Too old and grumpy? Who, me? I am afraid so.

I am off to choir very shortly, as we are performing this afternoon, singing this and that, including Verdi's Quattro Pezzi Sacri, or, in English,  Four Sacred Pieces. I was tickled when the email arrived with the attachment, which had a typo, calling them the Quattro Pezzi Scari. That is how I shall forever remember them. They are very difficult.

I need some comfort and cheering up, after a telephone conversation with one of my sisters. Her elder daughter and her husband have recently moved to the city where my son works. I innocently suggested that they might like to contact my son, who is, after all, one of her very numerous first cousins. Apart from parents, aunts and uncles and siblings, first cousins are your nearest relations.

Oh boy, did I ever cop a lecture! Oh no, they were making a new life, branching out on their own, and this meant that making contact with a first cousin was not something worth doing. It is true that they do not know each other very well, but I meant it as a kindly suggestion, having more than once moved to a strange city and had to meet people, make friends and create a family life and our careers. And it is not as though they are newlyweds, as they were married in her husband's country several years ago.

Such reactions from my siblings really bug me. There is a very evident double standard, in which they evidently feel free to tell me what they think I should do, but if I suggest that it would be a loving action to visit me every few years, or that cousins might perhaps make contact with each other, it is Oh No, they are far too busy and have huge family commitments. Or the young ones are much too important to consider meeting another family member.

I could go on and on, but I won't. I have to think beautiful thoughts, in order to sing well thus afternoon. 

Vaccinations: a personal case for them.

The government is trying to encourage parents to get their children vaccinated. The issue has had plenty of media and social media coverage, and the policy is to tie receipt of some forms of social security to having had your children vaccinated. It seems that informed people know the issues, and the overall consequences of lack of vaccination or low rates. However in some communities there is some opposition to vaccination of children.

Here is my personal experience. It is not easy to write about, despite the passage of 50 years. So if this account sounds wooden, it is because it revives a terrible experience, with profoundly affected me - and, of course, my husband.

I was the second of seven children. We all had our triple antigen injections, but vaccines for diseases such as measles, mumps, rubella and polio had yet to be developed. when the fist polio vaccine was developed, a doctor friend of the family had some reservations about the vaccine - I cannot now remember whether it was the Salk or the Sabin vaccine. Eventually I did receive the polio vaccination.

The link between rubella during pregnancy and birth defects was known. My mother kept saying that it was important to get rubella (then known as German Measles). Every time she knew of a friend whose children had caught rubella, we would visit, in the hope of catching it. We knew families with deaf children. And victims of polio. Many children with such afflictions were institutionalised.

I did not contract rubella. Not during my childhood. Mumps, measles, chicken pox, yes, but not rubella.

I married at the age of 22, and, being Catholic, and prohibited from using contraceptives, became pregnant in the second month of the marriage. A few weeks later, on a Saturday morning, I woke up feeling very sick. We were preparing to go to a friend's wedding. I noticed I had a rash, and immediately suspected the worst, that it was rubella.

We were living in a rented flat and had no telephone. We had to use a public telephone, and ring the GP. As it was Saturday, it was not easy to get through. When I succeeded, he said he could see me, but as he was going to a wedding, it had to be that morning. It turned out he was going to the same wedding. The doctor thought it was rubella, and managed to get me an urgent appointment with a specialist, who confirmed the diagnosis. The GP, being Catholic, said that he would not terminate the pregnancy, but he could refer me elsewhere. We chose not to terminate, because of the church's blanket and absolute prohibition on abortion. Nowadays I would have no hesitation.

Once I had recovered I returned to work. Pregnancy nausea was rather vile. The worry was much worse. How would we all manage? A few weeks later I had a threatened miscarriage. Off to hospital, but the pregnancy survived.

At 22 weeks, I bled again, and pains started. Back to hospital. Late in the afternoon, and very suddenly, the waters ruptured, and a tiny baby was born, a boy. I thought that it was all over.

But the pains continued, and got much worse. They continued into the night, and nurses were continuously at my bedside. They must had injected pethidine, or something, because I was very groggy and not aware of the time, nor of what was happening - and no one explained. In the depths of the night, I was aware of contractions and pushing, but no one explained what was happening, or what had happened.

In the morning, a nurse came and calling me by name, said, Did you know you had another baby?
No, I said, I want to see it.

It was another boy, much larger than the first tiny babe. And I wept bitterly, for my two dead babies, who had had no chance to live, and who would have faced dreadful damage - sight, hearing and other effects. My husband came in and I had to explain to him. We wept together, and told each other that losing our babies was the best thing, as they would have been so damaged. This was true, but they were my babies and I loved them. They were baptised, and I named them to myself.

The next pregnancy was an ectopic one, and I was very ill.

I do not think we ever recovered from that awful start to our married life, despite continuing our lives, our jobs, our savings and the building of a house, and the births in rapid succession, of our two daughters, followed five years later by the birth of our son. Such memories live on, and while the sorrow and pain is less acutely felt, I feel it still. It lives on. I weep as I write.

I would not want anyone to have such experiences. Thus when I read or hear of people refusing to have their children vaccinated, on what seems to me to be very suspect and specious grounds, I feel very upset. We have personal responsibilities, and social ones. We owe good care to ourselves, our families, to each other and to the whole community.

Mellow fruitfulness

The equinox is past, autumn is here, the leaves are starting to change colours. There has been an eclipse of the sun in the northern hemisphere, and we in the south have seen amazing photographs. I nearly wrote down south, but why is the south considered to be down, rather than up? Is there some reason apart from northern mindsets?

The culling of my books has slowed down. I have managed to weed some light fiction. But not the Flashman novels, which are entertaining with their alternative and cynical interpretation of political events of the 19th century. The Barbara Trapido novels are going, as they now seem to be seriously dated. And the science fiction collection has been reduced.

Apart from such mundane aspects of life, I am considering getting a cat, or rather a kitten, if I can manage to find a source of kittens. A Burmese is my preferred choice, but all the breeders seem to be located in Far Outer Woop Woop, and getting hither and thither is a daunting prospect. I can get very lost very easily.

I have made two batches of quince jelly and, perhaps foolishly, have bought more quinces for a third batch. I ran out of jars, so had to buy more. Even as I type, the quinces are simmering. Making jam is a most absorbing process, what with sterilising the jars, making sure the sugar dissolves before the mixture boils, and watching out for the setting point. I wish I had a source of cumquats, to make cumquat marmalade.  Surely somewhere there is someone who will donate their cumquats to a good home?

In between times I produce crocheted squares and am now arranging them in what I hope is the best possible design. There will be a lot of ends of wool to darn in. This is a tedious process. But it must be done.

What can be shown?

Tonight I watched the ABC programme QandA, which dealt with feminism. It left me somewhat bemused. The mix of panelists seemed designed to provoke, and to enable the discussion to lurch all over the place. Lots of good things were said, But with such a format, it simply is not possible to discuss most issues in any depth.

Julie Bishop, Foreign Minister and Deputy Leader of the Liberal Party, was very good. Germaine Greer was herself, playing to the audience, and to her own self image. She still makes a lot of sense, despite a tendency to try to be a bit outrageous. The other panelists were varied and interesting, and the audience, both physically present and off line, rampaged through most of the possible permutations, some good, some bad and others fair to middling. Which is what you might expect really.

The audience was interesting. It was predominantly female. As the camera panned around, I looked at them. Hairstyles varied, some quite tizzied up. Makeup, lipstick, some plunging necklines. Quite different from a male audience, with suits and ties, etc. The females conformed to many of the stereotypes, and to the expectation to present themselves predominantly as sexual objects.

The preceding programme was about a doctor, a good man, a Muslim. He wore ordinary western clothes. But the females in his family, wife and daughter, wore head scarves. I find head scarves and veils very confronting and objectionable. It seems to me that it is truly inconsistent with equality of women and men, to insist on covering female parts - such as hair, head and most of the body, while the men can get about showing their fine hairy chests, and their faces and heads, without being covered. It makes me very upset to see such evidence of inequality.

Suddenly I recall scenes from my youth, being at a ball, wearing a scooped, (but not low) neckline and being chided not to lean forward, in case my breasts became visible to other people. The male in my life said that those breasts were his, and should not be glimpsed by other males. I was too silly to tell him that the breasts were not his, but mine.

Plumbing the depths - or at least the middle of the house

For the past year there has been a leak in the bathroom, which has had me frantically worried and petrified. It seemed likely that very expensive repairs would be necessary, and that, like getting my rotting dining room floor replaced, it would take months. And I could not face it, or decide what to do.

Eventually I looked at the house plans, at my local council. They were no use whatsoever. They showed the layout of the house and the discussions between the owner, the house next door and the council. No plumbing, wiring or fittings. Nothing useful, but least I discovered when the house was built, only about 25 years ago.

Last Tuesday, while I was outside, on my balcony, idly watching men repairing the road - a frequent event in this area - one of the workers  told me there was someone knocking at my door. So there was. It was a plumber, with no work that morning, who was using his spare time to distribute his card.  I told him I did have a plumbing problem. He said he could do some tests, make a diagnosis and give me a quote for repairs. What the hell, I said to myself, I can't go on like this, fearing the worst and not doing anything. Right, I said to him, have a go!

He ran various tests, turning on each bathroom tap in turn, while I trembled below, fearing an imminent collapse of the dining room ceiling. He ascertained that the bath was the problem.The next step was to cut a hole in the ceiling of the dining room. My trembling worsened. It then transpired that the valve thingy part of the bath could not be reached from the ceiling hole.

 Back upstairs we went, and the plumber had to destroy a tile. He was then able to reach in and fix the leaking valve. Then he went out to buy a cover/grille for the ceiling hole.  He has contacted a handyman mate of his to come and insert a grille to replace the broken tile, so that if the problem recurs there will be access. He fixed the dripping tap underneath the hand basin, and he changed a light globe for me.

Next week I can chase up the handyman.

I am relieved and delighted that after all my angst, the problem has been fixed, and will try not to be such a sook in future. It has been difficult, dealing with such things since Dr P died. But I do wonder about building practices! Why would you put tiles over a connection that might start leaking? Why would you not put a grille over it, in case of a leak? Why are plumbing details not put on plans?

Perhaps my next go at being a big brave girl might be to investigate getting a better exhaust fan over the gas hotplates? But I will have a little rest first. And I hope that if other things go wrong I will feel more capable of getting them rectified. And my house visitors will have a bathroom to themselves, instead of having to share mine.

Remembering a significant life

Today is the fourth anniversary of my husband's death. All today I am thinking about him, and our lives, both separate and together. And I miss him. It is a sad day. He was a remarkable person who made significant contributions to society and to politics, being one of the founders of the movement to protect civil liberties. He never lost that passion. An immigrant himself, he believed in assimilation rather that multiculturalism, participation in the political process, and in the democratic system. He was a most intelligent and interesting man. Overall, I am glad we were part of each other's lives.

Who is doing what to whom?

One must be glued to the airwaves at the moment, as there is trouble and dissatisfaction in the rarified environment of the government. This makes me quite happy, but one must never rejoice too soon. A spill motion in the government parties is bruited. What will transpire? Well, what would I know, far removed these days from the immediate political environment. Perhaps it is too much to hope that our PM is facing imminent dethronement.  There is grouping and regrouping going on apace. Our glorious leader has evoked a quaint theory that only voters can remove a leader, and that only by means of an election. Goodness me, this theory cannot hold water. It has been disproved many times in our political history. The simple fact is that leaders may be removed if their parties so decide, and there are very many instances of this in the history of our federation. As an erstwhile historian and political scientist, I can point to many such events, and for our leader to pretend otherwise is blatant dishonesty. Why am I not surprised?

Who knows what will happen, and while the deck chairs are being rearranged, I can only ponder the political history of our Commonwealth government, and indicate the dubious factual errors and imaginative analyses of the political situation. There are indications of a certain displeasure from Above, as my internet connection mirrors the uncertainties of the political situation.

Never mind, I have had a good day, with the knitting group, where we make blankets to be sent to refugees. We, at least, produce things which are useful to those in need. And we enjoy what we do.