to remember… but would you believe that on the Wednesday I was released from Gleneagles, I was sitting at home, enjoying a nice cup of tea when all of a sudden I heard an unexpected knock at my door. I answered it and found myself staring at three, count ‘em, THREE gorgeous young ladies on my doorstep; one Chinese, one Tongan and one Canadian. After inviting them in, I played them a couple of songs and was actually obliged to decline their invitation to go fishing with them on Saturday… the same day I’d just been invited out to Paula’s birthday ‘do’…
Of course, it turned out these young ladies were from the Church of Jesus Christ of the Latter-Day Saints doing missionary work… I told them they would not convert me, but that if they wanted to keep an old man company for a little while every now and then, they were welcome to visit and that I’d love to go fishing with them. I said that, where I’d taught the other Mormon lads who used to visit me how to play chess, I could teach these girls how to fish. I also told them they were much prettier than the lads they’d sent last time and that they had brightened my day considerably already… They said they’d come again next week!
Things seem to be beginning to look up…
Window Dresser's Arms, Pig & Whistle 