Monthly Archives: November 2015

The Fair Dinkum Good Samaritans

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“Oops,” I am thinking, “the chain is off!”

Of course, it has happened before – whenever I have changed gear badly (my Aussie bike is a delicate piece of machinery and doesn’t respond well to lackadaisical gear changes). Now normally, when it happens in a park, or when I’m cycling with Bill, I get off and look a bit helpless, and some kind man (possibly my brother but often complete strangers) will step forward and upturn the bike for me. A man, unlike me, doesn’t seem to mind dirtying his hands and he usually knows how to ‘demon tweak’ it with the minimum of effort and oil on hands. Also, a man usually carries a big white hanky or a piece of rag (if he happens to be in the habit of helping hapless lady cyclists).

Sadly, the chain has frozen in a funny position (not quite off but if I push it I know it will proceed to do so) and there is not a man in sight. It is a rather lonely road – Creek Road (off Birkdale Road) – about a mile from the house which I am looking after for Janis and Neil and I am on the way back to Birkdale Road because there was no short-cut through to Quarry Road. I try to move the pedals back and forth – no doing – and I mess around with the gears. Still frozen! I upend the bike and look at it. Unfortunately there is no passing traffic to take pity on me. I have to take some action – I have to take hold of the chain… gingerly. It still won’t budge. I have to grab it with both hands…

I am looking like a coal-miner, the chain is in the right position at last and I’m wondering how I’m going to get back to the house without getting black oil all over my handlebars… when an old-fashioned camper-van comes up behind me and pulls in on the grassy nature-strip ahead. I’m not scared because it’s a friendly looking van. The doors either side open simultaneously and and oldish couple (Grey Nomads) beam benevolently at me.

“Let me take a look at that for you,” says Mick, the seventy-something husband.

“Are you going far?” asks his wife June.

“Just thought I’d suss out the way to Lota but I was thinking I might have to go home first to clean up,” I answer.

“Well your bike’s alright,” says Mick, turning it back the right way (and saving me from getting dirt on my clothes).

I hold up my coal-miner hands and Mick goes into the camper-van and brings out some ‘Wet Wipes”. They are not man enough for the job. June has already gone back inside the van and comes out with a bottle of ‘Acme’ cleaning fluid. I look like a surgeon scrubbing up and June and Mick look on very pleased.

“You’re my ‘Good Samaritans'”, I continue scrubbing, “I don’t know what I would have done without you – yes, I do….”

“The grass,” we all say together laughing.

When I am ready I hold up my hands to June and she points to the tap at the back of the van. She lets the cold water flow and Mick offers me a blue towel he has brought out for my particular use.

“Will you be able to find your way?” asks June taking out her mobile phone to check out a map of the area. “What road do you want?”

“I think I can find my cycle path from Chelsea Road,” I answer.

“That’s quite a way – nearly three kilometres,” she queries.

“That’s nothing,” I pipe up and June nods knowingly.

“Thank you so much for being my life-savers,” I say.

“Perhaps it’s destiny and God will reward us by helping us find the right new house we’ve been searching for,” laughs Mick.

I hope so too. They go on their merry way and I go on mine. I find Chelsea Road and the short cut over the creek. I have the most wonderful cycle ride and reach my destination at the bottom of White’s Road, Lota (in a few weeks time I shall be house and dog sitting at the other end of that same road). I return home just before nightfall, my cheeks are flushed with the exertion of finishing my ride all up-hill; I have cycled at least fourteen kilometres and I am feeling very proud of myself. Two hours before I had considered taking a nap!

 

 

The New Gardener

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He may be a bit childish but so what? The new gardener here at Number Seven (lucky for some!) is keen, willing and totally gorgeous. He’s blond and blue-eyed, tall and handsome, and what he lacks in horticultural knowledge is entirely made up for by his personal charm and eagerness to please…

 

Hello, Hello…

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“Hello Roland, I’m just calling to say that I changed my mind and would like some ice-cream,” I began on my mobile phone, “but, just in case you were thinking of stopping to buy some anyway, don’t do so because I’m at the shops – at last I found the shopping centre at Birkdale!”

“Hi, I didn’t get any because you said you were going to deprive yourself,” answered Roland.

“Are you still at home?” I asked.

“No.”

“Are you on the way then?”

“Kind of… I’m at some shops. I stopped off to buy a few beers and chocolate – the pedestal fan is in the car for you,” said our old friend, who had kindly offered to lend me one of his fans (as it’s been so hot in last two days).

“How long will you be because I’ll need time to get back to the house?”

“Not long for I’m quite close, in fact I might even  be at the same shopping centre as you – I’m in the car park,” added Roland.

“I’m in a car park too. Has yours got a Woolworths?”

“Yes!”

“And are there yellow and white awnings in the car park?”

“Yes!”

“Are you in Birkdale?” I asked.

“Yes!”

I got out of my car and scanned the car park for Roland’s car, which was a bit futile because I don’t know his number plate and didn’t have my glasses on anyway; besides which, most modern cars look pretty much the same to me. I heard a whistle and Roland came bounding over.

A few minutes later we were coming out of Woolworths with a tub of delicious ninety-seven percent fat-free chocolate ice-cream (how do they make it taste so nice?); Roland was walking his usual ten paces ahead and didn’t hear a woman’s voice call out:

“Sally!”

“It can’t be for me,” I thought, “I don’t even live here!”

“Sally!” the voice became insistent.

“Sue!” I said, upon turning around to see my ex-sister-in-law, “what are you doing here?”

“I live here,” she laughed.

Well, what do you know? The little suburb of Birkdale – between Wynnum and Wellington Point – is the hub of the universe after all! It’s a wonder to me now that we didn’t meet Roland’s daughter Michelle who lives in this popular place also.

Sue and Roland joined me at Jan and Neil’s (where I’m house-sitting) and we sat in the relative cool of the Bali Hut where a light breeze almost rustled the palm fronds. We three of long acquaintance enjoyed nearly fat-free chocolate ice-cream, strawberry champagne and beer while we ‘chewed the fat’. And now I’m off to bed with my two fans – the pedestal fan and Doris the cat.

 

 

Canal Pleasures

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“Is this the way to the sea?” I called out as I zoomed past a man who was putting a mower in his Ute.

“No, it’s a cul-de-sac!” he called back.

I put on my bike brakes (I wasn’t actually going that fast) and he came running up the pavement to where I’d stopped. He was a tall thin man in his forties. His sharp nose and chin, and the freckles and lines on his skin, denoted that he was a “typical Aussie”. Some red curls escaped from beneath his workman fluorescent orange cap (one of those with material at the back to protect from the sun). He wore blue sunglasses not dissimilar to my own and he had a ready smile; indeed, I suspected he was pleased to see another soul to speak to on that stretch of lonely, lifeless street.

“Where are you heading?” he asked.

“Well, I thought I was going to Thorneside but I really don’t mind – I just want to find the sea and I’d like to get to know the area because I’m house-sitting at Birkdale.” (Not exactly too much information to a stranger, considering there are quite a few houses at Birkdale.)

“This is Aquatic Paradise,” he said, beaming.

“Aquatic Paradise? I’ve never heard of it – are you being serious?”

“Straight up,” he laughed, “I remember when the land was all flattened, before the diggers came in to excavate the canals. I used to bring my girlfriend down here to make out.”

(“That’s a bit of a sexy thing to say,” I thought but didn’t voice.)

“How long ago was that?” I asked, completely ignoring the reference to making out.

“Now let me see… I was about twenty… so it was around twenty-four years ago.”

“Goodness,” I said, “of course, I live in England these days with my English husband so maybe that is why I’m out of touch with new, or not so new, developments.” (Thought I’d better mention my husband, just in case.)

“I have five of the houses in this street,” he boasted, “that one across the road, and the four along here.”

“You must be a millionaire entrepreneur,” I complimented.

“Aw, not really,” he lowered his head bashfully.

“Well, I had better go and find the sea,” I put a foot up to a pedal, “or the fifty factor sunscreen will melt off and I’ll get burnt.”

“Yeah, I use the fifty cream too,” he looked at his arms and laughed, “but it turns me green because the grass cuttings stick to it! Now if you go on back over the bridge, turn right at the main road and you’ll come to the sea. Have you got your address and your mobile phone?”

I nodded and patted my pink knapsack.

“So you’ll be alright then?”

“Yes.”

“Listen do you have a lot of grass at your house-sitting place?” he asked.

“No, it’s just a normal-sized garden for a modern house and it’s all immaculate. I watered it this morning, which is why I’m a bit late getting out for a cycle ride. It was nice to meet you,” I held out my hand. “I’m Sally.”

“I’m Darren.It was nice to meet you, too,” he shook my hand.

“I expect I’ll be thinner when I see you again,” I said (for some inexplicable reason).

“Well, I’m along here most Wednesdays,” Darren said.

I mounted the bike and started pedalling.

“And you look nice already,” Darren called after me.

“Bless you!” I waved back without turning around.

As I cycled onward to the sea at Aquatic Paradise it occurred to me that I had misunderstood Darren and he had been too shy to tell me directly; obviously, he had the job of cutting the grass at five of the houses in that street… I chuckled to myself.

 

 

 

 

Doris Karloff

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The night was dark and the bedroom was darker, owing to the thick red velvet curtains at the windows. It was one of those airless hot nights that make you kick off the bedclothes. Wearing only a camisole and pants, I slept spreadeagled on the bottom sheet; my arms were akimbo on the pillows as I dreamt of deserts and ice-cold beer (possibly, I can’t really remember).

Suddenly, I was awakened by something cold and clammy on my underarm – just for a moment. Then it happened again. In that split second between sleep and full consciousness I conjured a cane toad (not unlike the one I saw outside on the grass as nightfall fell) hopping back and forth from the bed to my underarm. Now, as you might imagine, I didn’t think to kiss the cane toad prince – I nearly jumped to the ceiling! Poor Doris, the pretty grey cat in my care, leapt from the bed and high-tailed it back to her usual bed of choice.

In a more respectable hour of morning, when sunlight found its way through the chinks in the curtains, Boris Doris returned and woke me with a lick on my cheek. A welcome breeze has filled the house and soon I’ll be out cycling in the sunshine.

Walkies at Wellington Point

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“What is it like house-sitting at Birkdale?” my sister Mary asked me on the phone this morning.

“My house is lovely but I don’t really know about Birkdale yet – I’ve been out all the time,” I answered.

The thing is that the suburb of Birkdale is situated in-between Wynnum and Tingalpa – where two of my brothers live – and Wellington Point, which holds so many childhood memories for we Porch children; and I’ve been here for only two days. Tomorrow I shall get up at the crack of dawn and take off on my bike to discover Birkdale but for now, here are some photos of dear old Wellington Point…

 

 

Oh Ough!

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It was more of an “Ough” than an “Oh” – like an “Oh” with a grunt – and the sound came from a man on the other side of the high shoe rack in the ladies shoe section in Kmart at Wynnum Plaza today.

“Ough, ough, ough, ough,” came the rhythmic grunting cries.

“What on Earth is going on?” I wondered silently inside my head. “What could be so agonising… or rapturous?”

I continued to ponder while the grunting continued ominously out of sight. I wondered if he, like Cinderella’s ugly sisters, was trying to force a big ugly foot into a dainty shoe? Could he not express himself any better? Perhaps he was one of the party of twelve or so Eastern Europeans who had, a minute earlier, barged noisily through the ladies shoe department. An old lady in a pretty floral sun-frock caught my eye, smiled mischievously and rolled her eyes as she walked by me.

The “Ough, ough, oughs,” abated at last and I was able to concentrate on the matter in hand – finding the bargains in the ladies sandals section. I was drawn immediately to the pairs of silver sandals with the platform soles (reminiscent of the good old days in the nineteen- seventies) which were reduced from twenty dollars to seven dollars; the white ones in the same style (my preference) were at the original price and beside them were some other, prettier sandals with a band around the ankle. I tried on the latter and a tall Chinese girl with a nice smile looked on.

“I think you’ll slip forward in those and they’ll flap uncomfortably at the back,” she said thoughtfully in an Australian accent.

“I believe you’re right,” I agreed, and I replaced them with the cheap silver sandals, “Now what about these? Do they look peculiar? Are they a funny colour?”

“Are they comfortable?”, she replied, “they look comfortable.”

“And you won’t fall over in them with those chunky soles, not like stilettos,” said a red-haired lady who had joined us.”

“And they won’t penetrate the grass like tent pegs,” I quipped.

“Listen, for that price, Darl’, you can’t go wrong,” she continued, “and you could wear them to fancy dress parties.”

“So then you do think they are a funny colour?” I queried.

“No, no… not really,” the Chinese girl and the redhead said together.

“I could paint flowers on them,” I suggested.

“You can’t go wrong,” they both agreed.

“Well why don’t you buy them if they’re so good?” I asked.

“I’m only looking for a pair of shoes for a funeral, but I’ll make do with my ones at home,” the lady laughed, tossed her curly red hair and waved her goodbye.

“What do you think of these?” asked the Chinese girl showing me the white peep-toe shoes she had tried on.

“Rather nice and smart,” I answered, “they look good on you.”

“My friends and family always used to call me ‘Dinosaur’,” she said.

“Why’s that?” I asked.

“Because I’m so tall and my feet are so big!”

“But your feet aren’t quite as big as mine and you’re nice and slim,” I cajoled.

“Yes but they are all only this high,” she raised her hand to shoulder height, “and they all have feet like Cinderella.”

We laughed. Dinosaur replaced the white peep-toe shoes with black ones of the same style.

“Do you think these are better?”

“How much are they?” I inquired.

“Twenty dollars.”

“And how much are the white ones?” I asked (realising, of course, that Kmart have no qualms about colour discrimination when it comes to pricing shoes).

“Seven dollars,” Dinosaur smiled sheepishly. “Okay, thanks for your help!”

I bought the retro seven-dollar fancy-dress silver platform shoes that nobody else wanted, and I will paint them; and ough, everyone will like them then. Ough, I never found out what all that noise was about. And ough, tonight I am house and cat sitting for Jan and Neil at Birkdale, near Wellington Point (where we spent many a happy day in my childhood). But more about that tomorrough….

 

 

 

A Night to Remember

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I was with my beautiful sister Mary the first time I saw it. That must have been about twenty-four years ago – I remember I was recovering from meningitis at the time and Mary thought I could do with some fun in London and take in some shows. Everyone loves a good musical – don’t they? (Just not the Copa Cabana – enough to put me off Barry Manilow for life!) Of course, we hadn’t pre-booked anything (we’re spontaneous like that) and we just turned up at London’s West End, hoping that there would be vacant seats available for one of the big musicals.

I seem to remember that we paid the princely sum of £6 for our seats in “the Gods”. We very soon realised why they are so named – it was like being perched on the inside of a tall chimney – and, upon summoning the courage to look down at the stage, we could see only the tops of the ant-sized actors’ heads. My head reeled and I felt sick.

“Don’t worry,” said Mary (always so loving and caring), “just sit back and listen to the music, and in the interval I’ll go and see the manager.”

So, in spite of having excellent sight in those days, we didn’t actually see much of the first act. Come the interval Mary disappeared and reappeared several minutes later with a smile on her face and an urgency about her (the foyer was a long way down!).

“Come on Sally, the manager is waiting for us downstairs – he’s giving us new seats – oh, and wipe your make-up off and try to look more ill!”

Sufficiently pale and sickly-looking to appeal to the sympathy of the manager, I was ushered by the kind man and my sensible sister to perhaps the best seats in the house. I didn’t feel very attractive (I kept the pallor and pained expression going – in case the manager had his opera glasses trained on me during the performance) but that was a small price to pay for the joy of sitting in £60 seats and seeing everything in the last act perfectly.

Two nights ago, Friday night, our old friend Roland took me to the Queensland Performing Arts Centre at South Bank (near another West End, ten thousand miles from London). The seats didn’t cost the equivalent of £6 and, although the Lyric Theatre is huge, we did not feel as though we were sitting in a chimney; in fact, as the lights went down and the curtain went up on “Les Miserables” we could see and hear everything wonderfully well.

“It’s rather high – isn’t it?” whispered the lady next to me to her companion.

“She should go to Shaftsbury Avenue,” I whispered to Roland.

I thought of Mary and had another brilliant night to remember.

 

Like a Bat on a Wire

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The poor old bat! It made me think of the Leonard Cohen song… Now I have saved all my weird photos for thee…

 

“Bird On The Wire”

Like a bird on the wire,
like a drunk in a midnight choir
I have tried in my way to be free.
Like a worm on a hook,
like a knight from some old fashioned book
I have saved all my ribbons for thee.
If I, if I have been unkind,
I hope that you can just let it go by.
If I, if I have been untrue
I hope you know it was never to you.
Like a baby, stillborn,
like a beast with his horn
I have torn everyone who reached out for me.
But I swear by this song
and by all that I have done wrong
I will make it all up to thee.
I saw a beggar leaning on his wooden crutch,
he said to me, “You must not ask for so much.”
And a pretty woman leaning in her darkened door,
she cried to me, “Hey, why not ask for more?”Oh like a bird on the wire,
like a drunk in a midnight choir
I have tried in my way to be free.

 

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Writer(s): Leonard Cohen
Copyright: Sony/ATV Songs LLC

Great Scott

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“You look so picturesque fishing under the bridge there – would you mind if I take a photo or two?” I asked the old fisherman.

“No, you go for it,” said the kindly fisherman, “I’ve never had more than two photographs taken of me at any one time… but Mum always insisted on a family photograph at Christmas – I had to be in that one or she’d have killed me.”

“Photography was so expensive years ago,” I offered.

“No, it wasn’t that, I just hated having my photo taken,” he put me right.

“Actually, I must confess that I took a few sneaky shots of you as I neared the bridge,” I admitted.

“I know,” he laughed, “I heard you but didn’t think you’d talk to me – most people don’t.”

“Why not?”

“Well they see the tattoos, the bald head and the beard and they think ‘Biker’,” he smiled, raising his baseball cap to reveal his bald pate, “then they leave me alone.”

“Oh, that’s not very nice. Are you a biker then?”  I didn’t have my glasses on but I noted several tattoos and a rather long beard (of course beards are the fashion nowadays).

“Yes, the police have my details – they know my license number, they have my photo…”

“It’s so unfair how the police treat bikers in Australia! You aren’t allowed to congregate in numbers – I have read about it,” I commiserated.

“That’s right. You can say that again… although I wasn’t a good person years ago,” he added.

“But now you’re reformed – right?” I remained bright and positive.

“Well, a policeman tried three times to shoot me,” he went on.

“He wasn’t a very good shot for a policeman,” I suggested.

“No, my sister put him up to it. I haven’t spoken to her for thirty-five years because she ripped off twenty-thousand dollars from my Mum,” he was visibly upset to think of his poor mother.

“How shameful!” I agreed.

“What do you do for a living?” he asked.

“I’m and artist and writer, ” I responded. “Mind if I put your photos on my blog?”

“No, you go for it. I don’t do computers myself but I don’t mind what you do. My father was an artist – wildlife, that sort of thing. How much would you charge to do an oil painting of me?”

“It depends on the size,” I wondered if he was a poor old pensioner, “but around £400 for an A3.”

He was silent for a long moment.

“Does that sound too much?” I asked.

“Not at all, I’ve got plenty of money,” he laughed. “Well, if you find that any of the photographs you’ve taken inspire you to paint a picture I will buy it from you. My name is Scott and here is my phone number – just text me and let me know.”

 

After that I took about fifty thousand more shots of the reformed fisherman biker, and we reminisced about the good old days in Australia when lots of people were poor and brought up in the bush. Incidentally, poor old Scott is five years younger than me!