I was rampaging through my wardrobe the other day, searching for the outfit I had made last year for a nephew's wedding. It needs to be altered, to fit me for my niece's wedding in August. I came across a genuine antique from my past.
It was at the very back of the wardrobe, where things I am extremely unlikely to wear ever again hang dolefully. This particular garment must be a good 20 years old.
I dragged it out. It is a size 10, and it fitted me. I stroked it and purred. I liked what I saw and felt.
It is a fur jacket. A rabbit fur, in red fox shades.
I love fur. It is so soft and smooth, so warm and snuggly. So tactile.
Years ago I used to have a lapin fur coat, which I wore until it fell to bits. It was just the thing for the Canberra winters. Furriers used to have special sales in the Albert Hall. Ah, such temptation!
Fur garments fell into disrepute, as animal liberationists campaigned vigorously against them. Furriers closed down in droves, and there was not a fur garment to be seen.
Although I observed some years later that in Europe there were still furriers and garments which were absolutely elegant, gorgeous, and glamorous. Such luxurious shops. They are not the sort of shops you'd go into for a little browse around. Much too posh. One stood gazing at the windows, and lusted after them.
Now fur trims on garments are to be seen here and there, and not all of it is faux fur. Fur is creeping back, it seems.
Sydney's climate is not really one which can justify the wearing of fur, although this mid-July is doing its best to disprove this theory. And the Canberra overnight temperature yesterday fell to about - 6.3.
In August one of my many nieces is getting married in a very cold place. But a fox-coloured and snugly fitting jacket won't go with the purple silk outfit.
My wonderful physiotherapist, Barbara, was rather teary at this week's appointment. Her cat, her beloved pet for 21 years, had cancer and had to be put down. We exchanged memories of sitting and stroking lapfuls of purring cats. And hugged and kissed each other, in mutual comfort.
It reminded me of having to put down my lovely cat Meggsie, who also had cancer and who was totally miserable. I took him to the vet, and held him as he died, then came home, and flung myself on the bed and wept. Dr P and I were supposed to be going out that night, but, unprompted, he cancelled the outing, and let me weep. Such memories re-surface unexpectedly.
Friday, 15 July 2011
Saturday, 9 July 2011
Light relief from eyes out on stalks
No rest for the wicked, none but the brave deserve the fair, God helps those who help themselves, and tomorrow I am going to stop procrastinating.
If I were a more methodical person, I would not be in this muddle of paper, calculations, summaries, conceptual confusion, or call it what you may. Not only must one calculate what has been spent, but one must gaze into the unknown future and make some some estimates, which can vary from wild guesses to relative probability. Where's the crystal bowl when it is needed? Will I need plumbers, electricians, painters or handymen? Last year we failed to get the air conditioners serviced, so this year it ought to be done.
I am the sort of person who chucks receipts into a box, and sorts them out only in cases of the very direst necessity. I do note down most items of expenditure, I check my credit card statements, and I always pay my bills on time, and do not run up debts. However, I cannot keep figures in my head, and nor can I move them easily around my mind and memory. This means that when I do (try to) sort them all out and make logical, tidy and methodical summaries, things fall out of my mind and I tend to forget what was there. I wish it were not so, but alas, it is indeed so, and I suppose I can always add age and decrepitude to a naturally deficient intellect when it comes to numbers. But perhaps a truer explanation is a simple conviction, born out of centuries of conditioning, that I should not have to worry my pretty little head about such matters. Logically and rationally, I do not believe this for a single second, but oh, how I would like it if someone else did it all for me. Well, this is never going to happen, and so I strive personfully to keep my affairs in order. When this task has been satisfactorily accomplished, perhaps I won't have to do it again for the foreseeable future.
I buy plastic folders and envelopes, so as to maintain some semblance of order, but the number of folders required seems to multiply exponentially. Periodically it is necessary to spread everything out all over the floor, and sort them all, and then hope for the best. Another of those little voices insists that there are better things to do with one's life, and suggests cunningly that taking a break with some music in the background and a good book is a far preferable way of squandering time. Oh yes!
The reason for all this torture is an impending appointment with the lawyer. All my financial details and circumstances must be revealed to whomsoever they may concern.
The appointment was actually scheduled for yesterday, but when the lawyer rang to confirm the appointment, I confessed that I had not finished all the financial summaries. Accordingly the appointment was deferred until Monday. Just do the best you can, she said soothingly.
So while the cleaners vacuumed, I kept a-sorting. Most things are now in some kind of order, but there is much addition to be done, and forms to be filled in.
Analysing the patterns of expenditure, I note that small and frequent food shopping has replaced the large weekly shopping expedition. Petrol costs me very little now, and it is not worth chasing discount vouchers. Pharmacy costs have fallen hugely. Overall my cost of living has gone up, now that the expenditure is borne by myself alone.
Nonetheless it seems a good idea to indulge in little treats. I have bought some new clothes. The sales have been on, practically nothing fitted me any more, and this year there were so many purple clothes being sold. The contents of the wardrobe now reveal an even more extensive range of purple garments.
I continue to buy CDs and books - in fact, I cannot seem to stop, but I am managing to read more, as there are fewer interruptions. At the second-hand market today I found the Cambridge Companion to Jane Austen, for a mere $5. It was a bargain. Cleaning costs are less, as I do not make very much mess. I keep buying wool, and am full of good intentions about using it. Anyway, there has been a month long wool sale, which simply cannot be ignored. Such bargains - the yarns are so gorgeous. How can such temptation possibly be resisted? Not many people were trying to resist, judging from the lengthy queues at the cash register, on each occasion that I popped in to see what I myself could not resist. Hordes of happy females were there, eagerly examining wools, selecting colours, with many a helpful suggestion from other shoppers, poring over patterns, and finally leaving laden with large parcels. What a sisterhood there is of crafty people. It is wonderful. Maybe yarns emit a pheromone which is irresistible to certain females? There has to be some sort of scientific explanation!
In fact I have just completed a large blanket made of crocheted squares, which will go to the ABC's Knit In annual event. The blanket looks quite good. Enough squares remain for half of another rug. Oh dear. More and more work, and more wool purchases. All sorts of spare squares sit in boxes in the cupboards, awaiting the chance to be used up in some sort of compatible mix of squares.
Last week I brought out some fine blue mohair I bought in New Zealand in the late 1980s, during a visit there for a couple of political science conferences. For years I have been wondering what I could make with this yarn, and now I have started making a shawl. The pattern is easy, and can be done on automatic pilot. Here's hoping it all works, as mohair is very difficult to unravel. Of course, I don't know how much yarn will be required, as I am adapting a pattern. Sweet mystery of life.
Intermittently I will resume work on the wisteria/jacaranda coloured wool with which I am crocheting a jumper. I am up to the shaping of the second sleeve, and then must join all the pieces and do the edgings.
If I were a more methodical person, I would not be in this muddle of paper, calculations, summaries, conceptual confusion, or call it what you may. Not only must one calculate what has been spent, but one must gaze into the unknown future and make some some estimates, which can vary from wild guesses to relative probability. Where's the crystal bowl when it is needed? Will I need plumbers, electricians, painters or handymen? Last year we failed to get the air conditioners serviced, so this year it ought to be done.
I am the sort of person who chucks receipts into a box, and sorts them out only in cases of the very direst necessity. I do note down most items of expenditure, I check my credit card statements, and I always pay my bills on time, and do not run up debts. However, I cannot keep figures in my head, and nor can I move them easily around my mind and memory. This means that when I do (try to) sort them all out and make logical, tidy and methodical summaries, things fall out of my mind and I tend to forget what was there. I wish it were not so, but alas, it is indeed so, and I suppose I can always add age and decrepitude to a naturally deficient intellect when it comes to numbers. But perhaps a truer explanation is a simple conviction, born out of centuries of conditioning, that I should not have to worry my pretty little head about such matters. Logically and rationally, I do not believe this for a single second, but oh, how I would like it if someone else did it all for me. Well, this is never going to happen, and so I strive personfully to keep my affairs in order. When this task has been satisfactorily accomplished, perhaps I won't have to do it again for the foreseeable future.
I buy plastic folders and envelopes, so as to maintain some semblance of order, but the number of folders required seems to multiply exponentially. Periodically it is necessary to spread everything out all over the floor, and sort them all, and then hope for the best. Another of those little voices insists that there are better things to do with one's life, and suggests cunningly that taking a break with some music in the background and a good book is a far preferable way of squandering time. Oh yes!
The reason for all this torture is an impending appointment with the lawyer. All my financial details and circumstances must be revealed to whomsoever they may concern.
The appointment was actually scheduled for yesterday, but when the lawyer rang to confirm the appointment, I confessed that I had not finished all the financial summaries. Accordingly the appointment was deferred until Monday. Just do the best you can, she said soothingly.
So while the cleaners vacuumed, I kept a-sorting. Most things are now in some kind of order, but there is much addition to be done, and forms to be filled in.
Analysing the patterns of expenditure, I note that small and frequent food shopping has replaced the large weekly shopping expedition. Petrol costs me very little now, and it is not worth chasing discount vouchers. Pharmacy costs have fallen hugely. Overall my cost of living has gone up, now that the expenditure is borne by myself alone.
Nonetheless it seems a good idea to indulge in little treats. I have bought some new clothes. The sales have been on, practically nothing fitted me any more, and this year there were so many purple clothes being sold. The contents of the wardrobe now reveal an even more extensive range of purple garments.
I continue to buy CDs and books - in fact, I cannot seem to stop, but I am managing to read more, as there are fewer interruptions. At the second-hand market today I found the Cambridge Companion to Jane Austen, for a mere $5. It was a bargain. Cleaning costs are less, as I do not make very much mess. I keep buying wool, and am full of good intentions about using it. Anyway, there has been a month long wool sale, which simply cannot be ignored. Such bargains - the yarns are so gorgeous. How can such temptation possibly be resisted? Not many people were trying to resist, judging from the lengthy queues at the cash register, on each occasion that I popped in to see what I myself could not resist. Hordes of happy females were there, eagerly examining wools, selecting colours, with many a helpful suggestion from other shoppers, poring over patterns, and finally leaving laden with large parcels. What a sisterhood there is of crafty people. It is wonderful. Maybe yarns emit a pheromone which is irresistible to certain females? There has to be some sort of scientific explanation!
In fact I have just completed a large blanket made of crocheted squares, which will go to the ABC's Knit In annual event. The blanket looks quite good. Enough squares remain for half of another rug. Oh dear. More and more work, and more wool purchases. All sorts of spare squares sit in boxes in the cupboards, awaiting the chance to be used up in some sort of compatible mix of squares.
Last week I brought out some fine blue mohair I bought in New Zealand in the late 1980s, during a visit there for a couple of political science conferences. For years I have been wondering what I could make with this yarn, and now I have started making a shawl. The pattern is easy, and can be done on automatic pilot. Here's hoping it all works, as mohair is very difficult to unravel. Of course, I don't know how much yarn will be required, as I am adapting a pattern. Sweet mystery of life.
Intermittently I will resume work on the wisteria/jacaranda coloured wool with which I am crocheting a jumper. I am up to the shaping of the second sleeve, and then must join all the pieces and do the edgings.
Tuesday, 5 July 2011
Another year older
It was my birthday on Monday, the glorious 4 July, and as I did not want to be all alone, I took off for a few days in Melbourne, where my three sisters took me out to lunch. Somehow, sisters are much better company than are brothers. My time and energy both being finite, I now confine my efforts to reciprocal relationships. They are so much better for the psyche. Perhaps next year my wingspan might increase.
I stayed for two days with a friend from Canberra who has moved to Melbourne to be closer to her daughters. We were colleagues as well as friends, and have travelled together, and never run out of things to talk about. She has to settle in to a new environment, and remarks that she does not know anyone who is her own age, and we (rather ruefully) remark upon the process of relocation and resettlement. It being far too soon for me to know what will become of me, or where I should eke out my (declining?) years, it is interesting to observe how others go about it. At this stage, all I can see is a large variety of difficult adjustments.
And then there is always the weather. I was a good grandmother, and went to watch my grandson's soccer match. It was absolutely freezing weather, and despite wearing three woollen layers, an overcoat, two pairs of socks, hat, gloves and a pashmina, I shivered violently for almost two hours. It was worse than the two Canberra soccer games I attended a few weeks ago. My grandson's team won, and I enjoyed the game, even though it took another hour for me to become warm. We had a pleasant afternoon, with birthday cake and candles, made successfully despite the electric mixer almost dying. Fixit has taken it (the mixer) apart and cleaned it out, and it may struggle on for another while. Yet again I blessed the day (many years ago) that my friend gave me the recipe for this now fabled buttermilk spice cake. We were a very sociable mob, in my workplace, and shared and enjoyed many recipes.
My friend and I went to the exhibition of Viennese Art and Design at the National Gallery of Victoria, which was terrific. As we arrived just after opening time, it was not overcrowded, and we were able to amble around at our own pace, and get a good look at everything. My friend bought me the catalogue as a birthday present, which was very kind of her.
The disadvantage of being away is being deprived of time on the computer. Now it is time to catch up with what the rest of the world has been doing.
I stayed for two days with a friend from Canberra who has moved to Melbourne to be closer to her daughters. We were colleagues as well as friends, and have travelled together, and never run out of things to talk about. She has to settle in to a new environment, and remarks that she does not know anyone who is her own age, and we (rather ruefully) remark upon the process of relocation and resettlement. It being far too soon for me to know what will become of me, or where I should eke out my (declining?) years, it is interesting to observe how others go about it. At this stage, all I can see is a large variety of difficult adjustments.
And then there is always the weather. I was a good grandmother, and went to watch my grandson's soccer match. It was absolutely freezing weather, and despite wearing three woollen layers, an overcoat, two pairs of socks, hat, gloves and a pashmina, I shivered violently for almost two hours. It was worse than the two Canberra soccer games I attended a few weeks ago. My grandson's team won, and I enjoyed the game, even though it took another hour for me to become warm. We had a pleasant afternoon, with birthday cake and candles, made successfully despite the electric mixer almost dying. Fixit has taken it (the mixer) apart and cleaned it out, and it may struggle on for another while. Yet again I blessed the day (many years ago) that my friend gave me the recipe for this now fabled buttermilk spice cake. We were a very sociable mob, in my workplace, and shared and enjoyed many recipes.
My friend and I went to the exhibition of Viennese Art and Design at the National Gallery of Victoria, which was terrific. As we arrived just after opening time, it was not overcrowded, and we were able to amble around at our own pace, and get a good look at everything. My friend bought me the catalogue as a birthday present, which was very kind of her.
The disadvantage of being away is being deprived of time on the computer. Now it is time to catch up with what the rest of the world has been doing.
Tuesday, 28 June 2011
Frittering time away
It is a solitary time, and that is how it will be, for the rest of my life. It probably matters little where I choose to be. One does not realise what it is going to be like, before the inescapable fact and situation are upon one. Even when I enjoyed solitude and uninterrupted time, there was always a time frame attached to it, and once that time had elapsed, normal life resumed.
No more.
The sense of being alone is ever present. In some ways I have become accustomed to it, and would probably find it extremely difficult to adapt to life with another person. It does not mean that this solitariness, this aloneness, this isolation from others, is a desirable state.
I wander around, and that sense of being alone is always with me. My companion, as it were. Instead of the living, breathing, brilliant, funny, perplexing, irritating, interesting, challenging, provocative, argumentative, loving and loved person. Once breath has gone, once life has gone, so too do the other qualities fade, except in memory. Memory persists, but it too fades. I am reminded suddenly of Dali's painting The Disintegration of the Persistence of Memory.
Being occupied and being organised helps, and fills the days, and I am getting more done. For some people, and evidently I am one of them, accepting the changes in life and doing those things necessary, is essential. I wonder whether others realise this, or whether they simply think I am being compulsive.
I do the re-organising bit by bit. My wardrobes are full of clothes not worn for years, as I was too fat to get into them, or the fashions have changed so that they (and I) look peculiar. Now I am pulling them out of the wardrobes, and wondering whether to get new elastic put into the waistbands, or whether to make yet another trip to Vinnies. I examine the contents of the kitchen cupboards, and discard this, and then that. I know it is a continuous attempt to take control of my life. But who can ever achieve that?
I want to see people, and yet, a little is enough, or too much. Then I need to escape to my solitude, and brood a while. In fact, the brooding is like the musical ground bass, repetitive, but harmonious and endlessly fascinating because of the way it is intertwined with the melody, and the progression of time, and life. I cannot halt it. Maybe in time it will evaporate.
No more.
The sense of being alone is ever present. In some ways I have become accustomed to it, and would probably find it extremely difficult to adapt to life with another person. It does not mean that this solitariness, this aloneness, this isolation from others, is a desirable state.
I wander around, and that sense of being alone is always with me. My companion, as it were. Instead of the living, breathing, brilliant, funny, perplexing, irritating, interesting, challenging, provocative, argumentative, loving and loved person. Once breath has gone, once life has gone, so too do the other qualities fade, except in memory. Memory persists, but it too fades. I am reminded suddenly of Dali's painting The Disintegration of the Persistence of Memory.
Being occupied and being organised helps, and fills the days, and I am getting more done. For some people, and evidently I am one of them, accepting the changes in life and doing those things necessary, is essential. I wonder whether others realise this, or whether they simply think I am being compulsive.
I do the re-organising bit by bit. My wardrobes are full of clothes not worn for years, as I was too fat to get into them, or the fashions have changed so that they (and I) look peculiar. Now I am pulling them out of the wardrobes, and wondering whether to get new elastic put into the waistbands, or whether to make yet another trip to Vinnies. I examine the contents of the kitchen cupboards, and discard this, and then that. I know it is a continuous attempt to take control of my life. But who can ever achieve that?
I want to see people, and yet, a little is enough, or too much. Then I need to escape to my solitude, and brood a while. In fact, the brooding is like the musical ground bass, repetitive, but harmonious and endlessly fascinating because of the way it is intertwined with the melody, and the progression of time, and life. I cannot halt it. Maybe in time it will evaporate.
Tuesday, 21 June 2011
Out of character
I am back home from a few days in Canberra. I saw friends, children and grandchildren, and watched the kids' soccer matches. It was very very cold and many layers of clothing were essentiaI. My grandson's team has improved a lot, and he managed to get quite a lot of kicks, but apparently keeps hovering near the goal in the hope and expectation that the ball might miraculously come to him and he can shoot a goal. Apparently you are not supposed to hover around the goal area....
The younger team still has a lot to learn. My granddaughter has trouble remembering to run in the direction of the ball, and, when she does run, she interrupts the run periodically to give a graceful ballet sort of leap! Actually, the leaps are rather Bambi -like.
I have laboured in the field, or, rather, in the houses, and wrought some order out of - how to put it kindly? No, don't think I can. Anyway I have been a labour saving person, and managed to get the older boy involved in helping me. We had fun.
My friend KP was a most kind host. We went out to dinner the first night, and he invited friends over on another night. It was good to see everyone.
In a fit of heroic self-restraint, I did not buy any books at my favourite bookshops. (OK, so one of them was not open when I was in the vicinity.) Continuing my efforts to lead a virtuous life, I am proceeding to read a book which has been sitting around for over a year, somehow emitting a faintly dispirited air, and emitting pleading yelps, to just get on with it, and read it - right to the end, please. It is Frank Delaney's novel Ireland, and it is a great read, especially if you are interested in Ireland. I am, in a general sense, and am trying to improve on this by reading books by Tim Pat Coogan, whose A Memoir I have recently finished. I am actually rather put out to discover how few of his books are available in the bookshops here. It is only right to create a mini-demand.
There are plenty of things to do.
I drove back home this morning, detouring briefly to Berrima, or, as the signs say, Historic Berrima, where there is a lovely shop selling alpaca products. I whipped in and out of the shop in a mere 15 minutes and am now wearing a rather gorgeous purple alpaca tunic style garment. This results from following the policy of giving oneself little (or big) treats.
Tonight I went with a friend to see a musical Jersey Boys, all about Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons. Now, no one would describe me as being keen on pop music, although I found that much of the music was familiar. It was terrific, with an excellent cast of singers, actors and musicians. My only complaint was that it was extremely loud, and I do not understand why a deafening level is considered essential. There will be hosts and hosts of people suffering from deafness at a rather young age. Then they will be sorry!
Still, I must not allow myself to be curmudgeonly. It was a very enjoyable night, and I am delighted that my friend talked me into going with her.
Tomorrow normal life will be resumed and I will be going to the Apple Shop to learn how to be a more effective user of my computer. Should be good.
The younger team still has a lot to learn. My granddaughter has trouble remembering to run in the direction of the ball, and, when she does run, she interrupts the run periodically to give a graceful ballet sort of leap! Actually, the leaps are rather Bambi -like.
I have laboured in the field, or, rather, in the houses, and wrought some order out of - how to put it kindly? No, don't think I can. Anyway I have been a labour saving person, and managed to get the older boy involved in helping me. We had fun.
My friend KP was a most kind host. We went out to dinner the first night, and he invited friends over on another night. It was good to see everyone.
In a fit of heroic self-restraint, I did not buy any books at my favourite bookshops. (OK, so one of them was not open when I was in the vicinity.) Continuing my efforts to lead a virtuous life, I am proceeding to read a book which has been sitting around for over a year, somehow emitting a faintly dispirited air, and emitting pleading yelps, to just get on with it, and read it - right to the end, please. It is Frank Delaney's novel Ireland, and it is a great read, especially if you are interested in Ireland. I am, in a general sense, and am trying to improve on this by reading books by Tim Pat Coogan, whose A Memoir I have recently finished. I am actually rather put out to discover how few of his books are available in the bookshops here. It is only right to create a mini-demand.
There are plenty of things to do.
I drove back home this morning, detouring briefly to Berrima, or, as the signs say, Historic Berrima, where there is a lovely shop selling alpaca products. I whipped in and out of the shop in a mere 15 minutes and am now wearing a rather gorgeous purple alpaca tunic style garment. This results from following the policy of giving oneself little (or big) treats.
Tonight I went with a friend to see a musical Jersey Boys, all about Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons. Now, no one would describe me as being keen on pop music, although I found that much of the music was familiar. It was terrific, with an excellent cast of singers, actors and musicians. My only complaint was that it was extremely loud, and I do not understand why a deafening level is considered essential. There will be hosts and hosts of people suffering from deafness at a rather young age. Then they will be sorry!
Still, I must not allow myself to be curmudgeonly. It was a very enjoyable night, and I am delighted that my friend talked me into going with her.
Tomorrow normal life will be resumed and I will be going to the Apple Shop to learn how to be a more effective user of my computer. Should be good.
Thursday, 16 June 2011
Nothing much
This has not been a good week, and the miseries have swamped me. The loins need to be girded and the teeth gritted. The jaw must be clenched, the shoulder must be put to the wheel, and the best foot put forward. I must push bravely onwards. Just like Christian soldiers, marching off to war. Tra la.
Cliches work to a rather limited extent. This is a pity, as they are so plentiful. They spring so readily to mind. Talk is easy.
I have been waiting for a phone call and it has not happened, and I am trying not to be a pest. Although I can see quite clearly the advantages of being a pest.
The remote controls for the garage door arrived, but I cannot activate them.
This is because I cannot understand the instructions, reach the control box, or see how to open it. (Let alone know what to do next.) My ladder is not high enough. The result was to make me feel quite useless.
Being a total sook does nothing to solve the problem. I comfort myself by realising that if Dr P were still alive, he could not fix it either, and would resolve the matter by getting his tall grandson to do it, or by paying someone.
As the first is not an option, perforce I must pay someone to do it and this is to be done next Wednesday. Having organised this, I have cheered up slightly. I have resolved to watch carefully and learn how to do it myself, just in case. Being useless, or relatively so, is not a good condition to be in. It might be necessary to buy a longer ladder. It has occurred to me that while the man is here he can change the light globe for me.
This afternoon I had my flu injection. I am not sure why I do this, as I have only had influenza about once in my entire life, but it keeps bread in the mouths of the doctors. I discovered that I am at very low risk of developing Type 2 diabetes, and am generally in good health, albeit stressed. Perhaps I will meet my end by falling off a ladder, and slowly dying, because no one would know about the accident, and nor could they get inside this grim little fortress. However this sounds altogether too grisly and gruesome, so I will take care of myself.
Nor has it been a totally useless week in other respects. I finally decided it was time to activate my Apple One to One membership. I could not find the subscription, so called in to the Apple shop in the city, to see whether they could show me what it looked like, so that I could search the house yet again. Wonderful people, so patient and kind: they found my receipt, gave me a new card and activated it for me, and I am to have my first lesson next week. It is time to start learning again.
I am going to Canberra for the weekend, to immerse myself in family life. Children, grandchildren, friends, a soccer game, and some social activity.
On Sunday I took myself to a film of the Covent Garden production, by Jonathan Miller, of Così Fan Tutte. For some reason, I was charged the price of a child's ticket - an arbitrary but kind decision, as obviously I do not at all resemble a child under 15 years of age. The film lasted four and a half hours, with an interval. It was wonderful. Normally I do not like operas being transposed into modern times, but this time it worked, because the opera does not depend on any historical setting, but rather on emotions and human nature. Instead of wearing lockets containing portraits of the lovers, they all used iPhones, and this was very funny. Fabulous singing and acting.
As I waited to exit from the car park, the driver of a parked car, naturally a 4 Wheel Drive, backed out of his space without looking, causing the car in front of me to reverse to avoid being hit, and that car then hit mine. Not my fault, not her fault. Fortunately, it was the veriest, teensiest scrape, and I won't bother doing anything about it. But that bastard SUV driver, who was totally to blame, just drove off into the looming dusk. How unfair is that!
It is a truism, but Life Is Like That! Worse luck.
.
Cliches work to a rather limited extent. This is a pity, as they are so plentiful. They spring so readily to mind. Talk is easy.
I have been waiting for a phone call and it has not happened, and I am trying not to be a pest. Although I can see quite clearly the advantages of being a pest.
The remote controls for the garage door arrived, but I cannot activate them.
This is because I cannot understand the instructions, reach the control box, or see how to open it. (Let alone know what to do next.) My ladder is not high enough. The result was to make me feel quite useless.
Being a total sook does nothing to solve the problem. I comfort myself by realising that if Dr P were still alive, he could not fix it either, and would resolve the matter by getting his tall grandson to do it, or by paying someone.
As the first is not an option, perforce I must pay someone to do it and this is to be done next Wednesday. Having organised this, I have cheered up slightly. I have resolved to watch carefully and learn how to do it myself, just in case. Being useless, or relatively so, is not a good condition to be in. It might be necessary to buy a longer ladder. It has occurred to me that while the man is here he can change the light globe for me.
This afternoon I had my flu injection. I am not sure why I do this, as I have only had influenza about once in my entire life, but it keeps bread in the mouths of the doctors. I discovered that I am at very low risk of developing Type 2 diabetes, and am generally in good health, albeit stressed. Perhaps I will meet my end by falling off a ladder, and slowly dying, because no one would know about the accident, and nor could they get inside this grim little fortress. However this sounds altogether too grisly and gruesome, so I will take care of myself.
Nor has it been a totally useless week in other respects. I finally decided it was time to activate my Apple One to One membership. I could not find the subscription, so called in to the Apple shop in the city, to see whether they could show me what it looked like, so that I could search the house yet again. Wonderful people, so patient and kind: they found my receipt, gave me a new card and activated it for me, and I am to have my first lesson next week. It is time to start learning again.
I am going to Canberra for the weekend, to immerse myself in family life. Children, grandchildren, friends, a soccer game, and some social activity.
On Sunday I took myself to a film of the Covent Garden production, by Jonathan Miller, of Così Fan Tutte. For some reason, I was charged the price of a child's ticket - an arbitrary but kind decision, as obviously I do not at all resemble a child under 15 years of age. The film lasted four and a half hours, with an interval. It was wonderful. Normally I do not like operas being transposed into modern times, but this time it worked, because the opera does not depend on any historical setting, but rather on emotions and human nature. Instead of wearing lockets containing portraits of the lovers, they all used iPhones, and this was very funny. Fabulous singing and acting.
As I waited to exit from the car park, the driver of a parked car, naturally a 4 Wheel Drive, backed out of his space without looking, causing the car in front of me to reverse to avoid being hit, and that car then hit mine. Not my fault, not her fault. Fortunately, it was the veriest, teensiest scrape, and I won't bother doing anything about it. But that bastard SUV driver, who was totally to blame, just drove off into the looming dusk. How unfair is that!
It is a truism, but Life Is Like That! Worse luck.
.
Saturday, 11 June 2011
The cold
Snow has been falling, the mountain slopes are laden with the stuff, ski resorts are cheering, but back in the cities it has been very cold. Even in Sydney, which generally is far far far too hot.
Yes, I know, when you have nothing else to say, talk about the weather. It is, after all, an endlessly fascinating topic.
My fingers are cold, I use a hot water bottle at night, and the second mohair throw is on the bed. My house - sorry, when I say my house, I am referring to the abode from which the blood rellies of my deceased husband are eagerly wanting to evict me, is relatively short of doors between rooms, and thus is difficult both to cool and to heat. Accordingly the power bills are somewhat alarming, even though my hands are still cold. Meanwhile I sport the layered look.
At the produce market this morning I lingered over a stall selling Peruvian alpaca products. And yes, I was tempted, and I fell. Once I started looking at various products, all of a sudden other people stopped and looked too. My serious looking had created more interest. It is often the way that if one person is interested, the interest becomes contagious. One serious customer occupying the attention of the stall owner makes it safer for others to investigate without creating an expectation that they will or should buy.
Alpaca is such a beautiful fibre. It makes wool seem so very ordinary and inferior, and also makes me want to acquire vast quantities of it, and to crochet yet another shawl. All this intense desire to create things evidently springs from a need to have some control over my life.Years ago I crocheted a large and complicated alpaca shawl, in 5 ply black, and wore it to some function. When I went to retrieve the shawl, it had vanished, and in its place was a crappy synthetic mass produced shawl. Somehow this did not seem like an innocent mistake. I went back to the shop to buy some more black alpaca, but there was none. A colleague, fortunately, had the same yarn in a very dark brown, so we arranged a swap of some kind, and I made another shawl. But it is not the same. It cannot be worn with real black. I still feel bad about that loss.
And I wish I could crochet faster.
Thinking of heating the house reminds me that I had another call from someone, another person with a heavy Asian accent that was most difficult to understand, apparently peddling something to do with solar heating. Let it not be said I am against solar heating, but I have yet to ascertain what the call was all about, as this caller too wanted to speak to the owner of the house, and once again hung up on me. Clunk!
How does it come about that these callers are so badly instructed in telephone techniques? According to a fairly recent supplement in the Careers section of the newspaper, call centres are big business, and provide excellent careers for at least some of their employees. It is quite evident that the callers are obliged to follow a set script.
In the days when I had occasion to telephone people for information (or whatever) our standard practice was:
Good morning/afternoon. My name is Persiflage, and I work for the Department of Really Amateur Blogging (RAB). I need to find some information about (here insert own sort of twaddle). Can you help me with this enquiry, or direct me to the relevant area? Thank you.
Listen attentively to response, ask for alternative sources of information if necessary, thank person on telephone, leave contact details, and then end call.
Doesn't sound too hard, does it? So why does no one do it? Let alone listen carefully?
I have been (perforce) spending quite a lot of time on the telephone recently. Yesterday I had to re-subscribe to the newspaper. A letter arrived saying that the usual direct debit on the credit card had failed, and could Dr P kindly supply the details. So after exercising the vocal cords by uttering a few choice words, I telephoned the subscription number, and after a mere ten minutes managed to be connected to a person, who (miraculously, thank you, putative god) dealt with me courteously and efficiently. Of course, you may well ask why, in view of the fact that I had communicated my desire to have this subscription transferred to me, the executors could not have handled it somewhat better?
Things are falling apart. (A sympathy strike, perhaps?)
My oven is not working properly, but I will neither repair nor replace it until/unless things are sorted out. The lovely George at my local Retravision, is investigating plug in and sit on bench alternatives for me. Otherwise it won't be possible to have any roast pork or lamb. Or to heat my quiche, or spinach and fetta triangle.
The remote control for the garage is broken. I have ordered a replacement, by telephone, from the courteous and efficient Kate, who does indeed know to to conduct business by telephone.
One of the halogen globes is no longer working. The ceiling is too high, and the ladder too short for me to change it. The electrician will have to be called to change it for me. Perhaps it would be best to wait until more than one globe needs replacing. Economies of scale, etcetera.
Yes, I know, when you have nothing else to say, talk about the weather. It is, after all, an endlessly fascinating topic.
My fingers are cold, I use a hot water bottle at night, and the second mohair throw is on the bed. My house - sorry, when I say my house, I am referring to the abode from which the blood rellies of my deceased husband are eagerly wanting to evict me, is relatively short of doors between rooms, and thus is difficult both to cool and to heat. Accordingly the power bills are somewhat alarming, even though my hands are still cold. Meanwhile I sport the layered look.
At the produce market this morning I lingered over a stall selling Peruvian alpaca products. And yes, I was tempted, and I fell. Once I started looking at various products, all of a sudden other people stopped and looked too. My serious looking had created more interest. It is often the way that if one person is interested, the interest becomes contagious. One serious customer occupying the attention of the stall owner makes it safer for others to investigate without creating an expectation that they will or should buy.
Alpaca is such a beautiful fibre. It makes wool seem so very ordinary and inferior, and also makes me want to acquire vast quantities of it, and to crochet yet another shawl. All this intense desire to create things evidently springs from a need to have some control over my life.Years ago I crocheted a large and complicated alpaca shawl, in 5 ply black, and wore it to some function. When I went to retrieve the shawl, it had vanished, and in its place was a crappy synthetic mass produced shawl. Somehow this did not seem like an innocent mistake. I went back to the shop to buy some more black alpaca, but there was none. A colleague, fortunately, had the same yarn in a very dark brown, so we arranged a swap of some kind, and I made another shawl. But it is not the same. It cannot be worn with real black. I still feel bad about that loss.
And I wish I could crochet faster.
Thinking of heating the house reminds me that I had another call from someone, another person with a heavy Asian accent that was most difficult to understand, apparently peddling something to do with solar heating. Let it not be said I am against solar heating, but I have yet to ascertain what the call was all about, as this caller too wanted to speak to the owner of the house, and once again hung up on me. Clunk!
How does it come about that these callers are so badly instructed in telephone techniques? According to a fairly recent supplement in the Careers section of the newspaper, call centres are big business, and provide excellent careers for at least some of their employees. It is quite evident that the callers are obliged to follow a set script.
In the days when I had occasion to telephone people for information (or whatever) our standard practice was:
Good morning/afternoon. My name is Persiflage, and I work for the Department of Really Amateur Blogging (RAB). I need to find some information about (here insert own sort of twaddle). Can you help me with this enquiry, or direct me to the relevant area? Thank you.
Listen attentively to response, ask for alternative sources of information if necessary, thank person on telephone, leave contact details, and then end call.
Doesn't sound too hard, does it? So why does no one do it? Let alone listen carefully?
I have been (perforce) spending quite a lot of time on the telephone recently. Yesterday I had to re-subscribe to the newspaper. A letter arrived saying that the usual direct debit on the credit card had failed, and could Dr P kindly supply the details. So after exercising the vocal cords by uttering a few choice words, I telephoned the subscription number, and after a mere ten minutes managed to be connected to a person, who (miraculously, thank you, putative god) dealt with me courteously and efficiently. Of course, you may well ask why, in view of the fact that I had communicated my desire to have this subscription transferred to me, the executors could not have handled it somewhat better?
Things are falling apart. (A sympathy strike, perhaps?)
My oven is not working properly, but I will neither repair nor replace it until/unless things are sorted out. The lovely George at my local Retravision, is investigating plug in and sit on bench alternatives for me. Otherwise it won't be possible to have any roast pork or lamb. Or to heat my quiche, or spinach and fetta triangle.
The remote control for the garage is broken. I have ordered a replacement, by telephone, from the courteous and efficient Kate, who does indeed know to to conduct business by telephone.
One of the halogen globes is no longer working. The ceiling is too high, and the ladder too short for me to change it. The electrician will have to be called to change it for me. Perhaps it would be best to wait until more than one globe needs replacing. Economies of scale, etcetera.
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