Where to start?
Early last week I unpacked my nice new iMac. Prudently, knowing that help would be needed to get it all up and running, I beseeched two kind friends to come and fritter away their spare time helping me. They came, they unpacked, we had lunch, we puzzled and we fiddled. We rang the Apple Support people. Things were not as simple or obvious as they seemed, and this call turned out to be the first of many, reducing me to a gibbering and nervous wreck, and provoking the even more technologically challenged, but notwithstandingly ever-critical Dr P, to loud and irate abuse. The friends departed, and I raced off to choir practice.
My friends returned the next day, and we spent the afternoon on the phone, changing settings, in the attempt to set up a wireless connection to the internet connection. Our case number was getting expert attention from numerous Apple staff. By this stage, my mind was totally confused, I was exhausted and upset. It is impossible to remember even a small part of the processes we tried. I dreamed a dream of easy access and problem free use of computers. Is there such a thing? We did get a connection, but by the next day, it had vanished into the ether.
Left to my own devices the following day, I floundered along. Domestic relations were fraying rapidly. Having managed to communicate to Dr P how upsetting it all was, he calmed down, apologised and offered a modicum of consolation and comfort. This left me free to ponder the vicissitudes of life, the futility of effort, the remote prospects of ever being able to rectify anything, and the advisability of flinging myself off the nearest cliff. (The cliffs are actually very close by.) I tossed and turned all night, fretted and fumed, and wondered why the absence of the Internet should leave our lives feeling so totally empty and frustrating. Ever one to take a far-ranging historical vista, I contemplated how in the olden days of my childhood, we had only the radio, and very little other forms of entertainment (other than lots of playing outside, roaming the neighbourhood, or curling up with a good book until such time as my severely authoritarian father roused on me to go and lend my mother a hand, and contrasted such times of yore with this current decadent age where even three year old children have mobile phones and similar devices to while away the incredible tedium of sitting on a bus for fifteen minutes or so.)
I won't attempt to detail all the options tried, nor the conversations between the ISP and the Apple Help people. Eventually, it seemed a good idea to go out and buy a new modem. The connectivity problems had occurred before we bought the new computer, and thus I was able to persuade myself that the new computer was not (necessarily) the source of the problem. So on Friday I bought a new modem, and did my best to connect it, guided by the Apple people. It did seem a good idea to me that someone should actually call around and check it all out physically. This did not happen. Still no internet. Dr P's patience and kindness were wearing a little thin by this stage.
At this stage my darling son rang and proposed visiting for the weekend. I should mention that we also had what seemed like a plethora of stepdaughters staying this week, and all this computer mayhem was severely impeding any attempts at step-motherly hospitality. It was most embarrassing to have my technological incompetence so readily apparent. My son arrived, we had a very good time together, with lots of deep and meaningful talks, and he talked to the Apple people, checked all the cables, and BINGO, all seemed well. The Apple people must have uttered glad cries to be dealing with someone who knew rather more than I did. We had Internet. Obviously the problem was not merely one of the wireless connection, the settings on the modem, and the impossibility of changing then without an Internet connection, but also something to do with the connection of the trillion cables that are an intrinsic part and parcel of everyday life. The cables are now all labelled, and all the relevant paraphernalia neatly stacked in plastic boxes.
The old computer seems to have gone out on a sympathy strike, as it keeps freezing, and how I am to use the Migration Assistant to transfer data from the old computer to the new one I do not know.
Am I the only person to have such problems? And how does it come to pass that it all takes such a long time to get it all fixed? (Apart from factoring in client ignorance.)
In between all these dramas there were three dress rehearsals this week, culminating in the concert this afternoon. I have no voice left. Overall it went well, with some dicey bits near the end. Don't know quite what happened.
It is evident that there is no shortage of things to keep me occupied, indeed, quite flat out, and with a distinct shortage of leisure time. There is an immense amount to learn about the new computer. I can hardly wait.
Monday, 19 July 2010
Tuesday, 6 July 2010
A tale of tidying, turfing and transformation
Tidiness is a very flexible concept, closely related to the ability to be organised, and to keep track of life. It also depends on the personalities, habits and priorities of those we live with.
Some friends are extraordinarily tidy. It would not matter at what hour you visited: there would never be a thing out of place. One friend never keeps a book. She reads it and then dispenses with it. She does not even own a bookcase. There are never newspapers or magazines around either. Everything is organised and put away. She attends to her business promptly and efficiently. It all makes me wonder how she manages it. Other friends have nooks and studies where any 'mess' is confined, and the living areas are immaculate and uncluttered. Such people and places bemuse me. For I am not really like that, myself.
I grew up in a small house, with seven children, and not very much storage place. True, the lounge room was kept tidy and impeccable, but it was for visitors, not for everyday living. We had a family room, where we all gathered in the evening, around the fire, and where we did our homework, with help from our parents. My mother would fall asleep in the armchair, and my father, who was a barrister, worked every night until midnight. He had a separate study, where he used to work on those nights when junior counsel came over to prepare for the current case before the courts. Generally we were all in together, in the family room.
We ate in the kitchen, which was very cluttered, and had insufficient storage space. My parents extended the house, enclosing the verandah, and transforming part of it into a sleep-out, and the study and family room were added. We all shared bedrooms, and the baby of the day slept in the lounge room until it outgrew the cot. As a child, I thought it was quite a large house, but when I revisited it years later, it was actually quite small and rather poky. Most houses were. McMansions were a thing of the future.
After my marriage, when we built a house, I insisted that it have a family room. I had grown up without television, but my husband's family had TV, and the lights were switched off every night while they all watched TV. I hated this, and wanted a separate space where I could read and listen to music. So we had a family room as well as a lounge. There was not much storage space but our possessions were few.
As my husband was incredibly disinclined to do anything or to make any decisions, especially if it concerned something I wanted, the toys were all kept in cardboard cartons in the laundry, the books were inside wardrobes, and, as we never had fences built, the children could not play outside without supervision.
But let me fast-forward. Eventually, once I lived alone, I had shelves made, and was able to accommodate the growing book collection. But the years of having nowhere to put things apparently had a permanent effect. I did not attend to organising the paperwork. Instead of being tidy and organised all the time, it persisted in happening in fits and starts.
Since then, I have been accumulating possessions: household goods, books, CDs, ornaments, clothes, fabrics, yarns. From time to time, everything needs to be re-organised and tidied up. I keep buying books, and do not have enough space for them. They sit three deep on the shelves, and finding any book can present a challenge. The CDs need sorting and rearranging from time to time. My documents need to be sorted and put into files. Once a year the tax returns must be done. The newspapers are strewn around. Paperwork floats menacingly around our tables and living spaces. It does not seem to matter how often I tidy - frequently during the day is the pattern - a certain level of chaos persists.
Dr P has his own stuff, of course, but as he is now less inclined to sort out things, this responsibility is passing on to me. This week, with the purchase of the new iMac, I have been galvanised into action. My sitting room, where I listen to music, use the computer, and sprawl on the couch reading, has been tidied. The paperwork has been sorted. It has been very hard work. As one thing inevitably leads to another, Dr P's study was cleaned, tidied, and some of his books are about to find new homes. Vinnies, here we come! Then the cupboard in the hall beckoned, and that too has suffered the depredations of the tidying angel. If something has not been touched or used in the ten years we have lived here, it can go!
It has all been good and productive labour. But very tiring. The new computer is still sitting on the floor, and I am expecting friends to come and lend a hand, and their expertise to get me up and running. All this activity has not done my sore hip much good, but the physiotherapist tells me that I really must do the exercises, and ensure that the muscles do not tighten up too much.
The Internet connection still drops out persistently, which is not at all amusing. Next week I may gather sufficient strength to ring India again. Not this week. I have stopped laying baits for the rats and this morning could not see any droppings. The rat trap has not caught anything. Not even once. Evidently rats know not to go anywhere near traps. I hope they have told their friends that there is absolutely nothing to eat around here any more, and that there is no point visiting, but I live in fear rather than hope.
A postcard arrived from Oxford today. How lovely.
It is now time to curl up on the couch with the books I bought at the book fair last weekend.
Some friends are extraordinarily tidy. It would not matter at what hour you visited: there would never be a thing out of place. One friend never keeps a book. She reads it and then dispenses with it. She does not even own a bookcase. There are never newspapers or magazines around either. Everything is organised and put away. She attends to her business promptly and efficiently. It all makes me wonder how she manages it. Other friends have nooks and studies where any 'mess' is confined, and the living areas are immaculate and uncluttered. Such people and places bemuse me. For I am not really like that, myself.
I grew up in a small house, with seven children, and not very much storage place. True, the lounge room was kept tidy and impeccable, but it was for visitors, not for everyday living. We had a family room, where we all gathered in the evening, around the fire, and where we did our homework, with help from our parents. My mother would fall asleep in the armchair, and my father, who was a barrister, worked every night until midnight. He had a separate study, where he used to work on those nights when junior counsel came over to prepare for the current case before the courts. Generally we were all in together, in the family room.
We ate in the kitchen, which was very cluttered, and had insufficient storage space. My parents extended the house, enclosing the verandah, and transforming part of it into a sleep-out, and the study and family room were added. We all shared bedrooms, and the baby of the day slept in the lounge room until it outgrew the cot. As a child, I thought it was quite a large house, but when I revisited it years later, it was actually quite small and rather poky. Most houses were. McMansions were a thing of the future.
After my marriage, when we built a house, I insisted that it have a family room. I had grown up without television, but my husband's family had TV, and the lights were switched off every night while they all watched TV. I hated this, and wanted a separate space where I could read and listen to music. So we had a family room as well as a lounge. There was not much storage space but our possessions were few.
As my husband was incredibly disinclined to do anything or to make any decisions, especially if it concerned something I wanted, the toys were all kept in cardboard cartons in the laundry, the books were inside wardrobes, and, as we never had fences built, the children could not play outside without supervision.
But let me fast-forward. Eventually, once I lived alone, I had shelves made, and was able to accommodate the growing book collection. But the years of having nowhere to put things apparently had a permanent effect. I did not attend to organising the paperwork. Instead of being tidy and organised all the time, it persisted in happening in fits and starts.
Since then, I have been accumulating possessions: household goods, books, CDs, ornaments, clothes, fabrics, yarns. From time to time, everything needs to be re-organised and tidied up. I keep buying books, and do not have enough space for them. They sit three deep on the shelves, and finding any book can present a challenge. The CDs need sorting and rearranging from time to time. My documents need to be sorted and put into files. Once a year the tax returns must be done. The newspapers are strewn around. Paperwork floats menacingly around our tables and living spaces. It does not seem to matter how often I tidy - frequently during the day is the pattern - a certain level of chaos persists.
Dr P has his own stuff, of course, but as he is now less inclined to sort out things, this responsibility is passing on to me. This week, with the purchase of the new iMac, I have been galvanised into action. My sitting room, where I listen to music, use the computer, and sprawl on the couch reading, has been tidied. The paperwork has been sorted. It has been very hard work. As one thing inevitably leads to another, Dr P's study was cleaned, tidied, and some of his books are about to find new homes. Vinnies, here we come! Then the cupboard in the hall beckoned, and that too has suffered the depredations of the tidying angel. If something has not been touched or used in the ten years we have lived here, it can go!
It has all been good and productive labour. But very tiring. The new computer is still sitting on the floor, and I am expecting friends to come and lend a hand, and their expertise to get me up and running. All this activity has not done my sore hip much good, but the physiotherapist tells me that I really must do the exercises, and ensure that the muscles do not tighten up too much.
The Internet connection still drops out persistently, which is not at all amusing. Next week I may gather sufficient strength to ring India again. Not this week. I have stopped laying baits for the rats and this morning could not see any droppings. The rat trap has not caught anything. Not even once. Evidently rats know not to go anywhere near traps. I hope they have told their friends that there is absolutely nothing to eat around here any more, and that there is no point visiting, but I live in fear rather than hope.
A postcard arrived from Oxford today. How lovely.
It is now time to curl up on the couch with the books I bought at the book fair last weekend.
Thursday, 1 July 2010
Where to start? Where to finish?
The questions abound but the answers are scarce. Here is the news from Casa Persiflage.
The Rats. Baits are being eaten. Yesterday morning, it appeared that no rats had visited. However, this morning, another bait had been eaten, and there were more droppings. I got so sooky a couple of nights ago, worrying about rats running across my face and chewing chunks of hair off, that I crawled into bed with Dr P, so that he could protect me from the rats. And he did. Shades of the Foggy Foggy Dew! There is a door to his bedroom, unlike my room, which is at the top of the stairs, and open to nocturnal visitors of the type that no one could possibly welcome. The rats have chewed chunks out the upholstery of Dr P's tub chair, which means that once the rats are vanquished, the chair will have to be re-upholstered.
Dr P is giving me a nice new iMac for my birthday, so I spent one morning earlier this week choosing all the various possible bells and whistles, and am now waiting for it all to be delivered. This is all very exciting, and I am thrilled to bits. A huge technological challenge will now confront me. Fortunately I will be taking regular lessons at the Apple Store and can also ring them up for help for the next three years.
The Internet connection here has become rather temperamental and episodic, and keeps telling me that I am not connected to the Internet. Perhaps it is Blogger, which certainly will not let me delete comments. The Apple people suggested it was due to the ISP, but the ISP tells me it is probably the computer. Who to believe? Having spent 39 minutes on hold waiting to get through to India, becoming somewhat impatient as a result, I feel more inclined to believe it is the fault of the ISP, but once I was connected to India and was actually discussing the problem, the Internet connection did not drop out once. Just to make me feel both aggravated and persecuted, the connection has been dropping out ever since. Of course, I have no real idea what I am doing. Where are my computer literate children when I need them? You can see why tycoons have Personal Assistants, but, in my view, tycoons have much less need of them that I do. Dr P is totally ignorant about computers, so what use to me is the stereotype that says All Men Understand Technology? (Intuitively.) Ha! Perhaps, once the new computer is hooked up, it will all work magically. One can only hope.
The Rats. Baits are being eaten. Yesterday morning, it appeared that no rats had visited. However, this morning, another bait had been eaten, and there were more droppings. I got so sooky a couple of nights ago, worrying about rats running across my face and chewing chunks of hair off, that I crawled into bed with Dr P, so that he could protect me from the rats. And he did. Shades of the Foggy Foggy Dew! There is a door to his bedroom, unlike my room, which is at the top of the stairs, and open to nocturnal visitors of the type that no one could possibly welcome. The rats have chewed chunks out the upholstery of Dr P's tub chair, which means that once the rats are vanquished, the chair will have to be re-upholstered.
What with the rats and the increased amount of care needed by Dr P, I am not getting much else done. We do now have ID for Dr P, a photo card from the Roads and Traffic Authority, and I am almost at the point of final completion of yet another form, but I need to see our GP for his report. My brother in law visited today - all in a bit of a rush - to help with legal matters enabling me/us to cope with the complexities of Dr P's aging and forgetfulness, and to help me handle things. It has been done, but took time, and also took something of an emotional toll on me. My brother in law handled it all calmly, patiently, honestly and clearly. He is a great bloke.
Of late, Dr P seems to have realised my sterling qualities, how much he needs me, and has become very fond and affectionate, which is all to the good. He got a little fright when I went away for the weekend and underwent some sort of epiphany. We are talking more and understanding each other better.
Dr P is giving me a nice new iMac for my birthday, so I spent one morning earlier this week choosing all the various possible bells and whistles, and am now waiting for it all to be delivered. This is all very exciting, and I am thrilled to bits. A huge technological challenge will now confront me. Fortunately I will be taking regular lessons at the Apple Store and can also ring them up for help for the next three years.
The Internet connection here has become rather temperamental and episodic, and keeps telling me that I am not connected to the Internet. Perhaps it is Blogger, which certainly will not let me delete comments. The Apple people suggested it was due to the ISP, but the ISP tells me it is probably the computer. Who to believe? Having spent 39 minutes on hold waiting to get through to India, becoming somewhat impatient as a result, I feel more inclined to believe it is the fault of the ISP, but once I was connected to India and was actually discussing the problem, the Internet connection did not drop out once. Just to make me feel both aggravated and persecuted, the connection has been dropping out ever since. Of course, I have no real idea what I am doing. Where are my computer literate children when I need them? You can see why tycoons have Personal Assistants, but, in my view, tycoons have much less need of them that I do. Dr P is totally ignorant about computers, so what use to me is the stereotype that says All Men Understand Technology? (Intuitively.) Ha! Perhaps, once the new computer is hooked up, it will all work magically. One can only hope.
My new great nephew having been born, I have been hard at work on crocheting a cot blanket of granny squares, in shades of purples and mauves. It is finished, all put together, blocked out, the ends sewn in, and it went to Melbourne this evening. I hope the baby, and his parents like it - if not, they are free to reject it and it could then be given to yet another baby great niece or nephew. It is quite probable that a blanket of granny squares takes far longer to make than a quilt, but this is a claim which I cannot prove. Now I am feeling slightly restive, and wondering what to make next.
Finally, like all good women and people of good heart and faith, I am rejoicing that we have a woman Prime Minister, who is, I believe a person of sound good sense, great intellect and practical intelligence, and with her heart in the right place. I hope she succeeds in her endeavours to lead our country, and will help guide us on the right path.
Tuesday, 22 June 2010
EEK, ERK, YUK!
All is not well at Casa Persiflage. We have been invaded. Evidently rats have been visiting us. Shades of 1984 and Room 101. I have never had rats before, although years ago we had periodic invasions of field mice, which we managed to overcome by means of cats and traps. But RATS! Sheer horror filled my innermost and sensitive soul.
One morning last week I came downstairs to find a loaf of raisin bread had been gnawed - plastic bag, and all. The next night there were pieces of the lid of a plastic container scattered about the bench, and there were further attempts the following nights. I taped up a gap in the laundry wall, where the hot water pipe goes through, but the invasions continued. Dr P and I, united in fear and loathing, agreed that a pest exterminator must be summonsed forthwith, and forthwith turned out to be yesterday. I was away for the weekend, but on my return found rat droppings on the stairs and in various other places. Erk! While away, I bought more plastic storage containers and glass jars, and spent yesterday morning making sure that nothing in the pantry could be got at by moths, cockroaches, mice, rats, or by any other creature or beastie. I tell you, the wildlife in this city is extremely varied, not very lovable, and evidently came across with the First Fleet.
When the rat man came, it turned out that this house lacks a manhole (but evidently not a rat hole) and he could not work out where the rats were managing to enter. So, at further expense, he laid a bait trap, which is sitting behind the dishwasher, and we are to wait and see. This morning I found more rat droppings. All of this aroused even more feverish hunting for means of ingress. Late this afternoon I discovered that Dr P's wheat bag was full of chewed holes and that there was wheat scattered about. The bag was made of heavy fabric, and it is not pleasant to think of those teeth at work. Into the bin with the wheat bag!
This afternoon, while relentlessly and anxiously prowling around the house, it suddenly occurred to me to check the surrounds of the flue of the wood heater, which we have never used. Yes! Yet another of the slapdash, careless and inexpert tradesmen who built this house had cut out an oversize hole for the flue, and there was enough space there for creatures to get in - and (I hope) out.
I got to work again with the duct tape, and hope that no more evil creatures will get in. Then I will hire someone to come and seal off these holes permanently. Avaunt, you blind and malign fates.
One morning last week I came downstairs to find a loaf of raisin bread had been gnawed - plastic bag, and all. The next night there were pieces of the lid of a plastic container scattered about the bench, and there were further attempts the following nights. I taped up a gap in the laundry wall, where the hot water pipe goes through, but the invasions continued. Dr P and I, united in fear and loathing, agreed that a pest exterminator must be summonsed forthwith, and forthwith turned out to be yesterday. I was away for the weekend, but on my return found rat droppings on the stairs and in various other places. Erk! While away, I bought more plastic storage containers and glass jars, and spent yesterday morning making sure that nothing in the pantry could be got at by moths, cockroaches, mice, rats, or by any other creature or beastie. I tell you, the wildlife in this city is extremely varied, not very lovable, and evidently came across with the First Fleet.
When the rat man came, it turned out that this house lacks a manhole (but evidently not a rat hole) and he could not work out where the rats were managing to enter. So, at further expense, he laid a bait trap, which is sitting behind the dishwasher, and we are to wait and see. This morning I found more rat droppings. All of this aroused even more feverish hunting for means of ingress. Late this afternoon I discovered that Dr P's wheat bag was full of chewed holes and that there was wheat scattered about. The bag was made of heavy fabric, and it is not pleasant to think of those teeth at work. Into the bin with the wheat bag!
This afternoon, while relentlessly and anxiously prowling around the house, it suddenly occurred to me to check the surrounds of the flue of the wood heater, which we have never used. Yes! Yet another of the slapdash, careless and inexpert tradesmen who built this house had cut out an oversize hole for the flue, and there was enough space there for creatures to get in - and (I hope) out.
I got to work again with the duct tape, and hope that no more evil creatures will get in. Then I will hire someone to come and seal off these holes permanently. Avaunt, you blind and malign fates.
Thursday, 17 June 2010
A litany of being and doing
When I arose yesterday morning it was in the expectation that it would be a nice clear day during which I could get done everything I needed to. Ha! Caring, bureaucracy and the filling out of forms is my lot in life.
Yesterday I told V that I wanted to go to Canberra for the weekend, and could they take over his care? Nice to be told, she said, so I replied I was telling her now, and that if they could not help, I would cancel the trip. Due to a regrettable propensity not to be able to think quickly when put upon the spot, I missed the opportunity to point out that she could not have been told sooner, as she'd gone off for a long weekend at the beach. Half her luck. We then had a discussion about my possible trip later this year. Dr P was extremely forgetful while V was here - I fear that such days are becoming more frequent. Aging can be a very sad process. More and more I miss the man I married.
We need to get a resident parking permit. As Dr P gave his car to his grandson and surrendered his licence, in order to get this permit he needs not only to supply the Council with a copy of his rates notice (I mean, the Council ISSUES the rates notices, you'd think their computer system could match all these things up) but also must make a statutory declaration to say that the household car is owned by me, his wife, and I live here too. They also require a copy of the current registration documents for the car. The statutory declaration needs to be witnessed by a Justice of the Peace. So commenced the search for a local JP, bearing in mind that it needs to be close and easily accessible for Dr P. JPs are not listed in the telephone directory any more, and the Internet proved of little help. However I did discover that you can ring the Attorney-General's Department to get information. I was given names and telephone numbers but no addresses and most of those names were not in the directory. I then found a more extensive listing, but still without addresses. Rather than go into the highways and byways, calling loudly for a JP, I did the sensible thing and rang the office of our local MP. I now know where and when to go. The staff member was wonderfully helpful, and also suggested, when I told her of the burden of all the information we have to provide, and Dr P's relative lack of forms of ID, that we get the ID available from the Roads and Traffic Authority. So we will do that - next week. Apparently identity fraud is rife, and thus, they say, all these questions, forms and pieces of evidence are necessary. Although I still think some of them could be omitted.
All of this took a long time. It was 2.30 before I set out to do the shopping, and called in to the Centrelink Office for an Information Pack. The staff member was very helpful. The butcher asked me how had my day been. I smiled and said, "Not as planned". He laughed and said, "There's always tomorrow." "Yes" I said, "That's part of the problem."
Late last night I wrote my Italian homework. Strangely enough, it was reasonably free of errors. Well into the small hours last night, despite my being so tired, sleep did not come. I lay awake for hours, while the traffic continued, young men rode skateboards along the road, talking loudly, and causing a neighbouring dog to wake and bark for ages in protest (quite understandable, I was tempted to bark myself), then Dr P set off his panic alarm button, the phone rang and I had to check his well-being. It is amazing how well you can function, at least for a short time, on about three hours sleep.
As usual it was a great class. I was in no great hurry to get home afterwards as SD2, the WSD arrived today for a high-powered conference. She and her sister came here for lunch and unfortunately were still here when I returned. Very little conversational interchange occurred.
I have to say that all the Aged Care people have been terrific, very helpful, prompt and very useful. So too was Centrelink, and my local MP's office staff. I am most impressed. When I read day after day of the manifold deficiencies of the government and the administration, I get rather sick of all the whinging done by the newspapers and others. Some appreciation of what government does for people would not go amiss. I sometimes wonder, with all the complaints and criticisms, whether they all want a dictatorship. It bears remembering that when many of the services we now expect as our right were enacted, there was bitter opposition from the conservative parties, who loudly proclaimed that the sky would fall in, the economy would be ruined, and that the unworthy would unfairly benefit. For us, the provision of aged care services is a great help, as, like so many others, we do not have a great deal of family support here. I do not live near my family, and of Dr P's four daughters, only one lives in Australia, and her support is not an unalloyed joy or blessing.
My lovely son and I talked last night, and he cheered me up considerably. On Friday I will be OUT OF HERE. My step-family can have their father all to themselves. There will be no step-daughters around. Instead, children, two of my very own. And grandchildren, two thirds of them. Friends. Peace, tranquillity, sympathy. Blessed relief! And probably extremely cold weather.
Good things happened today. The baby of my nephew and his wife was born, a boy, amid great rejoicing. My sister is beside herself with joy and excitement. This is her first grandson.
Monday, 14 June 2010
At weekends the pace of life slows somewhat – not that my life is as busy as in the days when the family was young, and I worked, but, as they say, work expands to fill the time (and energy) available. Dr P was about to run out of one of his medicines, and instead of telling me this on Saturday, he waited until Sunday, when our chemist is closed, and because of today's public holiday, I had to go further afield. My little expedition included a gentle stroll to the local shops, the St Vincent de Paul shop and the second-hand market.
Vinnies has lots of cheap books, and is worth visiting regularly. It is mostly very popular fiction, but it is surprising what is to be found – sometimes quite old books turn up, there is a scattering of biographies, some old travel books, and this and that. I picked up an Anne Tyler book, and went on to the market, where there are lots of stalls with books. Two more books leapt into my hands, one a Spanish grammar, just in case I manage to do a bit of study before going away later this year (fingers crossed and all going well) and the other, found while browsing through the offerings of one of the larger stalls, on LM Montgomery and the Anne of Green Gables books. It is lovely. As I paid for it I talked to the stall-holder, who has a bookshop in another suburb, about children’s books, reading, and the delights of finding books for children. Such casual, and almost accidental conversations add such joy and interest to life. All of a sudden things of common interest are discovered, and there is a meeting of minds.
The market is always very crowded, and since the completion of a new playground at the school, all the little kids have lots of fun on the equipment.
Looking at the array of goods on sale at the market made me think of our lives, the passage of time, and of our mortality. Where did all these goods come from? There are old clothes, shoes, toys, books, old and new jewellery, china, silver and glassware, ornaments, rugs, cloths and embroidered doileys, new socks, old furniture, mirrors, Indian jewellery and very smelly incense, wools, cotton and buttons, old magazines, prints, photos and posters, plants and flowers, and food. There was an old National Geographic, from 1935, which featured Italy and its then colonial possession Eritrea. Where has this magazine been all these years? How did it come to be on sale? Did anyone buy it?
Does all this stuff come from regular house-cleaning and tidying, moving house, from the elderly having to move into aged care accommodation, or from the distribution of possessions of those who have died? How many objects come from what is left over from bequests and inheritance, categorised as stuff nobody (in their rights minds) would want. But you can’t just throw it all away, you can hear people think, someone might want or need it.
Then my mind turns to what will happen to all my things when I die. Will my children want any or all of them? Would they have room for them? There has been a bit of sighing and rolling of eyes when I have mentioned this subject in the past. There ensue careful explanations of how tastes change (ie, would not want any of this lot) or laughing rebukes about not being so pathetic, Mum.
Yet I want my family to have my things, partly because there are many lovely things, and partly, I suppose, because of the fear of the extinction not only of my mind and body, but also of the memory of me. I want my descendants to handle things which were mine, and for them to bring me to their memories. Those few things I own which came to me from my parents or grandparents are precious to me on that account. My father’s tub chair, which I have had repaired and re-covered. My grandmother’s locket. Pearls which were my mother’s. The tablecloth my grandmother crocheted for me as a wedding present. A few embroidered pieces of linen. Books which were owned by my father. A standard lamp. And there are also a table and a sideboard which I bought from my inheritance.
Of course, if no one likes any of these things, they can be sold, or given away, and I will never know. What you don't know does not hurt you, so they say, although many of us have real difficulty believing this adage. It is hard not to imagine our spirits keeping an eye on what goes on in the land of the living, and thus being distracted from heavenly bliss, purgatory or whatever. Surely there is some shrieking from above not to get rid of this or that precious object. As well as helpful advice and comfort.
In the meantime I am doing some cleaning out of Dr P's study. (He has the power of veto.) All his old family photos (ie pre-me) have now been gathered together and put into a plastic box, so that at any time he and his children can have a look. My own photos are mostly in albums, and today I rediscovered photos from my childhood. My older sister and I had given each other copies of whatever we had - I am so glad that we did this. It was a bitter-sweet experience to see them again today.
This week I watched a programme about a National Trust historic house in the UK – Calke Abbey. It is preserved as a rather decrepit property, because nothing in this house was ever mended, repaired, or thrown away. The house is absolutely full of things. You wonder how they lived. It is preserved now because it is part of the history of the family and of the nation. The National Trust has not followed its usual policy of repairing, as Calke Abbey does not fit the usual pattern of grand historic houses, dripping with wealth, luxury and self-indulgence. For example, a statue of a dog had a damaged leg, and was propped up on a matchbox. The matchbox was thrown away, and an identical matchbox had to be found and put in situ. You cannot be too accurate!
As a person who is passionate about the study of history, I want to keep learning as much as possible, and I want future generations to know the past, ours and that of other peoples, to know how we lived, what we thought, what happened in our times, to know our problems, our faults and virtues. To preserve our humanity. To preserve knowledge, and understanding.
Vinnies has lots of cheap books, and is worth visiting regularly. It is mostly very popular fiction, but it is surprising what is to be found – sometimes quite old books turn up, there is a scattering of biographies, some old travel books, and this and that. I picked up an Anne Tyler book, and went on to the market, where there are lots of stalls with books. Two more books leapt into my hands, one a Spanish grammar, just in case I manage to do a bit of study before going away later this year (fingers crossed and all going well) and the other, found while browsing through the offerings of one of the larger stalls, on LM Montgomery and the Anne of Green Gables books. It is lovely. As I paid for it I talked to the stall-holder, who has a bookshop in another suburb, about children’s books, reading, and the delights of finding books for children. Such casual, and almost accidental conversations add such joy and interest to life. All of a sudden things of common interest are discovered, and there is a meeting of minds.
The market is always very crowded, and since the completion of a new playground at the school, all the little kids have lots of fun on the equipment.
Looking at the array of goods on sale at the market made me think of our lives, the passage of time, and of our mortality. Where did all these goods come from? There are old clothes, shoes, toys, books, old and new jewellery, china, silver and glassware, ornaments, rugs, cloths and embroidered doileys, new socks, old furniture, mirrors, Indian jewellery and very smelly incense, wools, cotton and buttons, old magazines, prints, photos and posters, plants and flowers, and food. There was an old National Geographic, from 1935, which featured Italy and its then colonial possession Eritrea. Where has this magazine been all these years? How did it come to be on sale? Did anyone buy it?
Does all this stuff come from regular house-cleaning and tidying, moving house, from the elderly having to move into aged care accommodation, or from the distribution of possessions of those who have died? How many objects come from what is left over from bequests and inheritance, categorised as stuff nobody (in their rights minds) would want. But you can’t just throw it all away, you can hear people think, someone might want or need it.
Then my mind turns to what will happen to all my things when I die. Will my children want any or all of them? Would they have room for them? There has been a bit of sighing and rolling of eyes when I have mentioned this subject in the past. There ensue careful explanations of how tastes change (ie, would not want any of this lot) or laughing rebukes about not being so pathetic, Mum.
Yet I want my family to have my things, partly because there are many lovely things, and partly, I suppose, because of the fear of the extinction not only of my mind and body, but also of the memory of me. I want my descendants to handle things which were mine, and for them to bring me to their memories. Those few things I own which came to me from my parents or grandparents are precious to me on that account. My father’s tub chair, which I have had repaired and re-covered. My grandmother’s locket. Pearls which were my mother’s. The tablecloth my grandmother crocheted for me as a wedding present. A few embroidered pieces of linen. Books which were owned by my father. A standard lamp. And there are also a table and a sideboard which I bought from my inheritance.
Of course, if no one likes any of these things, they can be sold, or given away, and I will never know. What you don't know does not hurt you, so they say, although many of us have real difficulty believing this adage. It is hard not to imagine our spirits keeping an eye on what goes on in the land of the living, and thus being distracted from heavenly bliss, purgatory or whatever. Surely there is some shrieking from above not to get rid of this or that precious object. As well as helpful advice and comfort.
In the meantime I am doing some cleaning out of Dr P's study. (He has the power of veto.) All his old family photos (ie pre-me) have now been gathered together and put into a plastic box, so that at any time he and his children can have a look. My own photos are mostly in albums, and today I rediscovered photos from my childhood. My older sister and I had given each other copies of whatever we had - I am so glad that we did this. It was a bitter-sweet experience to see them again today.
This week I watched a programme about a National Trust historic house in the UK – Calke Abbey. It is preserved as a rather decrepit property, because nothing in this house was ever mended, repaired, or thrown away. The house is absolutely full of things. You wonder how they lived. It is preserved now because it is part of the history of the family and of the nation. The National Trust has not followed its usual policy of repairing, as Calke Abbey does not fit the usual pattern of grand historic houses, dripping with wealth, luxury and self-indulgence. For example, a statue of a dog had a damaged leg, and was propped up on a matchbox. The matchbox was thrown away, and an identical matchbox had to be found and put in situ. You cannot be too accurate!
As a person who is passionate about the study of history, I want to keep learning as much as possible, and I want future generations to know the past, ours and that of other peoples, to know how we lived, what we thought, what happened in our times, to know our problems, our faults and virtues. To preserve our humanity. To preserve knowledge, and understanding.
Thursday, 10 June 2010
New ways of frittering away spare time
When I travel to my classes and lectures I go by bus. Today the time spent on the bus was longer than usual, because the bus, and all other traffic was held up by a march and demonstration by workers and unionists in favour of equal pay for women. While equal pay generally applies, there are many jobs predominantly done by women. Their wages are significantly lower than those paid for male-dominated jobs. These workers have a good case. Many of their jobs involve caring - for children, for disabled or for others. Our society needs such people - but nonetheless does not pay them well.
The march took me back to when I first joined the workforce, when female rates were much lower than male rates. The rationale was that men supported their families - although women supporting families somehow were never paid the male rate. After my graduation I joined the public service, working in the National Library, where the majority of librarians were female, but the senior positions were generally held by men. Married women could not be permanent employees, nor belong to the superannuation scheme. Equal pay was brought in by the ALP government elected in 1972, and permanency for married women was brought in sometime later. Of course, many jobs are now no longer permanent. I worked part time for years, and could not join the superannuation scheme until I worked full time, and as a result my superannuation is not enough to live on independently. There are still many people whose lives were greatly affected by the mores and the discriminatory laws of the past.
My spirits improved along with the weather. The sun has been shining. But it is cold now, even in Sydney. Winter is really here now, and last night, for the first time in years, I wore pajamas to bed. This was not a pretty sight, nor a good idea. The pajamas were a gift from an airline, of the one size fits all variety, and whoever designed them evidently failed Elementary Fashion Design. The pajama experiment will not be tried again, because the legs roll up to the knee, and this is uncomfortable. I can think of better things to do in bed than to yank down the pajamas legs from knee to ankle. Yes, OK. I was actually thinking about sleep.
While selecting the pajamas from the dim recesses of drawers which are full of old clothes which are never worn but which might come in handy some time, I came across some silk pajamas which originally I bought for hospital when I had surgery for breast cancer. These silk pajamas will probably go to Vinnies now, as they do not fit me any more. Back to the light cotton nightie.
Dr P had a doctor's appointment this week for his Vitamin B12 injection. Getting him there and back is almost fit stuff for a documentary. While we were there I asked our nice GP whether it was appropriate to apply for a Carer's Allowance. This pays a small fortnightly sum to the carer. He agreed it was. Having downloaded the form, of over 20 pages, I sat down to fill it in.
The questions they ask! Other than those providing details about the extent and level of care needed, they want to know whether you are Australian born or not, and all sorts of other things, the necessity and relevance of which are questionable. Dr P was born in Austria. His family was Italian, but his mother went to Vienna for the birth. The form requires you to list all countries which the person for whom you are caring ever lived in. Now I have no idea how long Dr P was in Austria before his mother returned home with him. Probably several weeks at most. She is long dead, he was a baby. No one else knows. They would all be dead too. Then they want to know the date he arrived in Australia. He knows the year, but not the day or the month. He cannot remember, and it is the least of the things he can no longer remember. It is more than 70 years ago. Who cares? They want to know the airline or the name of the ship on which they travelled! They also require you to list the countries outside Australia to which you, or the person being cared for have travelled for short trips. For goodness sakes!
Many years ago there was a proposal to create a system of national identity card. This was seen by the then Glorious Opposition (since returned as another possibly less glorious opposition) as a fundamental breach of and invasion of our liberties and right to privacy. If I remember rightly, the bill never came into effect because the Senate had the power to disallow the regulation fixing the commencement date of the legislation. It was careless drafting, and since then the commencement date of legislation is part of the act. So what happened? We do not have an ID card, and by default the driver's licence has become, to all intents and purposes, an ID card. But not everyone has one.
Dr P surrendered his licence last year. His passport lapsed some years ago. I cannot find a copy of his birth certificate. The only forms of ID that he has are his Tax Assessment notice, and his naturalisation certificate. Thank heavens. But what happens to the elderly, to those who do not drive, or who have no passport?
Now you would think that in these days of data sharing, computers and the like, that if they did really did need such information, they could check the tax records and the births, deaths and marriages, files, etcetera. Government departments routinely do data matching on the passengers on all sorts of things, including airline flights in and out of Australia, to pick up travelling patterns and coincidences, so why am I required to spend all this time providing information about myself and my 86 year old husband who is an frail aged person requiring much care? I am tempted to contact my local MP about this, if I can summon up the energy after filling out the form and seeing the doctor again to get him to complete the form for the medical report.
Tomorrow we will be visited by someone from the Aged Care Provider. Unfortunately, Dr P took the phone call making the appointment and although he noted down the date and time, he cannot remember the purpose of the visit. We have had a physiotherapist visit, but Dr P is reluctant to do the recommended exercises.
At the end of next week J1, (SD 2, the Wicked Step Daughter) will be visiting. They can all play Happy Families. I hope to go to Canberra and thus we can all avoid each other's contaminating presence. My breast can fill with parental and grandparental fervour, and there are all sorts of enjoyable things to do there.
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