There I lay, abed, this morning around about 7.30, listening to the radio, and nurturing thoughts about getting up. There came a hearty knock on the door. Foxtel had arrived, early, on the first occasion of three possible dates and times. I was not even dressed, nor was my hair brushed. I must have looked a sight, but not for sore eyes. The came, they unplugged things, they suggested that the TV would not work unless I had an aerial, they packed up everything, and went away, leaving me to shower, dress, and ponder.
Well, I thought, perhaps there was an aerial, lurking somewhere around the roof or part of the house, When modestly and decently clad, I went outside to explore. Nope, not an aerial in sight, nor any vestige of one. Curious and curiouser. I rang the man who recently fixed the amplifier, only to find he has gone overseas for some weeks. A cloud of confusedly deep thought descended on me, but the only light to penetrate (apart from reading the TV manual yet again and deriving no more wisdom at all from it) was to walk to my local Retravision store, down the road, and see whether they could sell me an aerial, and give me the where and how and what to do with it.
They could indeed. A nice little one, not all that expensive, either. I showed them my TV remote, and the instruction booklet, and George, the man in charge, gave me instructions, which I wrote down. (You are dealing with technical ignorance on a very large scale here. Mine, that is, not theirs.))
Back home, I sought to follow the instructions, to no avail. So, as George had suggested, I rang him. No worries, he said, I will send the boys down to your house to do it all for you. Within five minutes the boys arrived, plugged things in, tuned all the stations in, explained it all in easy to understand (and remember?) terms, and went away.
I am so relieved, and am now relaxing somewhat. This is such a nice, pleasant, and overall decent neighbourhood. You get to know the people in the shops, to recognise quite a few faces, and the interactions, both social and commercial are good, effective, pleasant and cooperative. You can call into the local butcher and ask them do they use the word broiler to denote an aged chicked. No, they don't, they sell only young chickens, for roasting etc. Broiler, we agreed, was not a word used here. Despite what the man wrote in the food page in this morning's paper. In the olden days, back when lots of people had chooks in their back gardens and used the manure to fertilise their vegetable gardens, the chooks past their prime were known as boilers. And, regrettably, some less than gallant males might refer to a less than nubile female as an old boiler.
How times change. All these things having been accomplished, I sat in my armchair, and watched Question Time. They did not answer many, and attempted to make those who asked the questions feel stupid and ignorant. Not at all like the good people around here. It makes you think.
Well, I thought, perhaps there was an aerial, lurking somewhere around the roof or part of the house, When modestly and decently clad, I went outside to explore. Nope, not an aerial in sight, nor any vestige of one. Curious and curiouser. I rang the man who recently fixed the amplifier, only to find he has gone overseas for some weeks. A cloud of confusedly deep thought descended on me, but the only light to penetrate (apart from reading the TV manual yet again and deriving no more wisdom at all from it) was to walk to my local Retravision store, down the road, and see whether they could sell me an aerial, and give me the where and how and what to do with it.
They could indeed. A nice little one, not all that expensive, either. I showed them my TV remote, and the instruction booklet, and George, the man in charge, gave me instructions, which I wrote down. (You are dealing with technical ignorance on a very large scale here. Mine, that is, not theirs.))
Back home, I sought to follow the instructions, to no avail. So, as George had suggested, I rang him. No worries, he said, I will send the boys down to your house to do it all for you. Within five minutes the boys arrived, plugged things in, tuned all the stations in, explained it all in easy to understand (and remember?) terms, and went away.
I am so relieved, and am now relaxing somewhat. This is such a nice, pleasant, and overall decent neighbourhood. You get to know the people in the shops, to recognise quite a few faces, and the interactions, both social and commercial are good, effective, pleasant and cooperative. You can call into the local butcher and ask them do they use the word broiler to denote an aged chicked. No, they don't, they sell only young chickens, for roasting etc. Broiler, we agreed, was not a word used here. Despite what the man wrote in the food page in this morning's paper. In the olden days, back when lots of people had chooks in their back gardens and used the manure to fertilise their vegetable gardens, the chooks past their prime were known as boilers. And, regrettably, some less than gallant males might refer to a less than nubile female as an old boiler.
How times change. All these things having been accomplished, I sat in my armchair, and watched Question Time. They did not answer many, and attempted to make those who asked the questions feel stupid and ignorant. Not at all like the good people around here. It makes you think.
1 comment:
How lovely that you are living in a pleasant and helpful neighbourhood. A community even.
I am impressed at your strength of mind in watching Question Time. I don't feel strong enough at the moment - and would probably need to wash my mouth out with soap and water if I did watch it.
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