Category Archives: Writing

Ah, Speech to Text is a Good Idea

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I’ve been so busy that I haven’t had time to write many blog posts recently – something which I’d like to rectify. Now normally I like to stand at my easel and listen to my favourite psychologist and philosopher Jordan Peterson while I’m painting as I find it quite easy to multi-task when all is going well and I don’t need to concentrate too hard; and if I miss too much over a difficult area I may listen to the lecture again. However, there is no way I could write a blog post whilst painting… unless, of course, I could dictate my post.

“What a good idea!” I thought very loudly yesterday. I was waiting for paint to dry at the time. Actually I was yearning to write a post I had been considering during my morning shower (and which has been superseded by this) but I suddenly became so enamoured with the notion of “Speech to Text” that I resolved to become au fait with the technology.

Cortana, my little used laptop guide, proved to be constant in her ability to be of little use to me and, as usual, I went to Google to find out how to install the programme. Somehow, I managed it (don’t ask me how) after installing a months free trial of Word 2016 (my old one’s no good apparently) but our printer wouldn’t print out the fourteen pages of Windows Speech Recognition commands…until this morning. Chris has just brought them out to me – not much use now.

So I’m in my free trial Word 2016 with a virtual blank sheet of paper and the Speech to Text doo dah  at the top of the screen, and I can’t think of a word to say; the post formulated in my head just a little earlier would not leap into my mind or my mouth. 

“I know,” I said to myself, “I’ll dictate one of Dad’s short stories”. For years my sister Mary and I have been talking about typing out Dad’s many writings and turning them into books; Dad would have loved that when he was alive but over twelve years ago I couldn’t type to save my life or use a computer (although I have a diploma from an office course I took back in 1986!).

I run downstairs, find Dad’s black briefcase and grab the first short story that comes to hand – “The Hunchback and Harold Smith, A short story by Charles Porch”. Great! I’m back at the screen and looking at the virtual paper and “Sleeping” microphone.

“Start listening,” I say, a bit louder than normal because I suspect that the microphone is hard of hearing.

“The Hunchback and Harold Smith,” I say.

“What’s that?” the text part of the microphone device asks. It is deaf, or stupid.

“The Hunchback and Harold Smith!” I enunciate perfectly but with a bit of irritation.

“That hunt back a barrel with”, appears on the page. I delete.

“The,” I say clearly. 

“Tar,” it appears. I delete.

“Theee,” I say loudly.

“Eee,” it writes. It’s scared. I’m getting fed up.

“Tha,” I correct and add a “Bloody hell!” under my breath.

“The body well,” it writes.

“You swine,” I snarl.

“Do we mine,” it responds sarcastically.

 

And so it went on… Slowly and frustratingly… while the paint dried. It wasn’t all misery though. I laughed a bit, both at the original story and some of the hilarious Speech to Text mistakes; e.g. “Warning was 41 years of age nine; a dwarf; and a hunt back.”; or “The circular tin had once contained toffees he hasn’t been a pretty one”; or “Indeed if one ignored the dull rusting interior, it was downhill 2010”.

Tired of “spelling it” again and again I corrected most mistakes manually. I didn’t have the full commands so sometimes the whole text was lost… then found. The Speech to Text gizmo did learn eventually to produce the word ‘hunchback’, and even ‘Harold Smith’ but I fancy I shall make little use of those words when I write my blog posts in future. Besides, these days my typing is about thirty times faster than a lunatic gizmo with a vocabulary of fifty words and learning slowly (that office course must have been lying dormant all the these years!).

For those of you who’d like to read “The Hunchback and Harold Smith” by Charles All Porch I shall paste it below. In case you wonder, my father worked as a male nurse in Devizes Mental Institution in Wiltshire after the War. It is based on real characters and incidents, and this is its first public airing.

 

THE HUNCHBACK AND HAROLD SMITH

A short story by Charles Porch

Wally was forty-one years of age; a dwarf; and a hunchback.  One side of his face was paralyzed and when he laughed the loose skin on the afflicted side sank lower still, and drew his shaggy fair moustache down with it.

He couldn’t remember a life outside of the Institution although sometimes he received vague flashes of memory of how his life had been before his committal.

One is these brief mental pictures that recurred periodically was to do with newspapers.  Large piles of newspapers fresh from the presses.  The hunchback could see them stacked in an orderly row upon a wheeled, wooden table.  Above the table and running the length of it was a wide shelf quite bare except for a lidless tin box that was half-full of coppers.

The circular tin had once contained toffees and had been a pretty one.  Indeed if one ignored the dull rusting interior, it was still a pretty tin.  Around the outside of it fat, pink fairies chased each other through a woodland glade; and the scene was lit by pixies that peeped shyly around the boles of warted trees.  Wally liked the pixies because they wore funny red hats and made him laugh.  He liked to laugh and was oblivious of the sound he made; the low pitched “Aw, Awa-Awa-Aw” that pulled his moustache down and made him dribble.  He didn’t laugh very often, only when the pictures came.  There were the odd occasions when something immediate brought a spontaneous “Aw, Awa-Awa-Aw”.  Like the time when Mr Ted the Staff Nurse lost his temper and hit Harold Smith on the head with a dessert spoon.

Wally didn’t like Harold Smith!  He hadn’t much reason to like him.  Harold Smith’s main activity was following Wally around Ward 3 and waiting for him to laugh.  When Wally laughed Smith would thump him upon his hunched back.  When that occurred the funny pictures left Wally’s mind and wouldn’t come back again.

Harold Smith was a lunatic.  “Old Moses” said so.  Wally liked “Old Moses” because he had a big white beard and was boss of the dinner squad of which Wally was a member.

At twelve o’clock midday on each day of the week except Sunday Wally got a thump on the back from Harold Smith.

At that hour “Old Moses” would stand near the door of Ward 3 and shout at the top of his booming voice “We shall break bread Christ holy!” and Wally’s face would contort and he would articulate perhaps an “Aw”; and if he was lucky an “Awa” too before being cut off short.

The dinner squad, preceded by one of the staff, would leave Ward 3 and go down the long corridor, through a doorway into another corridor; through a doorway into a vast wall; through yet another doorway and emerge finally into a quadrangle.

Wally liked the jingle of the Staff Nurse’s shiny keys as they were thrown deftly into the various locks, but he liked best of all the big kitchen with its huge, shiny cookers and pans, and he was careful to make sure that its lid was snapped down “nice and tight” as directed by the pretty girl who smiled at him and called him “Wally”.  Wednesday was the big day of the week for Wally.  It was the only day on which he was heard to speak.  He received more thumps on his hump on Wednesday than the other days quotas put together because it was his happiest day.

On Wednesdays hot, thick nourishing soup was served midday for dinner and Wally had a great passion for it.  As soon as he had groped his way out of bed on Wednesday morning he would shout at the top of his voice “Zoup today!” and the young male nurses shouted back “Zoup today Wally!”; and Harold Smith was out of bed like a flash of lightning; with his fist raised and looking like a crazy, night-shirted Joe Stalin, he would position himself behind the hunchback.  When the doctor made his round on Wednesdays Wally always took up station near the door of Ward 3 and waited for him.  Hovering in the vicinity would be the relentless Harold Smith.  The doctor would be greeted with “Zoup today! Aw, Awa-Awa, Aw. Zoup today!”.  The hunchback could laugh with impunity only because Harold Smith had beside him Mr Ted who was significantly smacking the palm of his left hand with a dessert spoon.

The doctor would reply and nod smilingly to the trio, “Zoup today gentlemen!”

Nursing staff passing in the course of their duties would greet each other on Wednesdays with “Zoup today” instead of the conventional “Good morning”.  There was “Zoup today” in the laundry, in the kitchen and in the Medical Superintendent’s quarters.  Calendars were found with “Zoup today” instead of Wednesday printed upon them.  Wednesday was a great day for wits and half-wits alike.

The hunchback was always cold.  His hands were like those of a corpse.  When he felt exceptionally miserable he would climb up on a hard settle at the end of Ward 3 and sit dejectedly with his little legs swinging rhythmically.  Beside him, ever watchful, would be his Demon escort.

Harold Smith knew that on these occasions it would only be a matter of time before Wally sat on his hands.

The movement was an involuntary one on the part of the hunchback, and with it there was an involuntary association that gave him one of his happy pictures.  This scene was set on the pavement of a corner of a busy city intersection.  Crowds of people wrapped in warm overcoats passed laughing and talking in front of the news-stand.  Some would stop and buy an evening paper and say “Hello there” and give Wally some coppers.  The happy dwarf liked the pennies that were fished from the big men’s trouser pockets.  They had body warmth and he would nurse them lightly in his little fists for a minute.  Occasionally he’d be given a copper bearing the bearded head of King George.  Wally liked those especially, and he would laugh before putting them carefully into the pretty tin box.

Opposite his table-cum-barrier there was a sweet shop, brightly lit and full of Easter eggs.  Such lovely eggs!  Some of them had big bows of red, blue and yellow ribbon around their fat waists.  Others were chorus lines of portly ladies in sequinned dresses; and there were happy snowmen eggs that the dwarf liked best of all.

The snowmen wore gay bow ties, and black lips on their cotton wool faces, and red-ribboned bands were around their black top hats.

Pockets of warm air eddied around the news-stand as crowds of people waited on the pavement for the lights to change, and the newsboy could smell the men’s tobacco and the perfume of the women.  That was very nice.  When the people moved off they took the warmth with them and replaced it with bitter cold wind gusts and loneliness.

When Wally’s fingers were unbearably cold he would return to his little stall and thrust them deep into an oven of late edition newspapers and revel in the transferred heat.  By the end of each evening the dwarf’s hands would be black and polished with printers ink and look like the hands of the funny snowmen in the sweet shop window across the pavement.

That made the hunchback feel happy and when Wally was happy he laughed; and when Wally laughed he got punched for it.  The punches didn’t hurt him but they drove the happy pictures from his mind.  He hated Harold Smith!  Harold Smith was a lunatic!  Old Moses said so.  Mr Ted the Charge Nurse of No3 Ward had been responsible for Wally for twelve years.  He knew the hunchback well.  He knew all of the patients in his charge and made certain concessions for their wellbeing.

For instance, there was Wally’s old brown jacket.  It was very old, very worn and four sizes too big for him but Wally became upset if it was taken from him.  Therefore Mr Ted saw that Wally was not deprived of it.  When the garment became too evil smelling Mr Ted would confine the hunchback to bed for 24 hours and get the coat washed.

First of all he would empty it.  There were great holes in the sleeve and pocket linings.  From the former he would remove half a bucketful of various treasures – a strip of brown linoleum; two childrens painting books; long twigs and dead leaves; and a piece of waxy rag.  From the pockets would come bird seed; pieces of coloured stone, toffee wrappers, a spoon; Gillette razor blade wrappers with pictures of a bearded man engraved on them; and cut-out pictures of the bearded sailor whose countenance used to grace the front of the old Players cigarette packets.  There was often a handful or two of old boiled potato.

When next Wally wore the coat it would have the piece of lino’ and a fresh painting book in the sleeves. The pockets would contain a new Players cigarette packet, some fresh Gillette wrappers and the case of an old golf ball.

Harold Smith and no coat.  He was clad in a strong canvas overall from neck to toe with brass locks instead of buttons.  He wore boots with brass locks instead of laces.  He was very fond of his canvas suit and spent a lot of his time trying to tear it to pieces with his strong hands.  There was a broad patch across the upper half of the garment where the frayed fibres showed white against the brown material that had succumbed to the frenetic clawings of Harold Smith’s thick nails.

The seat of the overall was a padded cushion of a motley of materials woven into the canvas.  The cushion was a birds nest of paper, rag, straws and twigs. The reluctant weaver of the conglomeration was Wally the hunchback who, under threat, made holes in the seat of the canvas suit and threaded into it whatever materials Harold Smith had to hand. Surreptitiously and painstakingly, Wally had unravelled about two feet of wire from the old bird cage at the end of Ward 3, and this was used as a bodkin to poke holes through the strong canvas. After a weaving session, that usually took place in the lavatories, the wire itself was threaded finally into the padding and hung in a loop like a bucket handle.

The proud owner of this fantastic overall, wholly pleased with himself following a new weaving, would parade around Ward 3 and demand admiration from his fellow inmates. He sometimes got a kick in the cushion instead!

The inner staircase to the dormitory of Ward 3 led up from a lobby adjacent to Mr Ted’s office and pantry. The door into the dormitory from the landing on the top of stairs was kept locked by day.

On Wednesdays Wally used to sit nearly bent double on the third stair from the bottom. He used to take up position at least five minutes before midday, eagerly awaiting Old Moses’ call of “We shall break bread Christ Holy!”, so that he would be first in line when the dinner gang formed up in the lobby.

One Wednesday in July 1950 at a few minutes before noon Wally had one of his dreams. He was sitting on his hands at the foot of the stairs as per usual.

In the dream he found himself in a small shabby room. Daylight struggled valiantly to penetrate the string of washing in the back yard. Undaunted, it assailed the dirty windows and the grubby lace curtains that screened them. The hunchback was sat on a very worn, loose-hair sofa that was angled before a large iron stove. There were hot coals to gaze into. The door of the oven was open and several socks were draped over it drying. Wally could smell the familiar odour, not unpleasant, that rose with the wisps of vapour from the drying articles. Around the hearth was a black iron fender enclosing a black iron poker and a pair of long brass tongs. From the mantel-piece hung a fringe of tasselled cloth. On the mantel shelf were several gay coloured cards that gave a homely touch to the sombre room.

A big red-coated gentleman wearing a funny red hat smiled at Wally from one of the cards. The gentleman had a big white beard and looked like Old Moses.

The dwarf smiled to himself and returned his gaze to the hot coals, at the same time becoming aware of a vague figure; of a hand that began taking the pretty cards from the mantel shelf and throwing them, one by one, into the fire. “Oh no!” The paper flamed for a second or two and then subsided. “Not the funny man in the red coat with a beard!” He could hear himself shouting and then he was crying, as the flames consumed the folded card, and the red coat and hat became a grey etching on the black coals. The hunchback was standing now upon the bumpy old sofa, sobbing and beating with his little fists against the back of the obscure figure.

Wally’s dream was rudely shattered and he was brought quickly back to reality by the blows that were being delivered to his own humped back. He heard rather than felt them. He turned toward his assailant. Harold Smith leaned over the balustrade in the lobby of Ward 3 and gave the dwarf another thump for good luck.

“Sew up my bum!” he commanded, handing him six inches of bright green wool.

The dwarf took the piece of wool and Harold Smith bent down and rammed his cushion against the bannisters. The little man, ever obedient, put his hands through the iron rails and removed the threaded wire. Then he stood up, leaned over and punched his tormentor.

The man in the canvas suit was only half-straightened when the wire caught him around the throat. The little hunchback hauled backwards with all his strength and held on for half a minute before taking the wire ends a couple of turns around the handrail. It served Harold Smith right! He shouldn’t have burned Wally’s funny pictures, especially the one of the man in a red coat, with a beard like Old Moses.

It was Old Moses who saved Harold Smith’s life.

Wally was waiting as usual when Old Moses led the dinner squad into the lobby. And there was Harold Smith with his feet drumming weakly against the bare floorboards…

The hunchback didn’t bring the tea back from the kitchen that Wednesday. He has been removed to another ward since then and has his meals taken to him now. Sometimes even he has a room to himself.

Mr Ted wanders down to see him occasionally and takes him a picture book, passed on from his children; and Wally and he have an “Aw, Awa-Awa, Aw” together.

Harold Smith misses the hunchback more than anyone in Ward 3. His cushion has lost its former splendour because it’s mostly a “Do it yourself” job these days.

I am happy to report however that Wally the hunchback is safe and well. He enjoys his food as much as ever he did. He especially enjoys his dinner on Wednesdays when the hospital reverberates with the cry of “Zoup today!”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

 

 

 

Writer’s Block?

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“Sally, you’ve been a bit uninspired recently (or are you too busy to blog?),” wrote Lorelle on Facebook yesterday.

Lorelle knows me very well – she should do – we have been friends since I was eleven or twelve years old, when we lived across the road from each other at Mountjoy Terrace in Wynnum, Brisbane.

“Uninspired?,” I thought to myself and chuckled.

Of course, it might seem that way when my blog posts are few and far between or they consist of mainly photographs, but the truth is that I’m far from uninspired and desperate to get back to writing every day, not only my blog but also serious writing, especially after last Monday.

It was the day after the bicycle event that my brother Robert had organised, and in which Chris and I participated (also one of the busiest days in Dawlish owing to the Radio 1 Roadshow coming to Powderham Castle), and we were painting the table and chairs out in the studio garden. The weather was sunny and warm, the perfect day for catching up with outdoor jobs (after the long wet winter that had encroached upon spring), and we would have felt guilty just lazing around or staying indoors, on the computer. Now I enjoy listening to audiobooks, plays or interesting things on Youtube while I’m painting so we opened wide the French doors of my studio that we might hear better a recording of the writer Ray Bradbury speaking at UCLA in 1968.

The next best thing to being creative is listening to someone who inspires one to be creative and original. Ray Bradbury was witty, clever, interesting and an inspiration; and it was fascinating to note that this particular speech was given one year before Neil Armstrong made his “leap for mankind” with the Apollo 11 expedition to the moon.

I remember as a schoolgirl being enthralled by Ray Bradbury’s “The Illustrated Man” (what about the suspense of  “The Veldt”?). I didn’t know that Bradbury was so prolific a writer or that my husband had read every one of the author’s books. Chris says he has them all if I want to read them but I’m a multi-tasker – I still have so many mundane yet necessary things to do that I think I’ll stick to Youtube audiobooks for now. Yesterday, whilst at work on my sewing machine, I began “The Martian Chronicles”; this afternoon I shall be helping with painting the floor of Rosie’s barn and tomorrow I’ll be back on Mars but thinking of humanity – I can hardly wait. Maybe I’ll be painting pictures at the same time. And soon, hopefully, I’ll be back in the flow with regular blogs (not blocks!). In the meantime, as you can see from the photos, I can always find a few minutes to repair a flower fairy with a broken head…

Just click on the link below for easy access to the inspirational speech.

 

Ray Bradbury speaking at UCLA 1/17/1968 – YouTube

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R1Q0k1k43-Y
12 Mar 2014 – Uploaded by UCLACommStudies

From the archives of the UCLA Communications Studies Department. Digitized 2013. The views and ideas …

Anyone for Tennis or a Spot of Lunch?

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Bill was in the lounge-room watching tennis when he heard me ferreting around in the kitchen…

“Sally,” he said, “just come and look at this a second.”

I popped my head around the doorway and saw my brother chuckling.

“You know Dim Sims?,” he asked.

“I should do,” I answered, “you obviously haven’t read my flirt book yet!”

Bill ignored my comment and gestured to the television screen. I ran and grabbed my camera. If you don’t know about Dim Sims – the most delicious snack that ever existed in Australia – look at the delightful golden parcels next to the mini Dim Sims below! And after the photographs you’ll find the chapter, “What no Dim Sims?” from my book.

image1

The Dim Sims

 

WHAT, NO DIM SIMS?

 

 

One of the things I most look forward to when I return to my Australian roots is the simple pleasure of eating a hot and delicious dim sim. No, for the uninitiated amongst my readers, I have not spelt it wrongly – I don’t mean dim sum, dim dum, dum dum or any other variation of similar sounding words that may or may not describe a Chinese delicacy. Aficionados of the Queenslanders’ snack of choice (second only to pies) will know already that a dim sim is not one of those pale substitutes which have been making an appearance in snack bars recently. I refer to the meagre healthy option newcomers that, rather incongruously, look anything but healthy with their ashen complexions; they are those disappointing mouth-sized parcels of meat and binder swathed in thin noodle-like wrappings and boiled or microwaved until opaque and slimy.

In contrast, a perfectly cooked large dim sim is a glorious sight to behold: it is a deep-fried golden swag with handkerchief corners twisted jauntily into a crown at the top and sprinkled with a few glistering crystals of salt. Within the bountiful bundle is a filling made from a precious mystery recipe, which cannot be replicated by the canniest of cooks or even by mermaids such as me. I have tried but the secret remains safe because it is impossible to ascertain exactly what ingredients combine to create so unique and delectable a flavour.

Usually presented in a paper bag as a take-away repast, the modest, yet understandably confident, dim sim is best eaten with one’s hands rather than a knife and fork. I always begin at one of the perky twisted corners and peel it back to reveal the steaming and succulent mix that is the filling, which, if the dim sim has been cooked properly, is more than likely to be too hot to eat immediately. Therefore I am forced to deprive my taste buds of one of their most consummate pleasures for a minute or two longer. The exquisite agony of anticipation that follows is accentuated when I turn my attention to nibbling on the mouth-watering top corners. The whole upper section is firm and crisp, as is the outside skin of the beautiful sun-coloured sack, but as I work my way down, the inside layer has a tender yielding softness that has become imbued with the smell and flavour of the aromatic and luscious filling. The familiar redolence evokes memories of earlier successful dim sim dalliances and I am unable to resist; I blow on the hot concoction before savouring my first bite into the perfect assemblage of cabbage, herbs and, I’m not absolutely sure, but I think it is pork. Strange as it sounds, cabbage never tasted so good!

Not one dim sim, large or small, was to be found in the food hall at Kawana Shopping Plaza on my recent visits. Suddenly, where for years rows of golden dim sims had sat appetisingly alongside their Chiko roll cousins on hot trays in warming cabinets in all the snack bars and eateries, it was evident that many small and wet grey things had usurped them. The pallid and insipid, fat-free malingerers appeared to be the only alternative of type to the popular and inexpensive favourite of my youth and I wondered if the diet-police were in force on the Sunshine Coast. I thought perhaps a state-wide campaign had been waged and won against the dear old dim sim during my nine-month absence – it could even be nationwide for all I know! My favourite soft vanilla ice-creams dipped in molten chocolate disappeared in a somewhat twilight zone manner from Wynnum Plaza one year and never came back; it occurred to me that dim sims may have suffered the same fate, merely for being utterly delicious, which also means a tad fattening. I conjectured that some higher authority had probably deemed the deep-fried snack to be unhealthy and far too tempting for a population that the government considers too fat.

Most of us remember the great firsts in our lives such as our first day of school, our first kiss, our first boyfriend, and our first manly boyfriend. If you were a child brought up in the bush at Gumdale, as we Porch children were, there are an awful lot of firsts you remember: some were momentous events like the joy of turning on a kitchen tap in our new house – the first in our road to be connected with running water from the town supply – when our neighbours still had outside tanks; and then there are the things of less significance such as the first time Dad brought home a family tub of Kentucky Fried Chicken. I remember it now as if it was yesterday. Umm… Crisp and spicy, soft and succulent. We didn’t have a clue what part of the chicken we were tucking into to but it tasted incredible. So it was with my first dim sim, bought from the fish and chip shop down the road from my old primary school at Wynnum central; it tasted every bit as scrumptious as it looked and smelt – it set the standard for all subsequent tastings. Nobody worried about us getting fat on dim sims in those days, but then, we didn’t have them very often. And now I cannot have one at all!

I have been yearning for those crisp golden bundles of cabbage ambrosia ever since I realised there were none to be found north of Brisbane. Even the oh-so-soft in the mouth Woolies’ iced-buns do not quell my longing for the deep-fried savouries.

A short while ago, after a fretful night and dreams of diet-police, I awoke with the sun as usual and set off early for my jog walk into Wynnum and along the seafront to Manly; I did not have breakfast as I aimed to find a nice dim sim for that purpose on my travel, if indeed my suspicions were unfounded and they hadn’t been banned from every snack bar, take-away, fish and chip shop and café in Queensland. Each likely establishment I encountered on my search throughout Wynnum central shopping area was noticeably devoid of anything resembling the former most popular snack in this state after meat pies – as I told you, everybody in Australia loves pies. There would be an uprising if there were no pies to be found in Brisbane, but, evidently, the same could not be said of the missing dim sims.

“Do you have any dim sims?” I asked a teenage girl serving behind one counter.

“Dim sims?” she asked dimly, as if she had never heard of them before.

“You know,” I said rather impatiently, “Those round yellow things with cabbage inside. You sold them last year. Every take-away sold them last year and all the previous years!”

“Oh, those. I haven’t seen them for ages. We have these other dum sim things here,” and she pointed to about three hundred pallid grey things in their rows of different shapes. “Lots of people like these”, she added.

“No, thank you, I’m only interested in dim sims. Are you sure you haven’t any hidden away in the freezer by any chance?” I knew I was clutching at straws if she could not even remember them from nine months ago without prompting.

The last question perplexed the simple lass so I pressed on. To my surprise, there were similar responses from each snack bar and take-away I visited. I could not understand why there were no dim sims and why people were either very relaxed to the point of indifference about the loss of them, or they seemed to have no recollection that such a delight ever existed.

With no ground for confidence other than my natural optimism, I felt sure I could count on finding dim sims at my favourite little café, where oft times last year and other years I had succumbed to one of the enticing golden bundles, which huddled in the big glass warming-cabinet facing the passers-by. The two tables were still there outside on the pavement for eating while watching the world go by. As I approached the counter it was impossible not to notice the large squat man with the big square head sat at a smaller table standing adjacent to the entrance. Nearly filling the little table in front of the man with the enormous head was a huge oval meat-plate piled high with steak and chips (or French-fries, si vous preferrez); a token lettuce leaf and a thin slice of tomato on the side served as both a nod to healthy eating and a salve to the conscience. Rather unkindly, I linked the gigantic meal with the giant head and the walking sticks propped against an arm of his chair; then I admonished myself for joining the ranks of my bête noire – the despised diet-police.

A tiny grandmotherly Chinese lady hid meekly behind the towering glass-fronted counter while I peered in. I didn’t recognise her; she may have been the new owner, or perhaps, more likely, she was an elderly relative stepping in. My heart sank yet again when I noted that all the warm eatables on display were grey, and there was no sign of the yellow beacons I yearned for.

“Do you have any dim sims?” I asked without holding out any hope by this time.

English was not her forte, and “dim sims” probably, sounded very much the same as dum sims to her. She must have thought me blind or stupid because she responded with a wave of the hands that suggested all the grey titbits inside the cabinet were varieties of what I had just said.

“What are they?” I queried futilely in an effort to keep some sort of conversation going.

“I make,” she said proudly and with a hopeful smile – she understood the art of conversation. Then the eager little lady patted her tummy; we both laughed and we both knew she would make a sale.

The man with the square head jumped up from his lofty meal to act as interpreter and arbiter of taste. He assured me that the grey things shaped like half-moons were the best things since dim sims. Mindful of the claims, but doubtful that my unsophisticated palate would appreciate the subtlety of flavour offered by the healthy options; I left with two microwaved wet things.

When I arrived back at Henry’s twenty minutes later the once steaming grey mouthfuls I had bought as a breakfast treat for us both had become cold and shrivelled up; the opaque exterior had hard creases resembling skin that had spent too long in water. I was fearful that if I zapped them again in the microwave they might explode.

“What’s this?” Henry asked as he prodded the embryo-like grey thing with the dry crumpled skin – he adopted the dubious sneer of one who had not yet noticed the invasion of the dim sim snatchers.

“This is what you get when you ask for dim sims nowadays.” I had to laugh.

“Incredible,” my brother tutted.

“That’s exactly how the man with the square head described them too,” I giggled.

“How do I eat it – with my fingers?”

“Well, we won’t burn our fingers. Here goes!” We each took our first bite. Henry’s face spoke volumes.

“Would you prefer some toast and …” I didn’t have the chance to finish.

“Bonghy? Yes please, Sally. I’m glad we think alike.” Henry raised his right eyebrow in the fashion of the Simon Templar character from “The Saint” and we burst out laughing.

After that experience I dismissed the idea of having any more dim sims for breakfast. I had, more or less, come to the conclusion that the golden oldies were now obsolete and off the menu forever.

Yesterday it rained again but I went out for my usual jog-walk anyway – you know how much I enjoy singing in the rain. I was in Wynnum, walking under the shelter of shop awnings whilst waiting for the rain to abate a little when I saw the now familiar sight of the square-headed man at the café that no longer sells the old-style dim sims; unfortunately, the name ‘Meathead’ had planted itself in my mind and I felt guilty for being so uncharitable. The man with the voracious appetite occupied exactly the same spot as the day before and he was eating the same gigantic breakfast on an oval meat plate; there was another enormous slab of cow served with chips piled high and a nominal salad on the side, the only difference was the addition of a single raw onion ring. Meathead’s eyes met mine and I smiled a greeting and said something almost unwittingly, and which I soon regretted. I am afraid it was the same old cliché that people in similar situations to me invariably rattle off without great consideration; a harmless enough thing to say one might think, and yet I wince as I enlighten you. It was, and I will never say those words ever again – “You must live here!”

This was the opening he had been waiting for. It was his one opportunity. Meathead’s reaction formulated before my very eyes, but I was too naïve to grasp that I had unlocked Pandora’s Box and too slow to make a pre-emptive move. He started with a smile and I was taken in momentarily. I sat down opposite him out of politeness after he began his sentence; I remembered reading somewhere that disabled people prefer to speak to others at eye level to themselves. If only I hadn’t read that particular article! If only there had not been a chair for me to sit upon (there certainly wasn’t room for another plate)! If only! His sentence had no end, there was no apparent pause for breath, and therefore no chance to break in; there was no way out for me without appearing rude. His smile was fleeting; it lasted only as long as it took to tell me that he lived across the road and always ate breakfast at the same place in the open air to catch the morning shoppers “for the company”.

I was tied to my chair by my upbringing and staring right into Meathead’s face; it looked much better when I was standing. Pointing to his apartment across the road, he went on to tell me that it was three floors up and, “what with my knees being so bad…” I considered his three hundred pounds in weight and I put on a sympathetic face. He didn’t pause to let me speak, perhaps fearful that I might make my excuses and leave (which I would have). Sensing that I probably wondered if he had ever been married (he was right) he carried on, and as he did so, his mouth began contorting and I saw that his piggy eyes were the palest and coldest of blues. He revealed that his wife was a “brownie” and I wondered what kind of man would refer to his wife in such a way; I began to suspect he was one of those nasty “Bogan” people that Xavier had told me about – a Morlock in my perception. The revered wife had, apparently, “never been accepted” and died in their house when it was burnt down. Inside my head I screamed in panic, “Oh dear. Let me out of here!”

Meathead continued to spit out his story but my ears refused to listen any more whilst my eyes and my mind went into overdrive. His yellow teeth were a good deal too sharp and pointy, betraying too much of the carnivore about him. His hair was very black for an older man and he had a fringe down to his eyebrows that accentuated the square-ness of his already square head. His long oily hair was straight and stuck flat to his scalp for the first four inches before it jutted outwards over his wing nut ears and trailed in thin rat’s tails over his shoulders. In his left ear he wore a gold sleeper embellished with a miniature skull that moved freely around the golden ring with each vigorous turn or nod of his head, and there were many. But I didn’t think he looked like a pirate or even a Hell’s Angel – we mermaids are intuitive, and we are usually right. It gradually dawned on me that the vitriolic fellow at the table was not a man at all, but a troll presiding from his vantage point over all the comings and goings that he could see, including the meek little Chinese lady, who cowered behind the counter at the café. The moment that the troll included swearing in his diatribe against humanity I felt freed of any moral or social obligation to stay; at that point I emulated the Bee Gees when they walked out on an unpleasant interviewer – like them, I stood up with dignity and calmly walked away without saying a single word. Meanwhile Meathead continued ranting what must have been one of the longest sentences in history.

 

This morning the sun was shining and my world was a rosier place. I took a different route on my constitutional and thus avoided meeting the “fat controller” (another way I regarded the troll). I entered the town centre from one of the streets farther up in the grid, so I had the advantage of seeing his sentry post from the opposite direction at a safe distance; he was there again like a judge at his bench, and a gavel in each hand; but he didn’t see me as I crossed over and disappeared down the hill to the seafront. Incidentally, had Meathead turned around he might not have recognised the strange looking woman wearing an ugly baseball cap from Brunei, dark glasses and long plaits.

I had not had breakfast and I was on the way back from Manly, and flagging from my exertions, when the desire for food hit me. As luck would have it, at the very moment hunger struck I was standing right outside the take-away café on the corner opposite the drinking fountain near the wading pool. What a coincidence! I’d long since given up on the notion of finding any dim sims but there were still chiko rolls. Hopefully, I had one dollar and twenty cents in my pocket and I wondered if it would be enough. A chiko roll is another deep-fried savoury snack and looks like a large spring roll. In fact, I prefer spring rolls nowadays but I always buy at least one of the dim sim cousins when I am in Australia because I enjoy the nostalgia. I could not tell you what is inside a Chiko roll – it is another secret recipe, not that I know the secret, of course – but I can tell you they are quite nice, though not as delicious as dim sims. Nothing is as sumptuous as a golden dim sim, especially when there are none to be found anywhere!

At one of the tables outside the café a couple of hunky senior boys on school holidays eyed me up and down, and I felt embarrassed; I quickly undid my weird plaits and took off my baseball cap and sunglasses before going inside.

A tall Vietnamese girl greeted me with a beautiful smile as I entered.

“Good morning! Isn’t it a lovely day? And what can I do for you today?” she asked chirpily in an Australian accent with a slight Vietnamese twang that must have come from her parents.

“Well, what I’d really love you don’t appear to have, and you probably won’t remember what they are anyway, so I’ll just have a Chiko roll please”, I returned her infectious smile.

“It’ll take a few minutes,” she said.

The girl with the sunny disposition disappeared momentarily and returned from the kitchen in thoughtful mode.

“I was thinking about what you just said, tell me, what is it that you really love and we don’t have?” She looked as though she was truly interested.

“Dim sims,” I answered, half afraid that I was going to disappoint the delightful girl because she would not be able to help me.

“I knew it! I knew it!” she said with glee.

“You seem to be the only person who remembers them from last year,” I responded, happy at last to meet a normal person with a memory greater than that of goldfish.

“Of course I remember them. They were our best sellers! You didn’t know the factory burnt down then?”

“So that’s it! Thank you so much for solving the mystery! I wonder why nobody else told me. I don’t live here anymore and it’s nine months since I was here last. Do you know if they are rebuilding the factory?”

“I’m not sure but I would think so. Don’t you think there would be some kind of public uprising if Australians couldn’t get their dim sims?” she winked.

I took my steaming hot breakfast over to the tables under the trees on the seafront. Oddly enough this morning’s fresh chiko roll tasted every bit as good as the first one I ever tried. But it wasn’t quite as good as a dim sim, naturally!

Boxing Day Blues

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A marvellous Christmas Day was had by all at Charis’s house, where I am house-sitting currently in Seventeen Mile Rock (I know, what a funny name for a suburb of Brisbane, Australia!). Would you believe that Rudolph the reindeer turned up, minus his red nose but with rose pink hair (he’s such a deer!)? Then, of course, there was Merry Lorelle, who wore a cute festive red apron while she and I prepared the roast dinner; and, good sport that she is, Merry Christmas didn’t object when presented with a black Afro wig to wear under her tiara. (specially designed with her name on it). Like Merry, I was wearing red shorts and an identical tiara – but without the red feather. Santa rolled up at twelve-thirty and the day got into full swing, in particular, when the little deer took on the role of disc jockey.

Instead of wearing big black boots, evidently, Father Christmas had changed into summer snow shoes; and he wore red shorts trimmed with white fur (for the expected authenticity). Likewise, his coat was made for a Christmas party in Queensland, therefore it was short-sleeved and worn without a modest thermal vest beneath (and it barely covered his brown stomach).

We were grateful we had opted for roast pork rather than roast turkey, if not only because no-one had thought to buy a turkey but also because the little deer was nursing what we first believed to be a duckling back to health (after it had been mauled the previous night by Archer the cat – one of my current charges). Sadly, the baby brush turkey (notorious, but protected, in these parts for scratching around and ruining gardens) died during the course of the afternoon and the tiny brown bird was laid to rest near the fence at the bottom of the back yard.

“Perhaps it’s for the best,” Merry Christmas consoled Rudolph, “Charis may not have wanted her plants dug out… and I certainly wouldn’t!”

Nevertheless we were sorry for the mite that had flown but once in his short life – when he had fallen from Rudolph’s knee to the ground.

“At least he experienced flying,” said the deer wistfully.

At length it was time for some good things to come to an end. Merry Christmas had far to go – back up t’North Coast – and Rudolph accompanied her like the good deer he is. Finally Santa, also had “fish to fry” (or catch, perhaps) and continued on his merry way with a “Ho, ho, ho…” (to his own patch of garden?). And I was all alone…

And yet, I wasn’t completely alone. I had slept with a ginger male (everything has been red this Christmas!) who had been content to bask in my company all night and lapped up every stroke and touch; he was still on the bed as the light of dawn permeated through the curtain. A crow cawed outside and I awoke to find the familiar furry body snuggled against my thigh. I stretched my hand down to find him. He licked me. A siren sounded, long and deep, which was followed by the barking of a nearby dog – “For Christ sake shut up!” the barker seemed to say. For what seemed several minutes the siren kept howling… and then I realised that it was howling.

After hours of housework, and feeling so alone on Boxing Day, I considered going to Lone Pine Koala Sanctuary (not far from Seventeen Mile Rock) but decided I would not enjoy it enough on my lonesome ownsome to justify the $36 entry fee. Instead, I went for a walk to discover the local nature corridor behind the fence – Santa had said that it might lead to the Brisbane River. I couldn’t have been out for much more than thirty minutes – it wasn’t a long corridor after all – and I ended up in a cul-de-sac. Kookaburras laughed on the boughs of distant gums while I returned home, even more lonely, with stomach-ache.

I was somewhere “between a (seventeen mile) rock and a hard place”, not wishing to be a burden on anyone – wishing I was home with Chris in England. Ginger stretched seductively on the rug and I stroked his head. It didn’t do “it” for me this time. The pet lorikeets heard my feet on the floor as I passed their room and they catcalled. We chatted nonsense – none of us understood – but I felt I understood their need to speak, especially on Boxing Day. The telephone rang and I said some more nonsense.

“What’s up with you?” Santa asked.

“It’s just that it’s the first time I’ve ever been on my own on Boxing Day,” I complained.

I looked out the window as we spoke and I noticed a crowd of crows in the garden, down by the fence… down where the baby brush turkey had been laid to rest.

Nevertheless, by the end of the conversation I was smiling again. Then I phoned Chris. He was up and had already shaved and had breakfast. He had to get ready for Boxing Day visitors – our middle daughter and her boyfriend. Chris was glad I had called. I phoned Lorelle (Merry) and she quite understood why I’d been feeling blue on Boxing Day (girl friends always do).

Finally, I went in to chat to the birds again and I was feeling confident that we were becoming friends. While I was talking, and replenishing their food supplies, Gregory Peck bit me – hard enough to draw blood – but I didn’t scold him; he is just a lonely bird who talks nonsense and enjoys having a peck sometimes.

 

“I’ll Eat my Hat…”

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“Can you reverse?” asked the young woman who had got out of the car behind me and, unnervingly (for me), bent her head down into my car (which had the top down).

At the time I was on my way to Rosie’s farm. I had met an enormous green tractor that occupied the whole width of the country lane, and the kindly farmer, being closer to a passing point, had been reversing until a car with a trailer caught up with him and halted his excellent backwards progress. I turned off Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony (Part 1), which was playing on Classic FM, and which had hitherto made the experience of meeting the gigantic green tractor in the lane less stressful; and now, with a young upstart’s head peering down at me, I felt vexed. What did she mean? –  “Can you reverse?” How did she think I passed my driving test? (Admittedly, reversing was my least strong point.)

“Of course I can reverse,” I replied. (I refrained from adding “You cheeky monkey!”)

“I’ll eat my hat if I can’t reverse!” I said to myself as Miss Smarty-Pants went back to her car and I put my sporty car into reverse gear.

The country lane was rather winding, which meant that sometimes I had to pull forward to realign the position of my car before reversing again; in truth, it was a fairly slow process and, all the while, the tractor was advancing. Unfortunately, the nearest passing point behind me was about a quarter of a mile back. Embarrassingly for me, the young blonde had zipped back to that point in no time at all and, in fact, had left her car and walked down to my car to offer her assistance yet again.

“Do you want me to reverse it for you?” she asked in a manner that would brook no refusal as she dipped her head into my car again.

I looked at her dirty boots and her braided blonde hair, and decided, reluctantly, to relinquish my car to the formidable horsey girl.

The farmer smiled pleasantly as he passed; the driver of the car-with-trailer cheered and waved to the horse-girl as he passed. I got back into my driving seat and zoomed off ahead of Miss Horsey – I’d show her who could drive! (Luckily, I didn’t meet any more tractors!)

Before long all thoughts of narrow roads, impasse and the impatient horse girl had faded into memory, and I was following the two black tails belonging to Malachi and Inca as they rushed ahead through the long grasses to the top of the hillside. Happy to keep me in their sights for company, they were eager to press on to the top fields where the sky meets the hedgerows, where lavender grows and a crop of golden barley is ready to be harvested; and wild daisies, like tiny dabs of white and yellow paint, add to the scene of pastoral paradise. I was equally happy to trail in their path at my own rate and pick mushrooms to my heart’s delight.

The upturned straw hat in my hands was overflowing with lavender and mushrooms as I wended my way back down to the old farmhouse. I thought of my father who, when we were little children in Gumdale (Australia), would sometimes awaken us before sunrise and whisper:

“Want to come with me and hunt for mushrooms?”

“Yes, Dad!” we used to thrill.

“Well put on your Wellington boots then…”

I had a few tears, as I often do when I think of nice things we did with my late father, but I was joyful, not sad. Malachi and Inca were waiting for me by the gate and I put down the hat full of mushrooms while I patted and cuddled them. Picking up my hat again I smiled to myself and thought:

“I’ll eat my hat… well, what’s in it!”

 

 

Strangers on the Ford

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It was mid-afternoon, the sun was out and Chris and I wanted to cycle over to the ford, sit on the little road bridge that spans the ford, and dip our feet in the cool water – that’s why I wore  thong sandals (flip flops in England but I’m an Aussie). But when we arrived – oh no! – someone was in our spot and it didn’t look like he had any intention of budging. He wore shorts, a tee-shirt and a hat, and was sat cross-legged like a Buddha (though he lacked the big stomach); his eyes were shut and his left hand rested on the border collie sat beside him. He seemed not to hear our arrival.

We parked our bikes and I took a couple of video clips of Chris ringing my new red and white spotted bicycle bell, which we had bought this morning, and of which I am very pleased (it’s very pretty and loud!). The sound of my new bell aroused the man sat in our spot and I noticed he looked our way, but only for a moment and then he closed his eyes again.

Just as we approached the water streaming across the road an old lady had come down the hill and rounded the corner; soon she stood at the end of the bridge. The sitting man made to stand up and make way for the lady.

“No, no,” she said, “don’t get up, there’s plenty of room for me to walk past you.”

They smiled at each other and I thought, “He can’t be a bad sort if he was prepared to move for the lady.” That thought made me bolder and I took off my thongs, looked at him and asked:

“Is that a sheep dog?”

He nodded and gave a half-smile.

“Mind if I sit by you on the bridge and dangle my feet in the water?”

He was a quiet man but was amiable enough and indicated his assent with a wave of his hand.

At first I sat at the end of the bridge and Chris, who had joined me, had to sit on a clump of grass a foot or two away from the bridge. The white haired lady stood and rested against the stone wall at the other end of the bridge.

“This is one of my favourite spots,” declared the old lady with a radiant smile.

“It’s ours too,” I spoke for us both and looked at the Buddha man.

He nodded and smiled benevolently.

“Is it a girl?” I asked as I patted his dog.

“Yes, her name is Shadow,” he replied.

For the next hour half or so the lady chatted to us about her life – where she lived, her age (eighty- seven), the parish church, some of the people she knew (and we knew), and the pleasure of walking in our beautiful countryside so close to our town. The man sat cross-legged on the bridge said very little – or perhaps he said nothing more at all – but he looked at the old lady kindly and nodded and smiled at us all. I moved closer to Shadow the border collie in order to pet her more easily and Chris moved closer to me so that he was almost on the bridge. The whole while my happy feet played in the delicious cool water.

“Well, I had better go on my way now,” said the lady.

“What’s your name?” I asked, standing up to shake her hand.

“Muriel,” she held my hand.

“I’m Sally,” I said.

“And I’m Chris,” Chris stood.

“I’m Adrian,” said the Buddha man holding out his hand to each of us in turn.

Muriel walked on and Chris and I collected our bikes. I sounded my new bell and Adrian looked over and waved. We soon caught up with Muriel. Of course, she heard us coming and made a comic bow as I passed by, my bright red bell ringing and Chris’s horn honking.

 

“And so Faintly you Came Tapping, Tapping at my Chamber Door”

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No, the kookaburra has not been back again today, tapping at the window with his beak but, whilst I searched for the lyrics to the songs in my previous blog post, I came across “The Raven”, a poem by Edgar Allan Poe. I hope the kookaburra’s antics bore no such meaning as that of the raven in the poem.

 

The Raven

BY EDGAR ALLAN POE

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
    While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—
            Only this and nothing more.”
    Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
    Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
    From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
            Nameless here for evermore.
    And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
    So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
    “’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—
            This it is and nothing more.”
    Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
    But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
    And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—
            Darkness there and nothing more.
    Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
    But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
    And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—
            Merely this and nothing more.
    Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
    “Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;
      Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
            ’Tis the wind and nothing more!”
    Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
    Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
    But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—
            Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
    Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;
    For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
    Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
            With such name as “Nevermore.”
    But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
    Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—
    Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”
            Then the bird said “Nevermore.”
    Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store
    Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
    Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
            Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”
    But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
    Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
    Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
            Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”
    This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
    This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
    On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
            She shall press, ah, nevermore!
    Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
    “Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee
    Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
    Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
    On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
    Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
    It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
    “Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
    Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
    Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
    And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
    And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
    And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
            Shall be lifted—nevermore!
Click on  the Christoffer Hallqvist links (in blue) below for an analysis of the poem. 

Christoffer Hallqvist, also known as Qrisse, is a computer scientist from Sweden. His reason for dedicating his spare time to Edgar Allan Poe is simply the love and respect he feels towards the author and his work. Qrisse’s Edgar Allan Poe pages, the former host of the Poe Decoder, has been available on the Internet since late 1995, and was one of the first pages available on-line to provide factual information on Poe’s life. The pages worked, and to some extent still work, as a gathering point for Poe enthusiasts on the Internet, and was Christoffer’s way into the Poe community.
qrisse@poedecoder.com

The illustration and this text is copyright ©1998, Christoffer Hallqvist. Publishing rights are exclusive to the Poe Decoder. The text may not be published, on the Internet, or elsewhere, without the author’s permission.

Sea Fever

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I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky….

It’s not quite that lonely down by the sea at Dawlish, our delightful seaside hometown, where I shall be heading in a little over a week, but I do miss it… And I can hardly wait to see all my English family and friends again. Oh, and of course, it will be wonderful to see Chris, my beloved husband (we just had our seventeenth anniversary!). Talking of Chris, he sent me these photographs of the wild sea – taken from our balcony.

By coincidence, as I was checking out John Masefield on Wikipedia I discovered that the famous poet was born in Abingdon, Berkshire – home of Chris’s illustrious forbears (Robert Orpwood, mayor of Abingdon).

 

Sea Fever

BY JOHN MASEFIELD

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;
And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking.
I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.
I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.
John Edward Masefield in 1916.jpg

John Masefield in 1916
Born 1 June 1878
Ledbury, Herefordshire, England
Died 12 May 1967 (aged 88)
Abingdon, Berkshire, England
Occupation poet, writer
Nationality English
Period 1902–1967
Genre poetry, children’s novels
Notable awards Shakespeare Prize (1938)

 

Robert Orpwood of Abingdon – painted circa 1615. Very pretty in his ruff but not a patch on Chris!

Bloomin’ Weather

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Nearly a week of grey skies, cold winds and rain has not been conducive to daily cycle rides – we poked our noses out a few times and thought better of it – however, in spite of the poor weather, and whilst we were feeling miserable and cosseting ourselves inside, Mother Nature continued her work in the hedgerows.

Encouraged by some large gaps in the clouds this morning, Chris and I took to our bikes. In the intervening days since last we were on our local bridle path a transformation has taken place; the formerly plain, green heads on the plentiful cow parsley, lining the cliff path all the way down to the sea, have blossomed into frothy bundles of tiny white flowers; they are the perfect backdrop to the pretty pink campion flowers that, seemingly, have stretched upwards, with great will, before blooming, in order that they may look their best against a background of white and blue (and grey).

Incidentally, the skies have clouded over again… Bloomin’ English weather!

 

Thoughts From Bed

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Upon awakening I stayed, eyes still shut, in my bed and I just lay there, thinking. I sensed I was alone and I might have thought that I was still in Australia, house-sitting, except for the fact that I was on a different side of the bed – not my natural bent to the right side – and the bed was softer. At around six-thirty in the morning (I guessed later) it was dark; not dissimilar to five-thirty in Loganholme latterly, just before sunrise, and my preferred time to stir from sleep in order to make the most of the cooler part of the day. Until a week ago I used to sleep under a sheet only, perhaps pulling a cover over me in the early hours but kicking it off again and throwing a foot out over bed even before the sun had emerged. This morning I was demure, forced into shyness inside a winter duvet cocoon.

My eyes remained shut and I thought about my son, James. For some reason – maybe because he has just got married – my mind went back to the time I first laid eyes on him; he was long and thin, a tad jaundiced, a little bruised and horny from the forceps, and somewhat Chinese-looking. “He’s like David,” I said to myself at the time, although my baby’s father didn’t look in the slightest bit Chinese or goat-like. David didn’t make it to the wedding on Sunday. Some people had wondered why. I decided that David had thought one father of the groom would be enough at a Sikh wedding and I suspect he was right. Nevertheless, he missed something spectacular and amazing, not for the first time.

From behind my closed eyelids I could sense the sunlight entering our bedroom, not only through the curtain material but also in chinks around the gaps at both sides and top and bottom of the curtains. At length I gave in to the beckoning of the sun and opened my eyes. I was alone. Yet again it occurred to me that, by always getting up so early, Chris missed out on the pleasure of us waking together and, for a moment or two I felt lonely.

I observed the mountain of clothes on the Ottoman at the end of my bed and cringed – my idea of emptying the contents of my suitcase onto the bed, therefore forcing me to put things away immediately, had not worked because I promptly forgot they were there until bedtime last night.

I arose and went upstairs. Through the open door to the lounge room I could see the evidence of an hour or so of ironing endeavours.

“Good morning Darling,” said Chris with surprise as he entered back into the kitchen. “Would you like a cup of tea or coffee?”

“Tea please,” I smiled, making for the bathroom. It was somehow kind of comforting to know that I didn’t have to tell him how I like my tea.

“Shall we have our tea back in bed?” Chris asked.

“Yes please.”

Back in the bedroom the mountain of clothes insisted upon being reduced to a foothill and prevented us from taking our usual early morning tea ritual in bed.

“Sorry about the  mountain,” I apologised.

“That’s okay,” said Chris, “Do it little by little. Remember last time your suitcase hung around for two weeks?”

So I sipped my tea and slipped a few more things away in the wardrobe, and I didn’t feel odd – I felt like I was getting back to normal.