It’s Not Easy Being Green

Just a very short one thoughtful and enthusiastic reader, to advise that on Sunday 16 November Albertus Zwier Mangels, beloved of all of us, celebrates his 60^th birthday.

 

What a pity if such an occasion were to go unmarked in these shadowy cyber pages.

 

I have made some researches into the proper rendering of his name, as there are those who suggest that it should be Zwier Albertus Mangles rather than the other way ‘round if you take my meaning.

 

Leading the way in their traditional, odious fashion are the nauseating desk jockeys of the Civil Aviation Authority, a curse on their houses.

 

It seems that our smug friends at the CAA foolishly sought to impose on our favourite iron thewed titan the fatuous restrictions of sub regulation 202.225 (5) of the Civil Aviation Safety Regulations 1998.

 

How he must have laughed. 

 

How I wish I had been there.

 

Anyway, the upshot seems to be that they deregistered his little home made helicopter in about July of 2006.  Why there was not a howl of protest from the Civil Libertarians about this I don’t know.  Surely there are many among us who felt just a little safer to know that in our hour of need this super man might appear from the sky in his kit copter and dispense justice on all sides.

 

Dare I say Deus Ex Machina?

 

Yes, I dare say.

 

Of course his dog may have been happy, if he did get another one. 

 

Still, the happy occasion of his birthday this Sunday should not be sullied by our petty ruminations.  We wish him well and hope he has many more.

 

 

Oh, Weave a Circle ‘Round Me Thrice

I’m not so sure about this one, trusted and kindly reader, but it swam into my ken and so here ‘tis (to quote novelty lavatory indicator).

We got free milk when I was at primary school.

Not because we were poor. At least not as far as I know. I am pretty sure everyone got it. I mean to say, if we were getting free milk because of poverty, surely we would have got lots of other great poverty type of stuff too, like blankets and maybe flour and tea. But we didn’t. No canned goods, secondhand clothing or expired medicine either.

No, I am pretty sure that all primary school students here used to get a small bottle of milk each day. I don’t think it happens any more.

As I recall there was usually an assembly after morning recess. A couple of the lucky grade 7’s from the two unit would get to play a march of some sort on a couple of drums and we would all gather in forms on the asphalt part of the schoolyard.

The headmaster would take the microphone and after the usual carry on with feedback and the cord getting caught ‘round his ankle, he would make announcements. You know the sort of thing;

“Owing to an outbreak of chiggers, the top oval and the area behind the bike sheds will be out of bounds until further notice.”

It didn’t really matter what was said ‘cos you couldn’t hear him anyway but he would rabbit on for a few minutes while we all pushed each other or threw uneaten fruit around.

After the Headmaster had finished, we got the milk. It could be a mixed bag.

You see, it was delivered at some point during the morning, and left stacked in wire crates against a tall red brick wall on the asphalt. From there it was distributed to the milk monitors from each class who went up and collected it then brought it back to us to drink.

Winter was fine but outdoors, on asphalt and next to a wall was not a good place to keep small containers of milk during an Australian summer. Not all of it survived the experience intact.

I should add that this was a gentler time. The primary school children of that era were not haunted by global warming. No lingering and uncomfortably warm deaths for us, just the relatively quick vaporisation of the Hydrogen Bomb or at worst a couple of weeks of radiation sickness followed by some festering sores, some coughing and a quiet demise.

So we didn’t dwell on rising sea levels during those blistering summer mornings, we just wondered what would await us when we prised off the foil cap and peered in.

Sometimes it was just a small bottle of tepid milk, sometimes a little cream on top if the Homogenisation had started to break down.

Sometimes you got a solid plug of greenish curd floating on watery whey. You had to push it in with your finger to unclog the mouth of the bottle.

For some reason that I cannot now fathom, you still had to drink it.

It would, however, be fair to say that not all of it was drunk.

I can remember that someone discovered that if you make a tiny hole in the lid with a compass (an item of stationery used for everything except drawing circles) you could sort of blow into the hole then lift the bottle up at arm’s length and direct an extremely thin stream of milk into your mouth like someone drinking from a tiny wineskin.

Of course, a lot of milk would go all over your uniform and many a silver fleece was never quite the same again, but by gum it was diverting and diversion was what we needed.

I never made it to the heady heights of Milk Monitor.

Sure, I got to play the assembly drums once and was occasionally allowed to tend the school incinerator. Naturally I, like any of the others, was happy to clean the blackboard or brandish the “Stop” sign at the school crossing, but of all the thinly disguised child labour that was part of school life back then, the lugging ‘round of those wire crates and deciding who got the cooler milk in the middle of the rack was a joy I was never to know.

A pity, I am sure that that would have been a power I would have enjoyed abusing.

Sweet Redeemer

Just a short one, impressive and delicious reader.

I was leafing idly through the sporting pages the other day when I came across the “profile” of an emerging young Australian Rules footballer.  You know the sort of thing.  They list his favourite colour, most influential role model, favourite Romantic Poet and 3 tips for averting climate change. 

 Immediately after “Favourite meal: spaghetti Bolognese” came  “Favourite film: The Shawshank Redemption.”  There was something in this that gave me cause for pause.

Not the spag bol.  That is quite understandable.  These young fellows are wrenched from mum’s cooking at a fairly early age and thrust into share households with other young men who spend hours every day working up an appetite. Spag bol is the only thing that they can cook that will fill that hole.

No, what struck me was the good old Shawshank Redemption. 

I have read a few of these player profiles over the years and it occurs to me that ever since “The Shawshank Redemption” came out, any professional AFL footballer who has been asked has given it as his favourite film.

At first I doubted that this could be correct, but I checked it out by going through back issues of the newspaper on microfiche at the local library and I think I can say it is official.  Not a single player has given any other film as his favourite.  Not one.

In the interests of science I should have gone back further to see if there was another film that was favoured before the release of  “Shawshank”, but the microfiche zooming all over the place had given me one of those headaches that older readers may remember, so I stopped.

What I would like to know is, what is it about this film that makes it appeal to professional AFL footballers?  Some of them are nearly as old as the film itself, but that doesn’t seem to make any difference.

As always, I turned to reason and logical thinking for an answer, and was rewarded with 2 possible explanations.

The first is that there is something about being a skilled AFL player that makes you like the film. 

The second possible explanation is that there is something about watching this film that makes you into a better AFL player.

I don’t know which of these is true, but the science is rock solid.  I have a control.

In the best scientific tradition, I applied my theory to myself.  This is what my researches revealed.

I don’t really like “The Shawshank Redemption” much.

I WAS A TERRIBLE FOOTBALLER.

Yes, the proof of this particular pudding is in the eating and I ate up nearly one hundred games of amateur football in which I amply demonstrated that I should have stayed home and learned how to knit or something.

This leaves the burning question, could I have helped myself by forcing myself to sit through “The Shawshank Redemption”?

Perhaps I could have.  I should say that it is not likely as I stopped playing long before the film was released.  But might this work for other inept and ill co-ordinated youngsters who long to carve out a career in sport?  Imagine row upon row of them forced to watch it on a continuous loop until they could do a lace out stab pass on the run or whatever they are called.

Alternatively, they could be shown “The Shawshank Redemption” and if they don’t like it, could pursue a different career.  Possibly in film criticism.  Or advanced cookery.

Another thing that occurs to me is that AFL is a game with an unusual set of skills.  Possibly professionals in other codes show a preference for other films.  Perhaps Union footballers like “The Great Escape”, League footballers enjoy “The Magnificent Seven” and Association footballers relax in front of, for example, “Deliverance”. 

There is also the question of other professional athletes and indeed other trades, callings and professions.

Do plumbers all like “To Kill a Mockingbird”.  Do teachers relax in front of “Citizen Kane”?  Is there something about watching “La Cage Au Folles” that enables you to make better shoes?

I don’t know.  The research that I have conducted to this point have all but exhausted me and I pass the baton to my readerboat.

It seems to me that there is a rich vein to be tapped here.  Again, without any thought of a Nobel Prize, allow me to offer myself as a control.

I like “Being John Malkovich” and “Cool Hand Luke”.  If anyone knows what that says about me, I would be pleased to know.

A Poor Showing

I apologise for my recent absence, gorgeous and resourceful reader. My health took a turn for the worse and I have been sequestered in the emergency wing of the Harry Kewell Gout Facility where I have enjoyed the benefit of the most advanced treatments available for this pernicious condition.

Last time I was in there they strapped me into a chair and drilled my teeth. It hurt, but not as much as the gout. I suppose they thought it was a counter irritant.

This time I have mainly been strapped into a chair (a craze of theirs it seems) with big sort of tweezer things holding my eyelids open, enabling me to watch disturbing video clips while Ludwig Van blasts out from speakers on all sides.

I am pleased to say that a few weeks of this has left me refreshed although I do yearn for a white singlet and a bowler hat. I will let you know how I go with that. Some eye makeup might be nice, too.

Anyway, the great toe of my left foot has now largely recovered and can take the weight of the bedclothes resting on it, which is pleasing because the Amity Society is due to start its new pipe of port, and one can never really enjoy port when one’s toe is twingeing away.

In other matters, residents of Adelaide are currently revelling in the pleasures that come once a year in the form of the Royal Agricultural and Horticultural Society of South Australia’s annual show.

The Show, as it is known, started out as an opportunity for country types to wander in to town leading their fattest pig or most veiny-uddered milking cow on a string. The country type would shove the beast into some sort of contest and then take the opportunity to totter off to one of the busier thoroughfares where he would bump into groups of other country types that he had not seen since last year and they would all stand around in big groups talking about rainfall and generally hindering traffic.

We, the polished boulevardiers of the town, would tolerate these rustic meanderings on the basis that it only happened once a year. The pigs and cattle would be sorted, awards presented and everything would go back to normal.

So in theory, that was the point of the show. In fact for children the point was quite different. There were the sideshows with shooting galleries, ghost trains, laughing clowns and medical curiosities such as the Headless Boy or the Half Man Half Woman. Then there were the rides like the Big Dipper and the Gravitron which were calculated to cause you to lose the quantities of fairy floss, ice cream, chips, donuts and battered saveloys that you had inadvisedly ingested immediately before getting on board.

In short, the show became mainly a dirty, cheap, noisy travesty populated by petty criminals and carney folk. The attraction for a child was almost unbearable.

Dotted around the sideshow alleys there were also stalls for various local business which demonstrated their wares and sold bags of product, usually various types of confectionery and sweet drinks.

You can no doubt see why this combination of disreputable entertainments, junk food and dangerous rides is irresistible to children. This has been the case ever since my own youth.

Unfortunately my parents took the view that it was not a desirable environment for me and so usually when my friends trooped off chattering excitedly, I was doing homework or something. In the evening when the fireworks were visible for miles, mine was the pale face pressed against the glass looking out to the festivities.

Even you, robust and worldly reader, would have been moved to tears at the pitiful spectacle.

When my friends returned, they would each have four or five paper bags all full of chocolates, smarties, bertie beetles, those chocolate racing cars with sultanas in them and whiz fizz in a waxed paper envelope with a plastic spoon that had a ring on the end of it that you could detach and wear around if you were sufficiently dainty of finger. Which I wasn’t.

Anyway, I remember vividly that I was once taken to the show with a friend by that friend’s parents. Despite being Amish or something they seemed to be much more liberal than my parents as regards what a child should be allowed to do.

The show was every bit as good as I had imagined it could be with a few startling and unexpected additions such as day old chickens that had been dyed bright colours for some reason. And a chair lift (or possibly chair-o-plane) in which one might, should one so desire, get a birds eye view of a couple of hundred yards of grimy sideshows. It was fantastic.

I think we were allowed 2 rides and one showbag. I don’t remember what rides I went on, though I think the chair-o-plane may have been one. The other one was probably a ghost train but I am not sure.

What I do remember is the showbag.

The other children undertook extensive investigations to ensure that they got bags with maximum sugar and minimum educational value. If you wanted a game where you rolled a couple of ball bearings around until they lodged in the indented eyeholes of a cartoon character, or one with a sort of grid of moveable letters which one was expected to manipulate to spell a word, you could always trawl through last year’s Christmas stocking but the chance to smother yourself with lollies may not come your way again. The knowledgeable child made sure that there were no games, colouring-in books or other junk like coloured chalk to dilute the sugar rush that was coming to them.

This was where my lack of experience showed. It showed in two ways.

The first is that I had trouble making a decision at all. I wavered between the Hoadley’s bag and the MacRobertsons, the Menz and the Cadbury’s. Ditters looked good but Allens’ clearly had more product, plus a fairly disreputable looking comic book which might have been worth a look.

With all of this vacillating I started to run out of time. We had to go and I had not selected a showbag. We were being dragged away and I was still empty handed and so there was the second manifestation of my lack of experience. I just panicked. Instead of allowing myself to be guided by one of the others, I lunged at the next bag I saw and flung a few sweaty coins to the vendor.

My heart was thumping. I could barely contain myself. There was something sticking out of the top of the bag. Nervously I checked it. A kite. Hmmm. Well, not too bad but not really what I was after. I checked the company on the bag, but didn’t recognise their name.

It wasn’t until I got into the car that I had the chance to examine my purchase properly.

It was from a hardware firm.

The worst showbag ever.

There were some bits of dowelling, some contact cement, a small box of white chalks, some assorted nails and one of those flat carpenters’ pencils. Possibly there was a small tape measure and a couple of other bits and pieces like string for the kite, but I was too dispirited to go through it once I was sure there were no lollies. I made a half hearted effort to trade the chalks for a poly-waffle, but not only did the trade not come off but the other kids saw what I had in my bag and heaped scorn on me.

The car was a sea of wrappers and packets. I think I was grudgingly given a snake and a couple of jelly beans, but the bitter envy I felt was not greatly eased.

I didn’t really go to the show again after that. For some reason the glamour had worn off.

Topic of Crapricorn

It is this forum’s preparedness to deal with subjects that are not for the squeamish that lends it its robust authority, judicious and estimable reader. In the interests of promoting the general reputation and value of the forum, I have decided to again present you with a tale from my dark past. The usual warning applies: if you are prone to nightmares or distress, you should read no further.

Those who know me have heard about my time in the tropical north of this country- specifically in Darwin, capital of Australia’s Northern Territory.

This was a few years ago and Darwin was not the polished modern city that it is today. It had a sort of “frontier” feel to it and the largely male population felt no compunction about walking around in big hats, talking about cattle and generally behaving in a manner unfamiliar to the polished urbanite such as me.

I had been entertaining some visitors from “down south” (as any other part of the country was referred to) and I do not shrink from telling you that we had consumed more red wine than was advisable. This was actually a remarkable achievement because it is generally too hot, humid and sunny to drink any red wine at all in the tropics. One usually gropes for a cold lager or a crisp white wine, a gin and tonic or rum.

We had closed the blinds and turned the air conditioning up then started sloshing claret into the expensive and capacious glassware. The lunch was long and riotous resulting in, amongst other things, a nasty mess on the floor of the women’s lavatory. At some point during the afternoon, we all agreed to go to a party in Berrimah, an outer suburb of Darwin.

At the time, Berrimah was largely open land comprised of market gardens with an occasional, isolated house. There were also the organisational headquarters for a couple of groups of motorcycle enthusiasts who, when not piloting their large machines noisily around town, distracted themselves with horticulture and other light industry. These compounds were invariably well guarded and aggressive dogs were the rule rather than the exception.

We were driven through the back blocks of this slightly threatening area, the car was parked and we staggered across a ploughed field to the party, which was in the yard of one of the isolated houses to which I referred earlier.

Now, by this stage it was quite clear that none of us was in any state to contribute to the festive atmosphere and indeed we would have done better not to have come at all, but it was too late so we did the best we could and had a few more drinks.

Before long I looked around and saw that the members of my group had all dissipated and I was alone. I was not much concerned about this, most of them were perfectly capable of getting taxis for themselves and going back to their hotels. One, however, had been a little worse off than that and was on his first trip to Darwin. I was concerned that he may not have made it, so I went looking for him.

I did not have far to go. There was a big, damp haystack just near the shed and he was reclined on that, sleeping peacefully. I was pleased that he was safe and was wondering whether I could leave him there and go home or if I should wait.

As I idly turned this over in my mind, I became aware of a telltale tension in my bowels. Being away from the throng and in the open air, well I am not proud but am obliged to admit that I thought nothing of easing myself by indulging in unfettered crepitus.

I elected to break wind.

Not only did I do so, but I actually facilitated the beastly action by leaning forward at the waist and pointing my right toe.

“The best laid schemes”, said the poet, Burns “o’ mice an’ men gang aft agley.”

Just what he meant by that, no one quite knows. It is widely suspected that he had been tippling, which may be so. After all, he was talking to a mouse.

In any event, my scheme did gang disastrously agley. I will not dwell on this distasteful incident but will put it as frankly and manfully as I can.

I followed through. I copped a pantload. I pappered my trolleys. I soiled my drawers. It was disgusting.

Panic set in. Although I was relatively isolated, I needed to get away. I could not go to the house, that was simply out of the question.

I could not go far because the mechanical effect of walking on my unwanted cargo would render a cleanup impossible without a fire hose. I cast a fevered glance around me and saw, about two hundred metres away, a lone tree.

Using little dolly steps, I made my way over to it. A mere sapling, it was not really up to the task of hiding my great bulk, but it was all there was. I removed my trousers. That was easy. They dropped to my feet and I kicked them away rather gracefully.

Next came the underpants (“pants” in some parts of the world although I am not sure if these, being the brief style, qualify). These were more problematic. After some manipulation it became clear that they were beyond saving, so to make their removal as clean as possible, I tore them at each side and was able to throw them away.

I then cleaned myself as best I could, using whatever was to hand. The tree had shed some leaves that were each about the size of two squares of lavatory paper. These were handy but not ideal as they were dry and not very pliant.

In any event, having done the best I could I re-assessed. I was as clean as I was going to get, but that did not mean I was clean. Far from it. I smelled very bad and looked little better.

There was no question of rejoining the party. I had no idea of the address, so could not call a cab. There was only one thing for it, I would have to walk.

Despite my inebriation I was reasonably sure that I knew the way to the highway, so I set off along the web of unlit, unpaved rural roads to try to find it.

Anyone who has not lived in the tropics during the “build up” will not appreciate what a trial that was. During this time of year, both the temperature and the humidity increase to make the climate most unpleasant with little by way of rain to ease things.

Although it was quite dark, and had been for some hours, it was still awfully hot and humid. I was already uncomfortable with the personal hygiene and the addition of copious sweating, particularly around the un-underpanted nether regions, made things worse.

Further to that, it was not long before I had to admit that I had no idea where I was. I had made a couple of turns and the landscape seemed to have changed. Rather than the empty, ploughed paddocks there were vast areas of low scrub with barbed wire fences around them.

There was practically no light and no sign of human habitation. From time to time I would squat and try to wash my soiled hands in water that had collected in wheel ruts in the road, but moistening the filth only seemed to freshen its stench and make a bad situation worse.

Although there was a lot of water around, it was not drinkable and the effect of the alcohol I had consumed together with the exertion of staggering around the hot and hostile environment were making me awfully thirsty.

Perhaps worse than that, there was a large blister forming on my right foot. I had used my right sock to try to clean myself under the tree at the beginning. It had been so ineffective that I elected to keep my left sock on my foot rather than waste that too, but that meant that my left foot was in cushiony comfort while my right was in great pain.

Suddenly I heard a car. I looked around and saw the glow of headlights coming from behind me. The relief was immense. I straightened myself up and waited by the side of the road, facing the oncoming car and smiling broadly. As it neared I took one step onto the road surface and waved.

The car swerved slightly and sped past, splashing me with muddy water and tooting its horn as it did so. I was devastated.

It was clear to me that I was not going to be able to find my way home that night, so I went a couple of paces off the road and lay down in the dead grass to get some sleep.

The tropics are famous for many things. One of these is the abundance of insect life.

Within about twenty seconds of lying down, I could feel dozens of tiny bites and stings all over my body. I felt like Gulliver being shot with Lilliputian arrows.

So, there I lay. I was drunk. I was lost. I was far from home. I was hot. I was exhausted. I was thirsty. I had a big blister. I was hungry. I was sweating. I lacked underpants. I was dirty. I was infested. I stank.

I wept.

It was, dear reader, the lowest point of my life (to date). I decided that I did not blame the motorist who had refused to pick me up. I would not have done so in his place.

After twenty minutes or so when the insect bites became intolerable I realised that I was not going to be able to sleep there.

With my filthy paw I wiped the tears from my face, set my jaw and staggered to my feet. I was not going to let this get me down. There were some houses around here. I could get an address and a cab. By darn, if they were not happy to help me I could cry. Who could resist that?

With my resolve stiffened I set off again and, after a couple of run ins with vicious guard dogs, was shuffling towards yet another rural abode when I saw, only a few kilometres away, some street lights! The highway!

I covered the distance on winged heels and the first car I saw was a cab. To flag it down was the work of an instant and I even had sufficient wits about me to get into the back rather than the front, reasoning that by the time the cabbie smelled me it would be too late and he might as well get his fare as boot me out again on the highway.

Thus ended one of the lowest points of my life. What did I draw from it? Well, I learned the benefits of perseverance, that tears without an audience are pointless and that there is no depth to which you cannot drag a Darwin cabbie if you really set your mind to it.

All of this I learned but most importantly, it was a full week before I got that drunk again.

I give you this that you may learn from my mistakes.

Hippy Sheik

I must apologise for my absence for the last few days, loyal and patient reader.  I attended a particularly boisterous meeting of the Amity Society on the Monday night before last and rather lost track of the later parts of the evening.

Suffice it to say, on checking my car the next morning I was horrified to find some human teeth and a couple of tufts of hair stuck in the grille.  Discretion being the better part of valour, I elected to take a little time off and visit some friends in the far north, where a man might find some space to himself to think things over without being bothered by officious arms of the government.

As it happens I had been the victim of a practical joke at the hand of “Toothy” Anderson, a dentist and fellow Amity Society member.  He noticed that I was possibly not at my most observant and so drove me home in my own car, which he then “salted” with some teeth (it seems he keeps a few on him at all times for this purpose). 

The hair, I am embarrassed to admit, was my own which he snipped off, taking advantage of my condition.  I have been to the gentlemen’s hairdresser and that most excellent fellow has plied the pomade to such good effect that the missing locks are almost unnoticeable. 

I like a joke as much as the next man and to show that there are no hard feelings have now I responded in kind by throwing a large quantity of paint on Toothy’s car.  I am sure he will see the funny side.

The time spent in the outback was a pleasure.  The quiet and solitude of the little pub I was staying in was interrupted from time to time by travellers of all walks of life dropping in for refreshing ale to break up their journey.

Quite a few of them were the old fashioned orange Kombi driving hippies, of the type you used to see all over the place but now you usually have to seek them out.  I had forgotten how comforting it is to see them every now and again.  They are a point of constancy in this changeable world of ours.

You can go to markets in any part of this country, from Mindl Beach to Salamanca Place and there they are, sitting at a card table covered in “crafts” and glowering sullenly through an explosion of hair that reminds you of nothing so much as a burst sofa.

As long as we have hippies we need never curse the darkness. There will always be a big nasty candle to light.  You know the sort of thing I mean, with all colours on the inside and about the size of a milk carton.  In the old days the used to make these things themselves with much melting of coloured wax in an old saucepan.  Possibly you were given craft lessons by one when you were in primary school and know what I mean.

A milk carton with all chips of ice in it.  Some molten wax.  A bloke in a tie-died t-shirt. Heaven.

Now the candles come shrink wrapped and I assume that they are made in
China or somewhere.

However, since those simple times when one might look for a candle and possibly some leathergoods (ie a selection of gigantic watchbands with little flowers stamped all over them) and the odd gonk, the selection has expanded and diversified.

For example, there is Energised Wine apparently made in a winery in
Canada that is shaped like a pyramid.  I thought that all that Pyramid Energy theory had been debunked some time ago, but it seems not.  Someone has committed a significant amount of money to making the most of it, and such is the public enthusiasm that I am sure the investment has been quickly recouped.

Mmm mmm.  Energised wine.  Presumably that is what mummies drink in the afterlife.

You can also get little cardboard pyramids that you can put under the bed to harness their power while you sleep.  Fascinating.

At Salamanca I once noticed a small turned wooden object described as a “hygiene cup”.  I do not know what the intended purpose of the object was and I refuse to speculate.  Suffice it to say that no sale was effected.

There are also dreamcatchers, Indian drums, funny hats and any amount of pottery.  Anything from a lumpen bread crock with an ill fitting lid to a freeform vase a metre high that will hold a single daisy. 

As for services, there are the usual tarot readings and henna tattoos but you can also have your aura read and your chakras aligned.

Possibly there are other goods and services on offer, but just thinking about this is making me smell of patchouli and I need to go and bathe.

Before I do so, may I ask doesn’t all of this industry fly in the face of the whole lifestyle choice anyway?  Wasn’t the whole point to just sit around doing little or nothing? Where did it all go wrong?

Anyway, I hope to be back on form soon but should you be tempted to press me into print in future, take this as a dire warning.

Convenient Truths

WARNING: this item contains references to water closets and may not be suitable for readers of delicate disposition. I’m sorry, but there it is. Best that you know and all that.

I wish to direct your consideration, benign and gracious reader, to a paradox that I have noticed in relation to – and I cannot put this more delicately without harming the lucidity of the text- public conveniences.

There. I have said it. Take a moment or two to gather yourself should you need to.

The paradox I have noticed is in the signs on the doors.

The facilities in private houses sometimes have signs on the doors. Something jolly to ease the embarrassment, like “Here ‘Tis”. In public areas, however, there is the need to distinguish between those meant for women and those meant for men.

This is where the paradox lies.

In my experience, the greater the promise of sophistication made by the sign on the door, the worse the state of the actual bathroom itself.

Generally, if one is at, say, a good restaurant the door has a discreet “M” or “L” on it. On entering (well, in relation to the M door, anyway) there is a pleasant, clean smell, the urinal is liberally stocked with deodorant lozenges, the mirrors are large and clean, the pan unsmirched and the paper soft and plentiful. There are paper (or sometimes even cloth) towels for one’s hands and should one require hot water, it gushes immediately and copiously from the tap.

All of this luxury is heralded by a simple “M”.

On the other hand, I have been to low taverns (slumming) or to decrepit shopping or commercial buildings which have door signs suggesting oriental luxury.

One I recall was an hotel near my place of work. The lavatory door sign depicted a top hat, a cane, a pair of gloves and, I think, opera glasses. Pushing open the door one was presented with the airlock door hanging off its hinges, a smell so unpleasant that it brought tears to the eyes and strips of crumpled lavatory paper lying ominously on the floor.

On pressing deeper one found cracked tiles, stained porcelain, a badly corrupted mirror and taps that either leaked or did not work at all. The urinal was blocked with paper and cigarette butts and did not flush, so the stale urine that was lapping against the sole deodorant lozenge was pure and pungent. The urinal itself was pock marked with strange half moon shaped dents suggesting that someone had attacked it with a blunt instrument. How or why anyone would have done so are mysteries, but I have noted these marks in other urinals.

If one pushed open the cubicle, there was of course a liberal spattering of organic matter upon which it is best not to dwell. The seat was not sitting quite squarely on the pan, which may explain how some of the organic matter… well enough of that.

The paper, if any, was of the hard shiny type that is dispensed in small individual sheets and is so ill suited to its intended purpose that one wonders whether it may have been designed by aliens. Aliens that differ widely in their physiology from us. The final depressing touch was added by a “sharps” box on the wall that was so full that infected syringes were protruding from the top.

Returning to the handbasin one felt the need to wash one’s hands, whether or not one had voided. Vigorous manipulation of the lever on the soap dispenser resulted in a small deposit of pinkish pearly sludge suggestive of nothing so much as the ejaculate of an elderly and unwell mouse.

It goes without saying that, having washed one’s hands, the only option for drying them was to wipe them on one’s trousers. The whole process was a waste of time anyway because there was no way of getting out of the hell-hole without grasping the doorhandle. It would have been far safer and more pleasurable to pet a plague rat.

So there you go. Simple understated Lavatory door sign, lovely facilities. Deduct 15% for every suggestion of opulence or luxury on the sign and you have a reasonably accurate idea of what to expect inside.

Unfortunately this does not work for “humorous” signs as seen in some places. You know the sort of thing, “buoys” and “gulls” in a seafood restaurant or “guys” and “dolls” in a cinema. These are generally OK but rarely luxurious.

I do not speak of women’s lavatories which I understand to be uniformly clean, comfortable and well maintained. Having said that I have noted a wide range of door signs and am confident that, for example, a silhouette of a lipstick, a cigarette holder and a ballerina does not bode as well as a simple “Ladies”. Possibly someone can help.

Ex Libris

When last I wrote, discerning and admired reader, I advised that I had been unwell and in the throes of some sort of delirium, referred to my “foetid sickbed”. On reflection that was probably not tasteful or necessary and to the extent that it caused distress I apologise.

Without wishing to compound my offence by focussing attention on sweaty bedsheets and mysterious smells emanating from forgotten corners of the sickroom, there are one or two issues that have bubbled to the surface by reason of the enforced confinement.

Lying around in bed gives one the chance to catch up on a bit of reading and there is no better opportunity to attack that nice big pile of library books that one would normally have no hope of getting through.

Yum Yum Yum. Library books.

I am all in favour of the whole idea of the local library and have been an enthusiastic borrower since early childhood. Generally my record with library books has been pretty good. I am careful not to put my mug of cocoa on them or to hold on to them for long after the due date.

I like the great trust that the library places in you and I think it is worth repaying. I mean to say, when you walk out of there with your enviro bag full of hardbacks, it doesn’t usually occur to you that they probably cost five or six hundred dollars to buy and you are being allowed to take them away and do with them pretty much as you will.

Just try that on if you were, for example, hiring a dinner suit or a motorised post hole digger. You practically have to pay the whole value of the item just to get a day’s go of it and if you go a few hours overtime they not only charge you a big penalty, but you risk being reported to the police for conversion or detinue or something. Soccage in fief perhaps.

Anyway, another thrill of reading a library book is that every one is a mystery. And I don’t mean just the ones with the little picture of a deerstalker and a magnifying glass stuck to the spine for ease of identification. I mean every library book contains a number of clues as to the identity and personal habits of previous borrowers.

What is this smudge here? It has a brownish colour but that doesn’t mean much other than that it is likely to be some sort of organic material. It would have been practically any colour when a previous reader thought that chapter 17 “in which our hero discovers that he has been played false by his uncle” would make a good place to wipe a finger soiled with…God knows what.

What about that rather more crusty excrescence on page 93? Did it drop out of an eager reader’s sandwich? Was it scratched from his scalp during a moment of distraction? And these grease spots that seem to start on about page 15 and seep through to page 21 or so? Snacking on hot chips while reading, or could it be verruca ointment? Surely the blemishes through chapter 6 suggest a nosebleed. If they go on through chapters 7 and 8 one could reasonably diagnose anaemia.

The fun and mental stimulation afforded by public library books goes way beyond their printed contents. Consideration of the document itself will always reward the enquiring mind. I am happy to say that from the dank confines of my sickbed I changed each of the books I read from a simple volume of literature to a rich “scratch’n’sniff” experience.

Another great pleasure is when people feel driven to mark books with grammatical corrections. What a wonderful service is thus rendered to the reading public.

To think that, rather than allowing themselves to be annoyed by proof reading errors, these folk are prepared to have a biro standing by with which to add punctuation and to correct spelling errors. I must say that corrections made in this way have far more impact than if the author had just got it right in the first place.

Recently I was reading a book by David Lodge in which he had chosen to start several sentences with the word “and”. Each time this appeared, the “And” was carefully struck out and the next word had its first letter changed to an upper case. To be fair, at one point, when it became clear that he had done it for every word in a sentence for some sort of “artistic” reason, the amateur editing faltered about half way through, but bravely reappeared a couple of pages later with a stiffened resolve.

Should the author ever visit Australia and for some reason join the Burnside Library and then decide to take out one of his own books, he will presumably be delighted to see that some doddering nonagenarian has seen fit to pit their grade seven English against his PhD. And win.

The last fascinating fact about library books is not something I have heard discussed elsewhere. Could it be that I am breaking new ground?

Some people mark their library books so that they don’t accidentally read them twice. They put a ring around, say, the page number on page 20 so when they get there they know that they have already read it and don’t waste their time reading it again.

Others put their initials on the back page (facing the inside back cover where the little pocket with the card in it is) or do one of those vastly amusing “foo” scribbles. Thus, rather than going to all the trouble of reading the title or checking the cover for a familiar design, they can simply check and see if the volume has already been effaced by them.

Now, surely if you don’t remember reading a book it would probably not hurt to read it again, would it? Call me intolerant, but should these people be allowed a library card? Couldn’t they just be given a book each and allowed to re-read it for the rest of their lives or until the pages become so soaked with drool as to be illegible?

Of course, that may mean that other readers don’t get the benefit of the range of Life Experience that may be transferred to the pages or the grammatical assistance that would otherwise be spread across a range of volumes.

Bedroom Antics

Dave Lyall, a mate of mine, had a barbeque once, some years ago.

I went there with another mate, Shabbo. There were plenty of beers and good company so a cheery time was had, as usual.

When Dave was showing Shabbo and me out, he was struck by a great idea. He had fairly recently discovered an old bit of foam rubber that had presumably once been a mattress. It was fairly thick and still pretty springy and in the course of God knows what experimentation, he found that if he put it on his bed, the combined springiness of his actual mattress and this lump of foam meant that he could do little gymnastics displays.

He would put the foam on his bed, then prop the bedroom door open. Then, by standing in the passage directly opposite his bedroom door, he could get a few steps of run up and flip onto the bed.

He set it up for us and demonstrated. We were impressed. He could do a handstand or jump up and do a somersault.

It certainly looked like great fun but it wasn’t quiet. There was thumping and crashing and great shouts of laughter. The noise was actually tremendous.

Dave was living in a maisonette or half house. I think they are known in some places as Semi Detached. In any event, the point is that it shared a wall with the neighbour on one side. I have lived in plenty of these places myself and the noise does travel. In some of them you can hear every floorboard creak. I can remember hearing my neighbour stirring his tea.

The point is, when you really kick up a ruckus, you have to expect the neighbours to hear it. On this occasion we were not really surprised that, after one particularly impressive and violent manoeuvre, we could hear a small child on the other side of the wall. The child had clearly been awoken and was crying.

Reasoning that it was too late at that point, that the child was already awake and that we may as well continue, I took my place to have a go myself.

Until that point Shabbo had had a few goes but I had been reluctant as my impressively manly bulk might have proven too much for the bed. Seeing the punishment the others had put it through, I was reassured and decided to try it for myself. My little sister had a trampoline and I rather fancied that I could reproduce some of the skills I had built up on that.

As I stood with my foot braced against the wall to give myself a decent push off, it occurred to me that the party wall was the one behind me, not the one that the bed was up against.

Dave and Shabbo clearly came to the same conclusion at about the same time. Something was not quite right.

Suddenly the colour drained from Dave’s face. He grabbed the big chunk of foam and flung it off the bed.

Sure enough, there lying in the bed was a small child who had been put there by his mother to sleep. We hadn’t seen him and had put the foam over him and proceeded to jump on him vigorously. He was most upset and had gone purple in the face, I imagine from both crying and the near smothering from the foam.

Dave wrenched the kid from the bed and said “Can you move your fingers and toes?” On seeing that this seemed to be in order said “Go and see your mum.”

The fifteen seconds between seeing the child in the bed and establishing that he was uninjured were the worst and longest of my life. Of course once they were over and the kid was gone, I took a sideways look at Shabbo. He was taking a sideways look at Dave who was just kind of sneaking a peek at the two of us.

I can’t remember who started laughing first, but we all broke down completely. We had to quickly fold up the foam and hide it in case investigations were undertaken, but it was almost more than we could manage so great was the laughter.

We got away with it but it is one of those things that I think of every now and then and my blood runs cold.

I hope it amuses you.

A Matter of Weight

If someone is trying to sell their car using the time honoured method of putting a sign in the window, I always think it has a lot more impact if the sign reads “4 Sale” rather than “For Sale”.

When you read “4 Sale” you have to give both words full value and it really makes the point. The other way it just becomes “f’sale” in your mind nothing really clicks. Not that I have ever even been tempted to buy a car that was being sold like this, but if I did, I know which rendering would get me going.

So whenever I see a car with a bit of paper or cardboard blutacked to the inside of the window I check what the owner has done. If the numeral “4” is there, I get a small feeling of satisfaction.

Call me easily satisfied if you like.

There are other small things that please me. Allow me to inflict another on you.

Most people leave their loose change at home in a money box. They save it up so that they can use it for a slightly larger purchase. Beers or shoe repairs. That sort of thing. My wallet has a little change pocket in it, so I tend to carry change with me.

I know what you are thinking and you are wrong. It isn’t a purse, it’s a wallet. It has places for cards and your driver’s licence and stuff so don’t be compromising my machismo with your purse thinking, OK? It’s real manly and impressive.

What I do like is being able to pay with the right money using my little stock of loose change. This is irritating when other people do it, especially when you are impatient to be served, but when I do it it is charming. Apart from getting rid of all those heavy coins you sometimes get an extra little thrill that: the cry “Correct weight!”

I love “Correct weight!”. Everyone involved feels good for a moment. You have got rid of some change, they keep the till topped up. It is warm and human.

Having said that, there is a limit. “Correct Weight” is only wholesome in some contexts. The most common is the pub. The barman sliding the beer moistened coins from those scattered on the bar, the drone of the races in the background. Wholesome hardly covers it.

But when it crops up in a supermarket, there is something not quite right about it.

I don’t know why this is, but I think that it is because the term comes from horse racing. You don’t mind racing being associated with a couple of beers, but milk eggs and bread don’t seem to go.

I have turned my mind to it and decided on where I would and would not be happy hearing “correct weight!”. It probably won’t be the same for everyone, but these are my views:

OK : Pub, hardware shop, fishing tackle shop, footy ground, bookies, Pie Cart, newspaper kiosk and any business run by someone called Murphy.

Maybe: Café, Menswear shop, Sports store, Chiropractic surgery, Gymnasium, Fish and Chip shop, bakery and any business run by someone called Papadopoulos.

No: Nightclub, Your Child’s Nursery, Antiquarian bookstore, Jewellers, Life Coach, silver service restaurant, prosthetic limb suppliers and any business run by someone called Twistington-Smythe. Also weight watchers, but for hilariously different reasons.