Riff

2011/7 - Making his point

2011-01-17T00:00:00.004+11:00

Eric is a fan of speaking plainly. Always has been. And it gets him into strife. If asked a direct question, he is compelled to respond directly. Not for him the side-step of the considerate. Not for him a retreat into meaningless rhetoric. A spade is a spade to Eric, and is called such.

Eric’s father had been a public-servant, a term Eric always found difficult to swallow, the ubiquitous contradiction in terms. It stood to reason that Eric’s father, Roger, neither served the public, nor spoke plainly. In his over reaction to this, Eric has taken his speaking plainly to an excruciating level.

Plain-speaking and speaking plainly are two totally different creatures. One has a hyphen, for starters. Plain-speaking is begot from Plain English, so embraced by insurance companies, in an endeavour to suck the unwary in even further. Take the definition of flooding: is it riparian; is it inundated; is it storm run-off; or, is it flash. Nowadays most insurance policies are written in Plain-English which, on the surface is able to be understood by the ubiquitous man-in-the-street. However, although the legal jargon has been decreased, the hair-splitting has been increased, at the expense of both meaning and clarity.

The one thing that speaking plainly is, is clear.

Speaking plainly is emotive, it is bare, and it can wound. It delves into the surface of a life, paring back each successive layer in an attempt at brutal honesty. The white lie is anathema to those who are adherents of speaking plainly. A white lie is meant as a tender let-down; less than the whole truth. One can only assume that a white lie is so named to distinguish it from a black lie, which is, thereby, the antithesis of the truth.

Eric could not abide any form of lying, regardless of colour. His speech eschewed all form of adornment. It was plain in the extreme. Take the situation Eric found himself in at the Bar Rosa just before Christmas, during his company’s end-of-year celebration. Eric was introduced to the incoming company accountant, who was hired on merit. Candace was the best candidate for the job, with outstanding qualifications and highly relevant experience.

However, her taste in clothing left a lot to be desired. It did for Eric, who was a fan of the well-dressed and the fashion conscious. Eric preferred an ornateness in clothing that screamed at him in language. Things were going along splendidly for Eric, with his view of reality not diverging from the reality that confronted him, meaning that he did not have to comment upon Candace’s appearance, so sleeping dogs were left lie - until Howard came into the picture. And, as was his want, Howard knew exactly how to skewer Eric.

‘Candace’s outfit is charmingly avant-garde, don’t you agree, Eric?’

And the poor man was hoist. To Eric, Candace’s outfit was neither charming nor avant-garde, and his immediate inclination was to say so. Not for him the get out of gaol card, ‘It suits her very well’. This did not respond to the question, it was a non-sequitur.

Eric spoke plainly.

2011/6 - In a holding pattern

2011-01-14T00:00:00.005+11:00

They say as you age you grow down, revert to childhood. That was the case with Stan. He sat on the edge of his wire-based bed and peppered me with questions.

‘What does God look like?’

‘Will it hurt when I die?’

‘Will I know?’

‘Will you be here?’

He took a breather between each question. Not just to listen to the answer, though. Somehow he knew most of his questions nowadays didn’t have answers. He took a breather because that was what he needed, sitting on the side of his bed, the white bath towel dangling on his still wet feet, his breath coming in pants, his chest rattling, eyes a watery grey, gazing onto nothing much.

Stan has lived longer than he can bear. No, that is not quite right. It’s not that he can’t bear to live; it’s rather that he could not be bothered. Not that he wants to die, either. Well, he says he wants to die; wants not to wake up in the morning. But the next minute he asks me to turn off the fan, or he will catch his death of cold. Ageing is a conundrum.

The other day when I visited Stan, the nurse tapped me on the shoulder and quietly, yet gravely, told me that he was no longer eating what was put in front of him. I call her a nurse, but I am no longer certain what a nurse is. Many years ago, when I was young, in the middle of last century to be exact, there was a hierarchy involved in ministering to the sick. On the top was a Matron, in the middle was a Sister, and on the bottom of the heap was a Nurse. Now everyone seems to be a nurse, some are Registered Nurses, others are Enrolled Nurses and others are just Nurses’ Aides. I miss that diversity in name - a lot of the ‘romance’ has gone. So, Stan is no longer eating.

I tackle him about this. He is surprised, did not realise. He obviously did not do it on purpose. Well, not with the purpose of dying. I explain to him that God will only ‘take’ him when God is well and truly ready, so not eating will only mean a prolonged agony. He listens, but I know his brain is not engaged. It seems to spend a lot of time in neutral. That would send me bananas, but it does not seem to affect Stan.

There are days when I sit on the edge of his bed, and he tells me that he does not feel well. He reckons he is running a temperature. He wants me to tell a nurse. I don’t ask him what type of nurse. But I do suggest that we go for a walk in the garden. He no longer walks much. He says he does, but I am not convinced. Every time I arrive he is asleep on his bed. He worries about going outside. Should he take a jumper? He would not want to catch a chill. I don’t think this is humour.

I fold his jumper over my arm, and we take the lift down to the garden. We sit on the bench and name all the trees. We watch the birds fly over and name them. We sing ‘Pack up your Troubles’ and he tries to recite ‘The Man from Snowy River’. He thinks that if he can still say this, then he is definitely not losing his marbles. He starts to shiver and we take the lift back up to the third floor.

He doesn’t think he is running a temperature any more. I tell the nurse, the enrolled nurse.

2011/5 - Following the man in black

2011-01-12T00:00:00.001+11:00

Henley is a pretty tough name to give a child, especially if that child is female. Parents are just asking for retribution bestowing a name like Henley, or any outlandish name, on their offspring. It is purely self-love that drives them to it. It is as though a child is a possession, like a car you might call Rita because it is a henna colour. Remember the song penned by Johnny Cash, ‘A boy named Sue’, and how riled that boy would get? There was a boy in Texas somewhere called ‘Marion’ and he changed his name to John. John Wayne. And who can blame him.

I knew Henley as we were growing up, she lived on one side of the railway line and I lived on the other. We walked to school together. We weren’t sweethearts or anything, although our mothers were keen on that idea. We would just walk along with our satchels on our back, scuffing our shoes to ensure the polish was off before we hit the playground. Fitting in with the crowd was important to each of us then. It was only that we aged, that we realised our future was outside the crowd.

As we walked we collected things. Like I recall one time, we collected as many different types of grass seeds as we could between Quinlan Street and the corner into Ogilvie. Henley won that one, but she got into all sorts of strife from her mother who did not realise her pockets were full of paspalum heads, and just threw her uniform straight into the washing machine. Henley had this weird sort of smirk on her face as she told me; a mix of the beatific and the devilish. My mother thought that butter wouldn’t melt in Henley’s mouth, which is a pretty mystifying thought to think.

Henley always had trouble feeling comfortable in her skin. I guess that is understandable with a name like Henley Wardrope. At the end of each summer, as we went back to school, she would come out in the most disgusting of rashes. I guess they got pretty bad in places I could not see, even if I would really have given my eye teeth to see them. The rash was worse in crevices; crevices that were damp and dark. Often times they were so bad that the rashes on the backs of her knees would weep blood. But after a month or so of school, when the teasing would ease up, mainly because Henley refused to respond, the rashes would ease down. Only to reappear for a while after the next set of school holidays.

I lost track of Henley in the final year of high school, and then later when I went off to the city to study aeronautical engineering. She finished her final year and then simply up and shot through. I gather from my mother, that her mother had no idea of her whereabouts. As I said, Henley is a tough name to bestow, and retribution will out. But I always wondered if naming rights was the only wrong that her parents bestowed upon Henley.

Even today, I ponder her past as I trail paspalum heads through my clenched hands, letting the stickiness coat my palms.

2011/4 - Life is a goldfish bowl

2011-01-10T00:00:00.005+11:00

Elaine taught herself early to walk with her gaze cast down. Which mostly is different from down cast, just not in reference to Elaine. Elaine didn’t want to catch anyone’s gaze, because she was a sad, introverted sod. She had been this way as long as anyone could remember, even since the start of high school.

She was hung up on her own company, her own little world. Like that was the only bit that she saw in colour, the rest being a murky shade of beige; a form of astigmatism, just of the brain.

It meant, of course, that she rarely encountered the need to compromise, counter ways of approaching contentious situations rarely swimming into view. It was not as though she ventured into the beer-garden of her local for the rough and tumble exchange of views on a Sunday afternoon over summer, while ‘Ray’s Five’ belted out Ellington, or something that resembled Ellington, once in a while. No. Elaine stayed at home, trowling her vegetable garden as her cats chased skinks through the carrot heads gone to seed.

Elaine had always been ‘of the soil’, whereas the rest of us spent our time hanging outside the ‘Happy Daze’ milk bar next door to the 7/11 mini-mart down from the new mall. When I say ‘the rest of us’, I mean the gang of us from the estate who caught the 7:25 to Greenfields High during the ‘70s. Elaine was part of this group, this gang. But she did not actually join in. Looking back, it is hard to say when we realised that she wasn’t with us. Just like it is hard to say she made a conscious decision to take a different path. Suddenly, there she was going down that path, while the rest of us were going down this path.

Something to do with tangents. Our yellow, brick road took us straight to the glittering Emerald City. No passing ‘Go’; no collecting $200. Elaine’s brick road was so overgrown with vines and ivy that it was difficult to disentangle one’s legs. Elaine would have found herself looking at her feet constantly to ensure that she did not fall. Sometimes though, to know where you’re heading, it is useful to watch where you are going. Maybe that is how it was for Elaine.

As we walked up the main drive and into the old auditorium for our High School reunion, I took to thinking about Elaine, and others, who did not live up to the promise that they showed during those high school years. I wondered who calibrated the concept of ‘promise’, and who was I to be doing the measuring. I scanned the ageing faces for features I recognised amidst the wrinkles and the grey, but found my eyes seeking refuge in the name tag pinned to their right breast pocket.

I slunk over to the buffet table, helping myself to lashings of potato salad and bread with real butter, when a firm tap on my shoulder spun me around quick time. I knew who it was instantly, even as my eyes sought reassurance from the tag.

2011/3 - The loneliest night of the year

2011-01-07T00:00:00.005+11:00

Robert couldn’t wait to get off the streets and back into his own flat. Pokey it might be, but it was his and he could close the bloody door and keep all this false jollity at bay. The holidays at the end of the year had been the bane of his adult life bringing, as they did, all the false hail-marys out onto the street, wishing him a merry this and a happy that. Robert had long contended that his best company was his own, a view that hardened as he aged. Not that he had tickets on himself, or thought himself better than other folk.

Well, he did think he was smarter. And that was the thought that had long caused trouble for Robert. Certainly until he learned to keep his mouth shut, but even then, his brain churned it over, and the result was laid bare for all to read upon his face.

‘She goes to church on Christmas Eve because singing carols makes her feel good,’ he mutters as he shuffles down the steps into his courtyard, ensuring that he does not trip over the cat as it mewls around his trowsered legs, ‘What must her brain be thinking, or not. Just as well she has a phobia about keeping her body trim.’

Being a nerd, this sets Robert upon a course of endeavouring to determine the corollary of the expression ‘one doesn’t look at the mantelpiece when stoking the fire’. Whilst admitting to its coarseness, Robert allows that the expression served a purpose in his life at one stage. No longer is it their body that he wishes to engage with, just their brain, if they have one. There must be women out there who read the opinion pages and something other than ‘The Womens’ Weekly’, he cogitates as he fumbles the key into the lock.

Otherwise preoccupied, he throws a handful of dried food into the bowl, as he reaches for the bottle of Johnny Walker Black stored on the top shelf of his overflowing book shelf. Out of harm’s way he likes to think. He splashes a goodly quantity into the heavy frosted glass, and eagerly gulps a mouthful, standing stock-still as it warms from the inside.

‘Better than carols in an empty cold church,’ he muses wryly.

He reaches for the crossword on the top of his pile and desultorily worries 18-down for a moment or two: ‘Camels befuddled by liquor (6)’. He pauses as Gould brings Bach’s first prelude to a conclusion yet again, then pencils c-a-m-e-l-s into a random circle on his pad. Pre-occupied, he shuffles over to the oven, checking his apple-turnover contribution for lunch the next day at his sister’s terrace three blocks away, across the escarpment.

He listens to the siren progress along Oxford Street, then ambles back to his crossword and pencils ‘mescal’ into 18-down, swilling another mouthful as he lowers himself into the armchair. He scratches the tabby behind its ears.

2011/2 - First on the left, after the wooden bridge

2011-01-05T07:20:00.004+11:00

‘They must think us city folk starve ourselves’ Ron chuckled, grinding the diff of the low-slung Falcon, as he eased his way out into the traffic heading east from the Bairnsdale Golden Fleece. He reflected that the station had seen better days.

For Ron and Moira, this was always a must-stop as they motored east, taking the coast road from Melbourne to Sydney. It had been this way since that fateful ’82 trip when their radiator blew coming into Sale, and then they lost grip on the gravel shoulder when the offside rear tyre blew, taking the winding bends into Eden, just over the border into New South Wales. Thinking that the hand of God strikes in threes, they had been particularly nervous winding their way along the rest of the Princes Highway into Sydney. That stretch of road had a horror reputation in those days, with much of it single-carriage. It was much improved nowadays, straighter and more passing lanes. Ron was grateful that the Golden Fleece had not changed its breakfast menu much.

It wasn’t a particularly promising location for a petrol station. ‘first on the left, after the wooden bridge’, but word of mouth travelled fast. Not about the quality or price of the petrol, as this was in the days before discounting, when the majors had their cartel firmly in place. What excited the hoi-polloi was the quality and quantity of the breakfast.

In the middle of ’82, just after the flooded Mitchell River had burst its banks and inundated the town for the third time in five years, the Golden Fleece was taken over by a couple who had spent the previous ten years scraping a living grazing Herefords in the lower reaches of the Fairy Dell State Forest under licence. The garage was battered and run down, making the asking price within the reach of the Morris’. Graeme ran the mechanical business, and Jackie was the boss of the cafe. It was the bacon and eggs that brought the crowds in.

She was a generous woman, was Jackie, generous in body and generous in character. She reckoned everyone who passed through her cafe needed a good solid start to their day, and what better way than with a couple of free-range eggs, sunny-side up, and a solid rasher of bacon, all washed down with a steaming hot mug of Lan-choo tea. Way led onto way, and pretty soon the business was doing a roaring trade, both in the kitchen and in the driveway.

Life chugged along in the fast lane for the next fifteen years, until late one Wednesday afternoon, Graeme suffered a massive heart attack flat on his back under the engine of an old ’55 Chevrolet. Nothing could be done for him, and Jackie lost her locus. She only lasted another 8 months in the kitchen before running off with a regular customer who drove interstate trucks and lived in Bright.

Driving through Bairnsdale, both Ron and Moira reminisce about the days of the starving city folk, and pretty soon they are starving and have to stop in at the next cafe en route. Nothing matches up to Jackie’s standard though.

2011 / 1 - Brain food

2011-01-03T00:00:00.006+11:00

He never had been one for sitting still, not for sitting in any way shape or form. But this is what stretches out before him, now that the doctors have spoken; now that the tablets have been thrown down from on high.

‘Listen, all yea infidels storming the castle. The sins of your youth will catch up with you.’

If not this, then your genes will not allow you to inherit the earth.

Phil has always been a competitive person. Still is. Maybe this came from being the youngest in the family. It was the type of competitive streak that spurred a person on, rather that tossing him willy-nilly into a slough of despondency; branding him with an inability to achieve.

Not that Phil really achieved. But he thought he did, and who are others to argue. Not to his face, at any rate. Phil did not so much achieve, as talk about achieving. Using figures, and numbers and spread-sheets to give the outward appearance of knowing what he was doing - of being in charge.

It then became a race to find an alternative to digging a veggie garden, of building yet another rock retaining wall, and, replacing the decaying planks in the wooden deck that stretched along the back of the house that he and Marcia had lived in the entirety of their married life. Well, save the three months when they lived in that pokey little one bedroom flat beside the railway line.

Phil had always loved the game of Scrabble. He played it with his siblings, where he generally lost. By the time he could be in a winning position, the others had left the nest. Now, he plays it with his own off-spring; who thrash him, mercilessly. And gloat. The problem with Scrabble is that one needs an opponent. It is a bit sad to play both hands oneself. The race had been on to find a replacement, an alternative.

Each morning, in the local broadsheet, Phil turned to the games and puzzles page. He skimmed the contentious issues on the front page; ignored the commentariat in the sport section; and, turned quickly to the most important section of the paper. Otherwise, Marcia will have purloined the pages already: torn them out, plonking them down on the kitchen bench, to be stained with a coffee ring, and crumbs of pumpkin-seed toast.

Phil’s least favourite puzzle is the matching sketch with ten crucial differences to be circled. Not engaging enough, but good for a morning warm-up. The standard cross-word Phil uses to increase his brain’s agility. His early training with that 1900 illustrated Webster’s Dictionary was invaluable here. What Phil is now branching into is Sudokus and Cryptic Crosswords, especially the cryptic set by ‘DA’ each Friday. These are a definite brain-exercise, with Phil frequently having to wait for the next day for the solution to 7-down, or 12-across.

Phil sits back, contented. Reflecting, that he has found a set of activities to accompany him into that good night.

365. The power of transformation

2010-12-31T00:00:00.002+11:00

Success being 90% perspiration, and 10% inspiration is the sort of annoying aphorism that says if I want something hard enough, then I have to work my butt off, not just sit back and expect, or hope, it will fall in my lap. I know this in theory, but achieving the reality is another escarpment altogether.

I want to be able to write. Like Hemingway, I want to be able to write just one good sentence. Not write like Hemingway. Just achieve one good sentence. Or was that Fitzgerald who said that. Needless, how do I go about achieving that? How do I learn to write one good sentence?

To be able to write one good sentence, one must read other writers who write not only one good sentence, but can string good sentences together into one good paragraph.

I push into another year, exploring within my imagination for one good sentence.

364. One person's end, is another's beginning

2010-12-30T00:00:00.002+11:00

All her life, Valerie had been unable - or unwilling - to see beyond the obvious. To take that leap of faith that indicated that what she could not see, she could at least imagine. Her life was firmly rooted in the here and the now. Jobs needed to be done now; play would come later. And, this turned her into a Jill, with all work and no play.

To Val, the next corner heralded just more of the same. Over the next rise, would simply be more rises. And so it turned out to be. For her at any rate. They say that revolutions begin not with despair, but with hope. Had Valerie been able to conceive of a better life, or simply just a different life, she might have lived in hope. But she couldn’t, so she didn’t.

Not that she wallowed in despair either. It was worse than that.

363. Failure of the imagination

2010-12-29T00:00:00.001+11:00

His knuckles were white as he gripped the railing. The reed-encrusted pond floated out in front of him, and the chatter of happy picnickers resounded behind him. All as in a vacuum. It was not like he was in pain. Not physical pain. And Norm had never been one for attributing any credence whatsoever to pain of the soul. So he was left in a quandary as to what was engulfing him.

He swayed, which is why he grasped the rail. There was an echo effect. Like both his eyes and his ears were doing a backflip. Telling him to stop. Stop right now. Take it in. Now. Smell the roses.

Like hell. What a load of balderdash. Roses are over-rated plants with thorns. The cut-type in the corner shop wilt after being in a vase for less than a day. And as for perfume. None. Been bred out of them.

362. Long time since

2010-12-28T00:00:00.004+11:00

They haven’t sat there since the autumn, when the light was brighter, and their love just that less brittle. Not that their union is in danger. They are past that point, like realising when cleaning the house that you have less to go than you have already accomplished, and might as well push on. Not that they discuss it. Not with each other, at any rate. Not even with friends. Just with visiting relatives who have suffered the same ennui.

Interesting thing about who you discuss what with. Fran had long realised that she was fair game. Hardly anything was off-radar for frank and free discussions with her. Brush off the fallen leaves, remove the webs of long gone spiders, and the gloves come off. Just add a couple of flat whites, and a spare hour or three. Family laundry is fluttering in the breeze before the sugar is stirred.

361. Can't see a good thing when staring it in the face

2010-12-27T00:00:00.000+11:00

For a switched on chick, Carol was often a connundrum. At times she had her head wedged so firmly in the past that her friends despaired. She looked out of time, with her bloomers flapping in the past. She had a penchant for the out-of-fashion, rather than the old-fashioned, dated clothing rather than vintage.

And this matched her social attitudes. Carol still thought it okay for a man to 'show her a good time' without there being the inevitable equal but opposite reaction. To some extent, she had a lot more take than give. Not that Carol is not a nice person, as nice people go. She was just out of time, inhabiting another era.

Take her approach to inheritance. Carol had this firmly entrenched view that her children would inherit her estate, and, as such, she wanted it to be worth-while. No matter that she would live out her old age in penury. Carol was asset rich but cash poor.

360. One foot in the grave

2010-12-26T00:00:00.005+11:00

It was not as though Imogen was squeamish, more that she did not want to cause offence. Every one had to die at some time,and many people recognised this. Well, recognised it in theory. Recognised it in others. However, when it came to their own death, most people turned a blind eye, or a deaf ear. However one looks at it, people simply could not recognise when their own demise was nigh.

Jack was close to death. He was dying. Actually, the other way around: close to death is closer than merely dying. Dying is still in the back straight, whereas close to death is within bull's roar of the finish line.

Jack was so close to death, his skin was sloughing, and his eyes full of eternal light, yet still he would deny it.

359. The power of the bottom line

2010-12-25T00:00:00.003+11:00

Bums on seats is what is crucial. The thorny issue of how to get paying customers through the front door, is one that should be addressed - and solved - before any new venture is embarked upon.

And this is intricately involved with the substance of the venture itself. What is it that is on offer, are people likely to want it , and will people pay sufficiently to enable the business case to stack up in the real world? Take three brain-waves out the trillions that are conjured out of thin air each year: a computer networking consultancy; a child care establishment; and, a retail photography venture.

There is certainly a demand for child care places, but parents are loathe to pay the economic cost, thinking it to be little more than baby-sitting, and besides they can do it themselves. There is certainly a market for photography, but most people contend they can do just as well themselves, and portraiture is so very subjective.

Which leaves us with networking computers.

358 Cecile's folly

2010-12-24T00:00:00.004+11:00

Some ideas just don't have legs. But it is very hard to persuade certain people of this once their heart is set upon something. Cecile was one such person.

Cecile had worked her entire life in a factory in Marrickville as a machinist. Then when she was 57 she won some money in lotto. That was how she expressed it in public, but the reality of the situation was that Cecile won some few million dollars, just slightly less than ten. She and Henry had never known such wealth, and had no idea what to do with it. They did not talk about it with friends, because they might think they had tickets on themselves. They did not talk about it with a financial adviser, because he might suggest the stock market or government bonds.

Cecile and Henry wanted to invest in bricks an mortar. Something to take them away from the industrial wasteland that had been their lot in life until now.

So, they invested in a Bed & Breakfast. As a hobby. To keep them in their old age.

357. Every so often life surprises

2010-12-23T00:00:00.003+11:00

Elise was peeved because her pink gloves had perished and she had to do the dishes by hand. Would that she had a brand-spanking machine like Nerida next door.

Nerida was a puzzlement really. You could swear she was all show with nothing on the inside. What with her navy blue immaculate French-cut nails and her hair always immaculately coiffed. Elise would never dream of wearing a linen skirt, as the creases would just emphasise her pudgey backside. Nothing like this would sway Nerida; linen skirts would never dream of creasing on her. They wouldn't dare. It was easy to judge this book by its cover.

Until her Rodney died.
.
Until her Rodney died, Elise had no need to look to Nerida's interior.

356. There is a blue hill far away beyond the city wall

2010-12-22T00:00:00.001+11:00

Evelyn leant on her veranda and looked into the purple haze. Her coffee mug was balanced on the ledge, her chin propped up by her elbows.

Her gaze lifted over the first ridge of indigo hills, then the second, her imagination realizing they stretched on ad infinitum, could her eyes but discern them. Lucky life is not a straight line, she mused. The destination would be achieved all too soon. Evelyn thanked her lucky stars for not flying like a crow. Instead she cogitated on up hill and down dale, and the peregrinations of both bush-walking and life. How some people spent all their life following the stream, never venturing to clamber up the more difficult inclines.

Then she saw the ridge of blue stretched across the expanse of the sky, and wondered where the trudging ended and the flying commenced.

355. Growth rings

2010-12-21T00:00:00.001+11:00

Ron had always been attracted to wood. Attracted is not strong enough; mesmerised is more accurate.

He liked the smell of it, even when it was being hewn, with the sap seeping, and the tree creaking in agony. He liked the smell of it being milled, as the shower of wood-dust filled the air and weeped into a heap beneath the sawn lumber. He liked the feel of it, running the pads of his fingers gently over the whorls and knots and growth rings.

But especially, Ron liked to work timber, to mould it, and shape it, and make it into something attractive to the eye. He could put his skill to the building of a house, or a slip and rail fence, or an ornate fruit bowl. But one of Ron's life long passions was using his lathe to create the smooth shape of the female body from wood.

354. To each his own

2010-12-20T00:00:00.001+11:00

There is no accounting for taste – whether in garden ornaments, or lovers. One should never criticise the person that attracts a friend. Attraction is a conundrum. Some people are attracted to the clothes people wear, the car they may drive, or the company they keep. Other people may be attracted by smell. I read in scientific articles that this is based on fact. I struggle with this as an attractant.

I am attracted by things that cannot be seen – like smell, I guess. Maybe it is the way he walks, or shuffles, or drags his wooden leg. Maybe, it is the spark of wit in the corner of an eye. They say opposites attract, but I fail to see the logic in this. What would opposites have in common? Maybe it is that complementaries.attract .

Suffice to say, I am not attracted to this type of garden ornament.

353.Other times, other manners

2010-12-19T00:00:00.001+11:00

This is what she said, but in another language altogether. Which no doubt carried other connotations. But, I understood her meaning, and did not chastise her cliché. For what is a cliché if not a vehicle for truth over time. Things were done differently in the past, is what she wanted to say, and which I understood, from the cliché. Others may have chastised, if they felt awkward, if it limited their understanding, if they felt inadequate. Perhaps, for some, a cliché carries too much of the minutae of past learnings.

Maybe for some, this stairway from the road to a park, is dangerous and should be replaced. But I find it charming. A reminder that, in the past, we were not so hung up with public liability. We expected citizens to look out for themselves, to take due care. Now we live in a nanny state, with apron strings.

352. Attraction in the eye of the beholder

2010-12-18T00:00:00.002+11:00

She could have been walking Rue Soufflot in the autumn, but she wasn't. She saw it by chance, from across the busy Sydney street in the early summer after a sudden shower.

It was not the brioche that attracted. Well, it was and, then again, it wasn't. It attracted her taste-buds, but turned her stomach. Her stomach reacted to the settling of fats. Before, she would purchase in haste, and repent at leisure. But, no longer. Now she appreciates from a distance. She finds other aspects more tempting.

Like the printing. The shape like the ooze of the custard filling. Like the skill that went into the formation of each letter. Once completed by quill, but now likely by fine-point. She appreciates the complexity of the printing. Its ability to link both the similar and the disparate. Like the window links a street in Paris to a street in Paddington.

351. Wishful thinking

2010-12-17T00:00:00.002+11:00

She knew the ivy to be counter-productive, that its beauty would be overwhelmed by its destructiveness. But, the destruction would be then, whereas the beauty is now. She often erred on the side of the present. She never knew what the future may hold; nor whether she would be part of it. Death may intervene. So, the ivy stayed.

Until long after her marriage, which was destructive in the here and now. Interesting how a partnership can be destructive, without either participant wanting it to be, or being so in themselves. It is in the coming together that the capacity for such evil is born. But, a house is not a home, nor does the presence of beauty make it so. With other partners, this house could have become a home, a place of joy, and even contentment.

But not in this marriage, under this roof, surrounded by her ivy.

350. Behind closed doors

2010-12-16T00:00:00.001+11:00

Through the years, Michelle had come to regard the Beaudan’s as her family. Not that she was related to any of them. Indeed, not that she had even been introduced, neither she to them, nor they to her. It was an intense sense of ownership, rather than a personal knowledge that informed Michelle’s affection. She was much too reticent to be so forward.

She had watched them with a fond regard, as she trudged up Ormond Street each morning, and wearily down again later that same afternoon. She admired their sense of beauty and design, acknowledging their apparent innate ability to match colour with line, shape with texture. She envied their restraint when youth and vitality toppled over into age and decay; their ability to see the beauty within manifest externally.

Next time she passed one of them in the garden tying up the sasanquas, Michelle determined to nod good-day.

349. The road is long

2010-12-15T00:00:00.001+11:00

Valerie’s head spun. It seemed filled with the softest of down. Her path became obscured, but she trusted her sense of direction. On either side of her, the way was blocked, and impediments of all colour and size shaped her progress. Knowing not whether to watch where she trod or where she was going, she became confused and lost heart.

She paused a moment. She reflected upon her purpose. Did she want to get somewhere by a specific hour? Was this a necessary pathway for getting from one point to another across the hillside? Or was there time to simply smell the roses?

She turned from the way ahead to the flowers tumbling over the brick wall to her left. She reached out her hand, turning the delicate white petals to face her. She took a deep draught of their heady aroma.

Then she turned, and continued down the laneway.

348. She claims a right

2010-12-14T00:00:00.000+11:00

Barbara has lived beside Olive Lane for over forty years now. She has expectations; she has rights; she has a voice. There are ways of behaving that are considerate, and nice. Building a new retirement home on the other side of Olive Lane is not playing the game according to the rules. To Barbara’s rules – the ones she wishes constrained the world.

Think of the huge number of trees that will have to be removed and the amount of carbon dioxide left to rot the atmosphere. Think of the increase in the number of vehicles each day that will clog the narrow local streets. And then, there are the increased movements of delivery and service vehicles. And there will be ambulances at all hours of the day and night taking away the bodies of the deceased. The height of the building will block the sun.

It will just not do.

347. Dirty pretty things

2010-12-13T00:00:00.000+11:00

Her blood singing within her veins, Nicolette flutters around her shop, checking that all is in readiness. Not that she expects a flood of customers on her opening day, but she likes things to be just so. This is a big week for her. Three years out of CoFA and opening her own shop-front, with two rooms out the back, one for design and the other for sewing.

Nicolette stands on the front steps and surveys her new world. She thinks she has chosen her site well. What is it they say? Position, position, position? This intersection says it all for her. It is away from the hurly-burly of the food precinct, yet nestled nicely up against galleries and home-furnishing establishments.

She turns to check her window display yet again, and chuckles, remembering her mother’s bewilderment over signage. Nicolette enjoys the tension within the name: it speaks her street language.

346. The dawn’s early light

2010-12-12T00:00:00.001+11:00

Frank never tired of the early rises that living on a dairy farm entailed. He felt privileged to be able to share in such beauty; a beauty available to most people if only they had the ability to appreciate it.

He would wander out of the wash shed wiping the last drops of his morning splash from around his neck, looking up at the line of pine trees stretched along the Aberdeen Road. As he strode over to his old tractor he would whistle the dogs, and then three great lungs-full of the morning crispness. Then off they would go down to the milking sheds.

The cows were on their way up the slope as soon as they heard the tractor roar into life. Some set to bellowing, others to trotting, all with their udders swinging this way and that. They liked this ritual as much as did the dogs.

345. Down the creek skimming

2010-12-11T00:00:00.002+11:00

Kevin can see the creek in his mind’s eye to this day, although he had not even visited the farm since 1964. That would make it over 46 years, nearly half a century. And yet it was like yesterday. Memory plays tricks, that is for sure.

He can see Jimmy Wicks with the leather pouch that his old man gave him tied around his waist, walking along the creek bed choosing stones. Not just any old stone, mind you. They had to be chosen carefully for size, for weight and for shape. Jimmy made better choices than did he, Kevin freely acknowledged now. Kevin chose for colour. He liked the bright stones, and the mottled stones. And he wondered why Jimmy always won.

Jimmy, however, was motivated by the beauty of the trail of splash that the perfect stone left in its wake as it skidded across the still surface.

344. Home is where the hearth is

2010-12-10T00:00:00.001+11:00

As Jill crested the rise, she felt an sadness engulf her. Tears stung her eyes. She could step no further.

She stood beneath the shade of the Camphor-Laurel tree from which her swing had dangled during her childhood. Down there, beyond the gate, was where the kelpie had her kennel.

And that chimney, all disrobed, with no house to call a home, was where they sat after dinner, Mum to the right, Dad to the left, the kids in the middle sprawled on the rug. Sat and listened to John Deece put another raft of contestants through the wringer. Sat and listened on a Sunday to Police Files, where they always got their man. Or to Bob and Dolly encourage people to take the money or pick a box.

So many memories, to cry tears over, and yet she had hated living here and could not wait to be gone.

343. Domestic disputations

2010-12-09T00:00:00.004+11:00

There is a tug-of-war over which animal is Man’s-Better-Friend, the dog or the cat.

A dog is faithful and loving; a dog is full of enthusiasm and wants to play; a dog is loyal. When its human says ‘Stop’, a dog will stop. When its human says ‘Fetch’ a dog will fetch. Dogs are known to be outgoing, enthusiastic, and adaptable, and to be happy wherever their human is.

I have lived with cats nearly all my life. I like dogs, but I prefer cats. Cats are emotionally mature, whereas dogs rely on the love of a human for their emotional stability. Both my cats show affection and give affection. They work with me in the garden and watch television with me.

Moving from house to house has not overly upset them. They seem to be happy, to be able to adapt, provided I live there too – and feed them.

342.Choices

2010-12-08T00:00:00.000+11:00

Sammy has been fishing from this same pier for the last fifteen years. He has seen ships come and go – large ships, small ships and all in between. He wonders where these ships go and what sort of people travel on them.

Why do some people go on journeys, yet Sammy is content to fish from the same pier for fifteen years? He could fish from another pier, but who’s to guarantee that the catch would be better ? There is more to fishing than just the catch.

Sammy likes to feel the wind on his face as he waits for that tug on his line. He likes to see the storms brewing down in the bay. Sammy enjoys the spray from the large waves as they smash on the rocks below.

And he likes to watch the big ships sail past.

Then he goes home and fries his catch.

341. Nature will out

2010-12-07T00:00:00.000+11:00

As Philip had feared all his life, the truth does out.

He had tried to keep a lid on things, to keep his true character under wraps, but to no avail. Seeing how life treated his parents, especially his mother, he was desperate not to go down the same road. Life is what you make of it, how you carve it. And Philip wanted to pick his life up by the ears and give it a darned good shake. He refused to accept whatever chance happened to throw his way.

However, to achieve this Philip knew he had to change his essential character, because it was his character, his traits which he had inherited from his parents. And look what had happened to them. They got nowhere. They scrimped and saved, they argued and fought, they lied and cheated, and finally they bashed and murdered.

Well, one of them did.

340. Before the rains came

2010-12-06T05:52:00.000+11:00

Under this massive camphor-laurel is Greg’s favourite spot for lunch. He chugs the old Massey-Ferguson around the track past the top dam, parks her in the shade, clambers down for a well earned rest and a feed. Invariably, Molly has packed his favourite, his current favourite for, although some may doubt it, Greg does occasionally change. His favourite of the moment consists of four slices of Helga’s Pumpkin Seed loaf, spread with pure butter. He does choose ‘Low Salt’ in a concession to the health-nazis. This comes wrapped in cling-wrap. Beside it in the plastic lunch box, is a deep red truss-tomato and a handful of the latest designer green, baby spinach.

Greg assembles all this, leans back against the trunk of the tree, and takes a massive munch. As he chews, he lets his gaze ramble the beautiful countryside spread out before him.

It is good to be alive.

339.Shattered shards of memory

2010-12-05T00:00:00.000+11:00

His life lay before him, a shattered wasteland. He juggled the pieces in his cupped hands, lacking the ability to put them together again. Not that they would fit. Unbeknownst to Lew, pieces were missing, pilfered by the light-fingered in our society.

He sat disconsolately on the bench, in the sun, his head cradled in his hands. Singular, soft tears of despair dripped from his craggy cheek, to fall, unremarked, onto the pavers beneath.

He looked up, with unseeing eyes, into the canopy of the Camphour-Laurel tree, wherein wheeled majestic Currawongs, burbling their song of joy to the tumbling white of the banking cloud.

Overwhelmed by such immensity, and such unrestrained freedom, Lew concentrated on the quick projecting from the nail of his right thumb. If he could but snip that lone piece of skin, all would be restored to right. He would be in control of his own destiny.

338.The green, green grass of home

2010-12-04T00:00:00.000+11:00

Robert looks around guiltily, endeavouring to disguise his smug sense of pleasure, as though he were about to be sprung for a crime against humanity. He continues along the footpath with that jaunty air of a man satisfied with his lot. His brolly swings enthusiastically beside his side, whilst his brief-case speaks volumes about the substance of its owner. Robert nears his house, after a demanding day at the office.

The journey for Robert, although short, has been steep. He has not always resided here, among the leafy terraced laneways of Paddington. His earliest memories centre upon a ramshackle barn of a building rented by his parents on the sheep property at Wybong, where his father was a share-farmer. For Robert it was an early start, with the school bus picking him up from the distant front gate just before 6:30.

For Robert, regression was not to be countenanced. Ever.

337. The fruit of the vine

2010-12-03T00:00:00.000+11:00

Julie enjoys connecting with her wider family, indeed wonders why she had not done so years earlier than now. She is humbled that they welcome her into their homes, yet at the same time, she is mortified that her own branch of the family is so distant and cold. Cousins all, descendents of two brothers who could not be more dissimilar if they tried. Which, Julie was just now starting to realise, maybe they had.

Just the previous evening, her own daughter had sent Julie an article entitled ‘Siblings share genes, but rarely personalities’, and this covered the gamut of differences that she could discern between her father and his elder brother. Gordon was jovial and outgoing, a networker with a big personality. Laurie was sullen and withdrawn, a loner with a mean and stubborn streak.

They say, the fruit of the vine does not fall far from the tree.

336. The best of both worlds

2010-12-02T19:01:00.004+11:00

Running her hand down the glistening fur, Nerida reflected on the eternal conflict between freedom and security.

‘I don’t blame you, puddy-tat. I am not keen to venture out into that weather either’.

She pulled her jacket closer around her and took another sip of her coffee. The day was young, the light poor, and the weather lamentable, but a deadline is a deadline. She doodled the mouse across its pad. It occured to Nerida that this was, indeed, a nice little cocoon, for her as much as for the cat.

‘I am free to walk out that door, but I simply don’t have the guts to do it’.

She dragged the still soggy underwear from the front-loading washer and tossed them into the dryer.

‘How free am I then? I wonder if freedom is more a state of mind than a reality.’

She stood, staring out into the rain.

335. A fish out of water

2010-12-01T18:33:00.002+11:00

Gaston guns his scooter to the max. The sun is shining. There is a light breeze wafting.

‘I could not ask for better, so why do I feel like throwing it all in?’

He checks the rear mirror to ensure he knows the dynamics at play. Judging distances and speed carefully, he executes a gentle swan dive behind the oncoming Lexus. He returns to the vertical and heads off down Merlin Street.

‘I like my job. I like my apartment. There is enough interest from the chicks to keep my hand in.’

He checks the road surface, before going up and over the culvert, the only entry into Gaussman Lane, avoiding the hole gouged out by the recent heavy downpour.

‘Hah!’

He brings the scooter to an easy stop and eases the helmet off his head. He shakes his head, and gives his hair a ruffle.

‘Not enough irrational chaos’.

334.Flirtatious

2010-11-30T22:06:00.001+11:00

The art of flirting had escaped Patricia during her entire life. It always came as a surprise to her when the penny dropped that this chap or that chap was hitting on her. It did not occur to her, to bat her eyelids, and feign interest just to capture a possible suitor. She was introduced to fascinating men, to beige men, and to dull and boring men. However, her reaction rarely varied. She would listen to their conversation, ask questions, exhaust the topic, and then move on. It did not phase her.

And as for tarting herself up to win favour with a member of the other side, she would prefer to walk over glowing coals. She had a massive fear of appearing as mutton dressed as lamb and, if truth be told, she dreaded failure and rejection. This latter was recognised by her friends, but not by Patricia herself.

333. To thine own self be true

2010-11-29T00:00:00.000+11:00

Standing apart from the heaving masses had often fallen to Athol. He failed to see how the majority of people made the decisions they did, took the actions they did, lived the lives they did. It was not simply in the big issues like religion and politics, but in all those more simple issues round which day to day living revolved. It took Athol years to realise that the majority of people in society based their decisions upon self-interest. However, Athol marched by the beat of a different drum.

And it gave him great grief. Athol was a thinker in preference to a talker.

The power of persuasion was not visited upon him. He knew he did not have a sparkling personality that swayed others to his way of thinking. That was of little interest to him, anyway. He was neither a leader nor a follower. Athol was an individual.

332. The ties that bind

2010-11-28T00:00:00.003+11:00

Meredith met her match down at the wharf that fateful Saturday afternoon in late winter. Until disaster struck, she had been having a delightful time, as the saying goes, ‘simply mucking about in boats’. She had done this most weekends since leaving the family home in Haberfield and moving to a compact apartment in Elizabeth Bay. No-one in her family had much to do with the water prior to this, certainly none has ever considered sailing as a chosen past-time. This all changed when Meredith bought her place overlooking the marina. At the time, it was the right apartment in the right location. It was a wise investment.

She could see the giant masts. The voices of the sailors floated on the breeze. The ropes flapped. The hooks clanged. Sea-gulls wheeled overhead. Everything conspired against her.

Then, as she struggled down the gangplank with her victuals, Meredith collided with Pierre.

331.The landscape beneath

2010-11-27T00:00:00.001+11:00

Living in a city, it is often easy to forget that there is soil beneath our feet, that the land we tread is undulating and criss-crossed with ancient streams. Too often the streams are bull-dozed and filled in with the tops of hills. Too often the hills are bull-dozed and used to even out old streams. Frequently, the soil and the vegetation is papered over with concrete, with bitumen and with intricately laid bricks. Humans have a compulsion to keep the jungle at bay.

But the jungle is persistent. Roots of trees crack the concrete. Wind blows soil into cracks. Birds drop seeds into cracks. Small trees grow. The jungle returns. With a vengeance.

Beneath many cities, bubbles the molten core of planet Earth, alert and restive, patiently biding its time. In many cities across the globe, the populace has received grim reminders of the power of the natural world.

330. Shades of grey

2010-11-26T00:00:00.001+11:00

Robbie had been a competitive bastard since childhood, and he was not going to change at the age of thirty-five. He pushed himself and those around him as far as he could, as often as he could. Sure, it lost him friends, but it frequently gained him new friends.

People respected his grit and determination. They respected his energy. His ethics were important to him. This earned him much respect. But he suffered fools poorly. He often took no prisoners. Beige people received short shrift.

Living in an inner city housing development, cheek to jowl with other like-minded people, cocooned Robbie from the ravages of living alone. Grit and determination and energy do not buy one much love. They are the very characteristics that preclude love, as they can indicate a hard-headed person without the ability to appreciate shades of grey. Robbie is only now appreciating this weakness in himself.

329. Is a city a colour?

2010-11-25T00:00:00.001+11:00

As her bus trundles toward the city, battling the morning peak traffic, Irene wonders whether a city can be thought of as having a colour. Up until this moment, if challenged, she would have been tempted to respond that the colour of Sydney was twofold – both blue and gold. The blue, for her, would represent the ever present water, whereas the gold would indicate the importance of the sun.

Sydney is dominated by its harbour. The people are dominated by the sun. The people of Sydney are hedonists. They live for the moment. They live in the now. They are not cerebral creatures. They are not intellectuals. Their body dominates their response to their environment.

Although the Jacaranda tree is dotted profusely across the city, the colour mauve is too elegant and understated for the citizens of this city. Mauve is self-contained and cerebral. It is the colour of politeness.

328. Life in The Old Girl yet

2010-11-24T00:00:00.001+11:00

Francine feels her spirits rise the instant she steps upon the pontoon and sees ‘The Old Girl’ up ahead. She cringes, even now, at the name bestowed upon the boat by her irascible father. However, it was not an issue for her long suffering mother, who was adamant that none of her girls should challenge their father on the name. Somehow, it lends an air of olde world charm to what is essentially a most inelegant water craft.

It is stolid. It is weather-beaten. Rust is eating the metal. The ropes are frayed. They are rough. But it is distinctive. It is unmistakably the property of the McKenzie clan.

The McKenzies come from a long line of sea-farers, stretching well back before their father, Hamish. However, he was the family member most closely identified with the water, so it is ironic that he met his maker when he fell overboard.

327. Dogs don’t answer back

2010-11-23T00:00:00.001+11:00

Leslie had always had problems establishing a relationship with other people. It could be that he is set in his ways, but that was not the case when he was in his twenties. It could be that he was the apple of his parents’ eyes and learnt that he could do no wrong. Whatever the cause, establishing even friendship is a challenge to him, that alone anything deeper.

A dog is your friend, if you feed it. A dog likes to have his ears rubbed. Scratching her back, will earn you respect from a dog. Yes, three dogs are a challenge, unless you set boundaries.

Even one human is a challenge to Leslie, regardless of whether it be male or female. Regardless of whether it be a friend or a lover. Other people challenge Leslie’s thinking patterns. They challenge his routine, which operates according to a precise and ordered schedule.

326. Facing one's demons

2010-11-22T00:00:00.001+11:00

It was a glorious day in the middle of spring. The city, from this distance, was majestic, yet silent. The waters of the bay were that intense shade of blue that stunned visitors to this city when they saw it for the first time. Bobbing on the swaying water, the masts of the boats signified a prosperous populace with an outward looking view. Looking across this bay, on this day, tears welled in Clive’s eyes.

This was his vantage point. His and Celia’s. And she was now gone. Departed. No more would they sit here on this bench. No more would they watch the sun descend, together. That was all over. In the past. Finished.

Rising to his full height, Clive took a deep breath, and determined to find a glass half full, if at all possible. He held immense affection for this small pocket of gardens, and would return.

325. The world is his oyster

2010-11-21T00:00:00.003+11:00

*** I am trying to teach myself to write in the present tense, so please bear with me ***

Pigeons live a precarious existence in a modern city. Perhaps it was always thus. Young Henry is off on the race of his life! No matter which way his quarry twists and turns, Henry follows suit. Across the forecourt of the opera house he charges, oblivious to the iconic stature of his surrounds. All Henry has eyes for is a little blob of grey, with splayed feet, and a red beak. Not that Henry is at all interested in the pigeon. Not really. Henry is engrossed with his own ability.

He can run. He can swerve. He can jump. He can turnaround. And he can do much of this without even falling over. Oops ... sometimes he can do all these things without falling over. But ... when he does fall, watch Henry roll, watch Henry giggle, watch Henry tangle himself up in his own arms and legs.

Henry lives!

324. Young at heart

2010-11-20T00:00:00.002+11:00

*** I am trying to teach myself to write in the present tense, so please bear with me ***

It is true that Norm has a competitive spirit, and is a virile man who blossoms in the great outdoors. His two sons follow in Norm’s footsteps, as one might appreciate. He is blessed with manly boys, though. I would quake for a metro-sexual living under Norm’s roof. And heaven help a homosexual.

Twice a week, since his boys could swim, Norm takes his boys down to the harbour to swim in one of the protected bathing pools. Nowadays, it is more the boys taking Norm. Norm struggles a bit when walking and has used a stick for a long time. It will not be long before he uses a frame. However, Norm is like a fish in water. His weight, his cares, his infirmities are lightened and he is, once again, the master of all he surveys. His boys, as usual, are close by in case he needs help.

323. What little girls are made of

2010-11-19T00:00:00.002+11:00

Ava, Millie and Charlotte have been learning ballet together since the beginning of this year. Their mothers first met not long after the girls were born, and the friendship has lasted – both between the mothers and between the daughters. The girls are the ones who pushed to learn ballet. Early on they loved to twirl and sway, to skip and to hop. They loved the feel of fine fabric against their legs. Then, Charlotte saw part of a ballet on ‘Play School’ and the bug bit.

Today, they are waiting for their first performance at the Opera House. When I say performance, that is true and yet also false. The ‘Babies Ballet’ is having an interactive session in one of the studios, and the girls have been chosen to demonstrate steps to show other children that it is possible for them to do just what the ballet artistes are demonstrating.

322. The world in shades of grey

2010-11-18T00:00:00.003+11:00

Nev and Polly have compromised. When he travels, Neville likes to ‘do’ things, whereas Polly likes to ‘see’ things. Nev likes to want to climb the Harbour Bridge, walk from Bronte to Bondi, or take a ferry ride to Manly. . Polly, on the other hand, likes to walk through an Art Gallery, or experience the stained glass windows in St Marys Cathedral or walk through the plants in the Botanic Gardens.

Before they flew to Sydney, they sat down at their dining room table and worked up a spread-sheet of all the specific things they wanted to do while on holiday. Some items were no-brainers – anything on both lists was in. Then they listed their choices in order and allocated then to days, ensuring that they each had a choice each day, sometimes morning, sometimes afternoon. Then all they had to do was reschedule if the weather went pear-shaped.
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321. Pleasures of the flesh

2010-11-17T00:00:00.004+11:00

Is there anything more pleasurable than a vigorous swim in the sea, thought James, towelling the salty water from his torso. Well possibly, but this enterprise he enjoins with eyes wide open.

James swims every morning. He takes a brisk run from his ground floor apartment up the Vaucluse hill and warms his body up before tackling the more chilly waters of the harbour. The water at this time of the year is still mighty cold and it takes quite a few minutes for the heart to get used to the attack on its muscle. But this is an activity that gets James’ day off to a brilliant start.

Tossing his towel onto the damp sand, he dives head first into the deeper water just off the edge. He rises to the surface and executes a gentle form of crawl through the sparkling blue waters, out to the protective netting.

320. For whose best?

2010-11-16T00:00:00.002+11:00

Marion and Bruce are in a quandary. They have lived in the same house for nearly fifty years, since 1964 precisely. Now their children are angling for a change, and Marion and Bruce are not sure they like it. To be precise, they are implacably opposed to any change whatsoever. But this couple have ever been thus.

They grew to maturity in an earlier age, a more gentile, private age, where people lived in the privacy of their front parlour.

They regret agreeing to have the old house painted, but could see the preservation value and it did return the old girl to the condition that they fell in love with. But no! They are not going to move. Marion stamps her delicately shoed foot. Bruce furrows his brow and pouts his lower lip. And they both dig in their heels. No. Not now. Not ever, except in a box.

319. The beauties of the deep

2010-11-15T00:00:00.001+11:00

Martin concedes that he has one of the best jobs in the world. He works for the National Parks & Wildlife and is a Ranger at Neilsen Park on Sydney Harbour. He has a team of horticulturists who work each day to maintain the park and keep the encroaching exotic species at bay.

However much Martin adores the smell of a rich loam, and delights in seeing new growth on old wood, he gets extreme pleasure from an unexpected quarter. Twice a year, the netting has to be cleaned. The netting is to protect the beach from the predations of creatures of the deep, specifically, sharks. With the net in place the small beach is a haven for swimmers who like the surface a bit tamer than the open ocean.

As the nets are cleaned, the rangers remove hundreds of very small seahorses and return them to the harbour waters.

318. Singing with style

2010-11-14T00:00:00.003+11:00

Since he was a small boy, Nigel has dreamed of being a singer, to be more exact, a crooner. He lived in a small apartment with his mother who worked at a health insurance company in the local shopping mall. Most afternoons, after he ran home from school, after he fixed himself a nutella sandwich, Nigel would practice. He would practice being a crooner.

Sneaking into his mother’s closet, he would borrow one of her jackets, and a hat, any old hat would do, but he particularly liked the feel of her cloche hat. As he skidded past the kitchen on his way back to the living room, Nigel would tug the broom from its niche beside the fridge. He was nearly ready, all he needed was the full-length mirror from his mother’s dresser.

Adjusting all his dress-ups, Nigel set up a CD of Sinatra, and another of Bennett. Bliss!

317. Moulding the clay

2010-11-13T00:00:00.002+11:00

Janie’s mother is a potter. She takes a lump of dun-coloured earth and creates something out of nothing. She uses her entire body in this production: her hands, her knees, her feet and the strength of her shoulders. She transforms a lump of nothing much into a thing of beauty. As the wheel turns, the hands caress, tiny flexes of finger muscles are transformed into form and utility.

Her foot pounds the pedal. She hunches her shoulders to the wheel, as her hands hover over the spinning formless clay. Small drops of water fly off at high speed. Fine corrugations encircle the clay. Her brain coordinates both hand and eye, keeps them on the straight and narrow. Her brain transforms a pattern of its own devising.

How ironical that even though Janie’s mother creates beautiful pots, she has a black thumb. She is not a gardener. She is a potter.

316. Lots of fun

2010-11-12T00:00:00.002+11:00

Evan adored bath time, when his daddy clambered into the big bath and reached out and took Evan from his mother’s arms. Evan loved to feel the water slosh around his body. Eventually, he learnt to move his feet and slosh the water himself.

When he could sit up by himself, and after his mummy and his daddy overcame their fear of him toppling and disappearing under the water forever, Evan would sit at the round end of the bath with his toys. Some toys were soft and could be squeezed full of water. When they were full, Evan’s daddy would then squeeze the water out of the soft toys right onto Evan’s tummy.

Other toys were made of hard plastic and would simply bob around on the surface of the bath water, hoping that Evan’ imagination would bring them to life so that they could enjoy bath time, too.

315 .Give me your answer do

2010-11-11T00:00:00.000+11:00

Ricardo and Saul were having a lot of difficulty letting go. Letting go of their friendship. It’s not what you think. Not yet, and probably not ever. But it is something they both know they have to address.

They were born two weeks apart, and they grew up in adjoining houses. It’s not as if their mothers were even friends, or anything. But well before the boys went to school, their fathers had to build a gate in the fence. The boys just ‘clicked’. They liked sport. They liked cartoons. They like woodwork. And they liked the same style of girl.

It is since they went on to study architecture that they realise they have to do ‘things’ separately, without each other. They are discovering that double-dating is not an attractive proposition for young women. They are also realising that THEY want to ease back. And they find that sad.

314. Trapped

2010-11-10T00:00:00.000+11:00

Isabelle was trapped in a web of her own deceit. Over the last two months, she had constructed a parallel life and now it was unravelling, she was losing control of the fiction, and it was coming tumbling down around her. There was nothing she could do about it – except bleed. And bleed she would, metaphorically speaking, although literal blood was not out of the question either.

Isabelle was in a relationship with two people, one a man and the other a woman. As with many things in life, she did not enter this excruciating situation deliberately. She entered it knowingly, she wasn’t exactly stupid. She knew what was happening, but not what she was doing. Certainly, she had no idea how tortuous it would be for all concerned. But there are some things that have happened in a split second and you turn around, and the earth has moved.

313. To each his own 2

2010-11-09T00:00:00.002+11:00

People read from different dictionaries. As Lexie was growing up, she wondered where people found their definition of ‘ambition’. It seemed to be so different from the definition that guided her choices. And they all seemed to be so different from each other.

Rosalie was keen to have a big house and four gorgeous children who were all good at sport. Norman was desperate to make his mark in life and to leave achievements that carved his name into posterity. Ross was desperate to travel the world and experience other cultures.

Lexie had wanted nothing more than to be involved with animals, caring for them, being with them, learning from them. Not for her the tedium of a 9 to 5 job in an office in a skyscraper. She was always happy with very little money and very few possessions. Yet to Lexie, this was ambitious, and she was content.

312.To each his own

2010-11-08T00:00:00.000+11:00

There was nothing Uncle Jim loved more than a bike ride, to get his bike running smoothly, and to trundle off down south in the wee hours of a Sunday morning for a 90km ride, uphill and down dale, rail, hail or shine. But Jim was turning into a grumpy old man. It wasn’t enough that he had found a hobby he enjoyed. He now found it necessary to criticise the life-choices of others, both significant others, and random others.

This all started when Jim came to the conclusion that other bike riders were spending way too much money on their equipment. Then he broadened his critique and decried those who chose to ride motor bikes through pine plantations during the weekend.

Whereas Aunty Beryl was content to have her cat scratch its jaw on her outdoor furniture, if she could continue to scratch her back with a dry towel.

311. Life's tough

2010-11-07T00:00:00.001+11:00

The sun’s shining. A light nor-easter is wafting. The boat is clean, the engine smooth. All blocks and tackles are stowed. All sails furled. What else is a bloke to do?

A box of fish’n’chips goes down apace at the fisherman’s wharf early in Spring. Peter thought it was the best location in the world, with the best weather in the world. Not that he was an expert on other places in the world. Some perhaps, but not many. He was just giving a ball-park statement. He was a man content with his lot.

He had heard all the dire warnings from well-meaning aunts. But not from his mother, he was pleased to note. Not directly from his mother. Although he suspects she felt his bachelorhood keenly, him being an only child.

He had no idea a whirlwind of the female variety was striding down the pier as he munched.

310.Restraining the urge

2010-11-06T00:00:00.000+11:00

When visiting his grand-father, it was all Jordan could do to restrain himself. It had taken a while, but eventually he could recognise situations where it was better to leave well-enough alone. He would rock back on his heels, to avoid an automatic response. He would stick his hands in his pockets, or under his armpits. Anything, rather than remove that last vestige of human dignity.

He was amazed the old fella was still living by himself, and how come his mother tolerated it. Until he watched her. With him. Observed how they interacted. That unspoken respect that glowed from their eyes. That is where he learned the need for dignity. Where he learned its value. Where it dawned upon him that, given another twenty years, it would be him interacting with his mother. And, presumably, another twenty years after that, he would be the recipient of some whippersnapper’s condescension.

309. Treading the boards

2010-11-05T00:00:00.000+11:00

Paddy and O’Shea first played together in the late ‘60s at the Folk Music Club in the Tighes Hill Technical College, and had been carousing noisily together ever since. Not that they earned a living at it, mind. Well, not a full living. Sure, they earned a few bob – enough to keep the wolf from the door, but insufficient to service a mortgage. So for both of them, it was a case of not giving up the day job.

So Paddy went on to gainful employment as an accountant, chartered no less, much to O’Shea’s eternal mirth. Not that he was much better, but at least he gained street-cred by becoming a motor mechanic. They had kids, married, divorced and re-partnered. But the two of them remained as solid as the day they first fronted a microphone together. Their love affair with performing was a blessing shared with their audiences

308. A nose for memories

2010-11-04T00:00:00.000+11:00

After he had finished his day’s work, Johnny would rummage in the cooler in his shed, take out a cold-one and sit on the porch in his rocker. He started early and ended early, a hangover from his youth where he had to be on building sites by 5am. It was a hard habit to shake after a life-time of menial jobs. Now that he was retired, he enjoyed the hours.

He loved the solitude of the early mornings, the chill to the air. More especially, he enjoyed these solitary times out on the porch after a day’s work pottering in his yard. He loved the smell of the eucalypts in his adopted land, the angle of the sun, the warmth in the air.

He had come a long way from the docks in Bermondsey, locked in the holds of cargo vessels bound for the other side of the world.

307. A different direction

2010-11-03T00:00:00.000+11:00

Being primarily responsible for the day-to-day care of his three children, was not something Terry had envisaged. In fact, Terry had not envisaged having children at all. He had spent the first thirty-four years of his life looking after Terry, and not doing that particularly successfully. He was good at gallivanting the world. He was good at earning money, but even better at spending it. As for making a commitment – forget it!

That was until he met Meredith. Just the name should have been enough to bring him up short. Until he caught sight of Meredith across a bar, he had always ended up with leggy blondes like Amber or Jasmine. Until he met Meredith, relationships were good for a couple of nights, a week at the outside.

But, then he met Meredith, and it was like a brain transplant. Now he is the house-husband and Meredith is the bread-winner.

306. Where only mad dogs and Englishmen go

2010-11-02T08:00:00.000+11:00

Although the season was in its infancy, Nerida had memory of seasons passed, of trials endured, unnecessary risks miscalculated. Her eyes scanned the ragged cliff line towering over the valley, noting the bubble of cumulo that would thunder up into the atmosphere as the afternoon wore on. With that level of cloud already at mid-morning, by mid-afternoon nimbus would be painted on the nether regions of the cumulo, as it broke and buffeted on the crags and clefts of granite and eucalypt.

Stick to the dry schlerophyll today, she cautioned; l leave dry creek beds for more fortuitous times. Well she recalled that early summer nine seasons ago, where she and Robert had feebly attempted to navigate their way through the tortuously, impenetrable bush via the boulder ridden water-course, only to be swept into a beaver-dam of debris, spending a damp and uncomfortable night.

The bush only forgives the cautious.

305. Vive la difference

2010-11-01T00:00:00.000+11:00

As he waddled down the hallway, Harry’s cloth nappy slid down his stumpy legs until he was tripped up. He fell flat on his face and the predictable wail erupted as he went down. However, his pudgy hands never let go of his new trike. Jessie was so pleased she bought it for him. Others said it was too old for him, but mothers generally head in the right direction, at about the right time.

Into her head flashed the look on his face the moment he caught sight of the gleaming blue and yellow trike. Then, with his hands on the saddle, he pushed the trike into the nearest wall. The flash of electrical excitement that pulsed through his being captivated her on more than one level. However, the next moment nonplussed her.

He turned it upside-down and, swear to God, he tried to determine how the trike worked.

304. Brain transplant and other BBQ stoppers

2010-10-31T00:00:00.001+11:00

Jennie worried about Eve after Aidan’s birth. Eve was forever preoccupied. To Jennie it was not just the exponential nature of the physical workload of her sister, but more the change in the way that Eve now thought.

They still met for coffee once a week, but the time could no longer be mid-morning because that interrupted Aidan’s routine. The day had to be changed because that was play-group day. It was not as though Jennie had her nose out of joint, with a feeling of being relegated to a second-class citizen. She enjoyed the increased contact she now had with her sister, the asking for advice, the testing of new ideas. It was just that the baby crowded out all other topics of conversation.

Gone was the intellectual challenge of issues like a carbon tax, or equitable sharing of water resources - replaced by sleep patterns and breast feeding.

303. Together in perfect harmony

2010-10-30T00:00:00.000+11:00

When Arkie was three years old, his parents, who were living in Narooma at the time, decided to sail around the world. It wasn’t an instantaneous decision, they chatted about it over the weekend. When Arkie was 17, to his mother’s bewilderment, he jumped ship at Portsmouth.

Arkie is now back living in Narooma, renting the double garage on the block next to his Gran and working on the fisherman’s wharf as a general deck-hand. He’s a pretty laid-back sort of a bloke, never steps on people’s toes and always ready to listen to the other side of an argument. But every so often Arkie gets what he can only describe as a boiling in his blood.

He stands on the end of the pier with his toes over the edge of the plank, pleading with his legs not to dive in and head off into the wide, blue yonder.

302. Bringing up baby

2010-10-29T00:00:00.000+11:00

To Grace it was as though her life had imploded, that circumstances were rotating until she yelled ‘Stop! I want to get off!’ And yet, she had entered this brave new reality freely, enthusiastically. What had she been thinking?

Clotilde was a challenge, but a challenge of Grace’s own making. At playgroup last week, the conversation had revolved around that hoary chestnut of ‘nature vs nurture’. Grace put time, thought and energy – and considerable love - into her time with Clotilde, and she was a bright little button. But, maybe she was always going to be thus. Tickling her daughter under the armpits, Grace rejoiced in the gurgle of laughter that erupted as the fragile head was thrown to the skies.

The analysis of potential market share for the start-up due on Monday would have to be completed in the early hours. Grace would eventually weather this paucity of time.

301. That sinking feeling

2010-10-28T00:00:00.002+11:00

If anything, this entire wasted afternoon proved just one thing to Bernard. He saw with his brain, not with his eyes. His eyes were useless. They kept telling him that she was nowhere in sight, that the woman bouncing along with the raven tresses and cherry red handbag looked liked Tessa, but wasn’t Tessa. His eyes used obvious characteristics like walk, body shape, or height to eliminate each woman who broached the bridge. What an exercise in futility.

But, let his brain take over, and Bernard was happily wave-lengthed. The cherry red handbag reminded him of Tessa because of the raven tresses. The stunner with the FMBs reminded him of Tessa because her legs were all the way up to there. The vertically challenged blonde reminded him of Tessa because she wiggled when she walked, and giggled when she talked.

He soared with his brain, and plummeted with his eyes.

300. A big deal okay?

2010-10-27T00:00:00.001+11:00

From the verandah, Paul’s mother watched the time immemorial struggle play out in her own flesh and blood. Eileen conjectured, as she rocked the chair to a steady thinking beat, that there are few times in a lifetime where one could be this carefree. It is a big thing to give that up, she mused. A wry smile crossed her face, as she realised that she was in the other carefree category. And yet, she was worrying and they were being lizards!

But Eileen has always been that way inclined: both worrier, and minder of other people’s business. She called it ‘ploughing the field’; others, less gracious, call it running interference. Where they lived, and worked and when they started a family were big decisions to make. And they had consequences, they crimped your lifestyle.

She called them in for lunch, but they did not move. They were sound asleep.

299.Quickening the heart

2010-10-26T00:00:00.002+11:00

As the evening air settles over the swaying park, red lamps flicker into life down to the illuminated fountain in its early spring dust of fine golden pollen. A gentle rhumba rhythm unwinds its spell from the quintet in the rotunda on the grassy verge.

A couple perch solemnly on the lip of the fountain, feeling the beat of the music. The young man, stands with his back erect, slowly clasping his palms together to capture the music’s allure. He turns to the woman and extends a proud arm toward her. With knees together, and heels already patting the marble tiles, she arches her supple back and cocks her head in the direction of the beat.

They whirl like dervishes , dangling from the strings of sounds filling the crisp evening. The folds of her scarlet skirt devour his pinstriped buttocks as their bodies come together.

Finally, they are one.

298. Just me and my gal

2010-10-25T00:00:00.000+11:00

The morning started when Max rolled over and pinched Heather on the upper arm, nothing nasty, but one of those big, juicy chunks of pinch that convey ‘Geez, babe, can you believe, we are finally here, living the dream!’ After a roll in the crisp, white linen and a fit of giggles and whispers, they snuck naked-as across to the kitchen to kit up the espresso machine, they couldn’t even mosey on down to the patisserie without a coffee-starter.

Grabbing a random towel, Max pattered up the galley steps to survey his kingdom. The sun rose low in the sky behind the row of plane tree saplings, just tipping over the palate to autumnal. The water of the canal had settled during the night, showing the mill house frozen in its own beauty.

Showers and brekkie being dun’n’dusted, they untangled the bikes from the barge and were on their way.

297.Neutral territory

2010-10-24T00:00:00.006+11:00

They had agreed to meet in the forecourt of the museum, away from prying eyes and snooping ears. Just the two of them involved in this disintegrating marriage, trying to find mutual ground and just the smallest of salvageable item. Banish-ed are the mothers-who-know-for-best. Banish-ed are the fathers-disappointed-in-childish-choices. Just the two of them – husband and wife.

From the vantage point of the only table bathed in morning sunshine, Alice monitored the empty gateway, vaguely realising that she was setting Eric up to fail, and he still over a block away, in the shadows of the canyons that are modern cities. He would stride through the gateway, in that lanky, loose manner of his, his hands sunk deep into the pockets of his jeans. He would see her, then the judgement writ large upon her frowning face. She could see him pivot and walk away.

Alice turned to face the sun.

296. Touchy feely

2010-10-23T00:00:00.004+11:00

Kicking off her shoes, Emma wriggled her toes in the couch that flourished in her garden. With a single step, she was out into the sunlight, her toes coping now with buffalo. With a bunny rug tossed over her shoulder, she cradled Edward in her arms.

She tossed the rug upon the grass, pulling its corners with her toes. Kneeling down, she lay Edward on the rug, a bucket hat protecting his head. Chucking him under the chin, she chatted merrily to the burbling child as she removed his moist cloth nappy. The delicate skin on the backside was a bright shade of pink, and she had prescribed a dose of sun and air as remedy.

Edward rolled onto his tummy and dragged himself to the edge, his face recoiling in mild distaste as his fingers touched the buffalo, the bark, and the spiky needle of the towering Norfolk pine.

295. Howdy Neighbour

2010-10-22T00:00:00.001+11:00

Robert lives alone in a second floor walk-up beside a park. He has a balcony but not a courtyard. The balcony is of the ‘juliet’ variety, meaning not sufficient room to swing a cat. Robert is not totally alone. He lives with Milly, the Maltese Terrier.

Milly had belonged to, Marianne, one of Robert’s many girl-friends through the years. However, she accepted a promotion to a bigger and better position within her financial services company which involved a transfer to Montreal. Hence, Robert and Milly were thrown together and eventually reached an accommodation on the new circumstances. It was not easy, as they both have a healthy opinion of their own attraction.

Each evening when Robert returned home, Milly was waiting, and looking at her lead. She adores the park, with its immense variety of other dogs. Robert enjoys the park, too, with its immense variety of young, attractive women.

294.Putting his foot down

2010-10-21T00:00:00.002+11:00

Richard liked things done just so, if there was an optimum method, that was his choice. He was a stickler for presentation. Of course, he scuffed the toes of his Julius Marlows just as often as any other Joe. However, religiously, every Sunday evening, Richard would get his cleaning box out from the bottom of the wardrobe, and go to work on his shoes for the coming week. Not just his Julius Marlows, but all his shoes.

He would lie a protective sheet on the carpet. He opened up a tin of black Kiwi boot polish, and a tin of brown. With one brush, he applied the polish evenly but thoroughly to the leather. He did this to each pair of shoes in turn. Then he changed to the other brush, and burnished each shoe until it shone.

Richard took pride in his appearance. He was of the old school.

293. Better than a poke in the eye

2010-10-20T00:00:00.002+11:00

Not just any old suburban backwater, but a prime corner position in usually bustling Paddington. Lenore lived in a gritty abandoned warehouse in nearby Darlington and valued the accessibility of this new wait job. ‘Valued’ is a tough concept for Lenore, who would run a mile rather than admit any dependence upon society’s coat-strings. She was caught betwixt and between at the moment.

Being on an AUS-Study allowance limited the amount she could earn per week. However, she could not survive on that limited income. So she was paid ‘under the counter’. If she quit her studies, she could work full-time at this job and be able to live reasonably. But wait jobs don’t lead anywhere. She was half-way through a landscape-gardening course at TAFE, with work experience at Marrickville Council.

This is an age-old dilemma. Obtain satisfaction now, or do the hard yards and benefit more in the future.

292. The riderless horse

2010-10-19T00:00:00.009+11:00

Silently, the tear squeezed from her eye down her granite cheek. Janine saw Matt, not the football. She saw his agile leap high above his opponent, taking the mark. In her mind’s eye, she saw the play-on and the run-around into the open goal.

Then, into view swam his boot backwards in the stirrup, the rider-less horse following the casket, the ranks of fellow soldiers stepping, in line, behind. Her face cracked only when her mind replayed the arrival of the sombre Fairlane, and she watched her own black-shawled head step onto the carpet.

Her stony face dissolved, her fiercely erect backbone became as jelly. She collapsed onto the lawn, berating its perfection with her clenched fists. All she had was loss. He was lost to her. The Blackhawk was downed in the dark of night, in the muffle of battle. And he was lost to her.

And for what?

291. The stool

2010-10-18T00:00:00.001+11:00

He had been at the bar all afternoon, and now the twilight was coming down. He did not appear to be drunk, melancholy yes. He had said little, other than to order his next drink. Red wine – a shiraz from the Coonawarra. He liked potato crisps, Salt and vinegar crisps. Mostly he just rocked back on a leg of his bar stool, tapping a coaster in his left hand. Contemplative.

Every so often, he would glance sideways to catch the big screen in the corner. A match between Manchester United and Aston-Villa. From his reaction, one could hardly say the outcome mattered to him. He paid scant attention to the barmaid, other than to grunt out his order. He did not spare as much as a glance to the woman on his right, eating fillet mignon with salad and fries.

Poking out of his breast pocket was a hand-written letter.

290. The power of the elemental

2010-10-17T00:00:00.002+11:00

Water had always held a fascination for Francine, it had a gravitational pull there was no escaping. Today it was beautifully crafted water, water at the behest of mankind in his built environment. However, just the slightest hint of that tinkle had the power to transport Francine way back; back to the rickety wooden bridge on that last curve before the farm.

In those immediate post-war years everything seemed instantly aged, and weary and in a state of dishabille. When her mother’s silent weeping threatened to overwhelm her, Francine would drift to this bridge and its stepped pathway to the meandering stream below. Lined with she-oaks, and littered with skimming rocks, this was a refuge, a shed in the great outdoors. As the wind set to its whistling, and the sun glinted and dappled on the slowly moving waters, Francine reached her own silent accommodation with emotions beyond her comprehension.

289. Rapprochement

2010-10-16T00:00:00.004+11:00

Whistling down the laneway, the wind encouraged Amelie to hug her jacket to her – as much a psychological reaction as it was physical. She felt in need of battening down the hatches, of indulging in self-preservation. It had been a difficult period of time, and it showed. The gulf between them was still apparent, but at least they were side-by-side, and heading in the same direction.

The cobblestones beneath her feet brought the immediacy of touch, an intense feeling of discord that she willed to continue. As they walked, in an uncomfortable silence, through the archway, Amelie was assaulted by intense aromas from the myriad of small kitchens attached to the outdoor markets. She took a deep breath, a precursor to a comment, but immediately thought better of it.

She glanced sideways, to catch Milly glancing sideways. Amelie could not contain a hesitant pucker at the edge of her mouth.

288. Two Terry stories

2010-10-15T00:00:00.005+11:00

Fishy business goin’ down

He wiped his sweaty palms on the rear of his jeans. If he did it once, he did it a hundred times. This was the part of the operation that Terry knew would create the most angst. He was getting the hang of fishing, although he was hoping to reel in more than just the evening meal. It was all the other possibilities that put the wind up him.

They had told him again and again, that all he would have to do is pluck the containers from the water. None of his business how they got there. He could see his chain question his commitment the more he queried the process. There was no reason for the authorities to find him of interest. He had a clean slate. He had fished at this spot each Thursday for a year. He needed just this one shot at the big time.

Terry’s shed

Shifting his weight from leg to leg, Terry attempted to clear the pins-and-needles from his right leg. He had reloaded his hook with a fleshy morsel of white-bait, enough to temp the entire school of yellow bream Terry knew to be attracted to this bay by the World War 2 ferry scuttled not long after the bombing of the Kuttabul.

Not being a diver, Terry had to take his neighbour’s opinion as gospel on this point. Roy had been scuba diving various locations in the harbour and just outside the heads for over a decade now. Roy was a great bloke to have as a neighbour, the sort to give you the shirt off his back. He would have been here today had it not been for the unfortunate episode of the bottle neck.

Terry was jerked back into the here-and-the-now by a sharp series of tugs on his line.

287. Slow fade to black

2010-10-14T00:00:00.003+11:00

As she went down, this was the last scene that Marie-Louise registered. Her head, streaming with blood from the bullet that grazed her right temple, in perceptively missed the corner of the concrete planter. However, as she executed her death roll, her right arm cracked the edge, fracturing her wrist and dislodging the diamond necklace clasped in the palm of her hand. The broken wrist was the least of her troubles.

By the time she hit the gravel, her eyes were glassy, and her breathing non-existent. A thick, red ooze of blood puddled beneath her from the second bullet which lodged deep within her chest, creating mayhem upon entry, disintegrating her chest plate and tearing her renown bosoms to shreds. Her beige, silk ensemble purchased only last month from a grand magasin on the Champs Elysées, was of use to no-one.

The beauty of the planting was lost on her.

286. Window shopping

2010-10-13T00:00:00.003+11:00

Some people dream dreams secure enough to move into. Not every person, for dreams are difficult imaginings to contain. They run and jump, they change shape depending on the angle of light. A dream can evaporate suddenly and no matter how high you jump, you cannot grab hold of its string. It eludes you.

Annie held down a solid job in the city. A job that afforded the luxury of a modest two-bedder in an inner-suburb, should she so dream.

Annie wasn’t a dreamer in the Women’s Weekly sense, where dreams are there to taunt rather than touch. Nor were her dreams in the faux-inspirational vein of a Kennedy eulogy where they ‘dream things that never were and say why not’. Oh no, Annie’s dreams were tinged with a refreshing streak of pragmatism. Annie was a grounded person who balanced her rights with her responsibilities; her dreaming with her achieving.

285. They do things differently nowadays

2010-10-12T00:00:00.003+11:00

Heloise and Paul did not aspire to a mcmansion in the ‘burbs. Indeed, they did not aspire. They were not acquisitive, but, along with many of their generation, were of the experiential classes. And the chattering classes, that endless commentariat on other people’s lives.

They worked hard during the week, long hours at a job that paid them well and gave them personal satisfaction. They well invested the aspirations of their parents, although said parents were hard pressed to concur with the trajectory. Heloise and Paul were appreciative, but refused to duplicate a life-style that had run its course. They plotted by different stars.

They were content with a modest bungalow, or small walk-up apartment deep within the chaos of multicultural urbanity. Hence, we find them here, at Five-Ways, taking brunch on a Sunday early in Spring, their table laden with Bircher Muesli, couscous and snippets of green, coffee steaming.

284. Last steps

2010-10-11T00:00:00.002+11:00

As her cane beat out a rhythmical tap upon the footpath between the Eglise Saint Etienne and the Bibliotheque Saint Genevieve, Camille did not see the shape lurking in the shadow of the Pantheon. As she did most Sunday mornings on her path back from the boulangerie, she wove her way between the tourists, many of them with no more than a ‘pardon’ or a ‘merci, madam’.

Camille made her way along Rue Clovis to where it intersected with Rue Descartes. Inexplicably, she turned to her left instead of to her right, and was immediately engulfed with confusion.

She had not noticed the lithe shape behind her, nor heard his soft padding. He was onto her, knocking her cane out from beneath her and rudely tugging her satchel from her shoulder. The croissants, still warm from the ovens, tumbled onto the cobblestones, joining the scarlet drops of still warm blood.

Actions speak louder than words

2010-10-10T12:00:00.003+11:00

How do you chat about
the wilful ending of human life?
Not the murder of another
for who would want to chat about that?
But the sort of ending where
enough is simply enough.
One’s own end.

Being a burden is not
a prospect that pleases.
Nor is living out one’s life
swathed in the nauseating
aroma d’institution.
I reserve the right to call
‘Time gentlemen, please’.

Is there something to be learnt
from seeing the dreary process
through to the bitter end?
Is a life-lesson for my child
sufficient reason to put them through it?
The routine visits, the crushing burden of guilt
borne by the sandwiched generation.

People spend years trying to give life meaning.
Reason evaporates quickly from the vantage point
Of a wheel-chair driven by a nurses-aide.
Direction is difficult to uncover
waiting hours in the dining room for the midday meal.
Purpose is elusive when a day
is stolen by endless hours of blessed sleep.

Would a one-way flight to Switzerland
do the trick, or be an administrative nightmare?
If I stockpile pills, will my stash be uncovered?
A gun or a knife shows a lack of imagination.
Falling under a bus is taking the driver
hostage to one’s own sense of entitlement.
So much for the profound angles.

How far ahead should I give warning?
As no one else can be involved,
I must have the mental and physical capacity.
Which involves going early.
So it is a matter of picking the apogee of
the ride of one’s life, having a bag packed
and remembering to cancel the morning paper.

Written in response to a prompt ('Softy-spoken bullets; Hardly-spoken lips') from the Tenth Daughter of Memory, a writers' collective

283. The purple leash

2010-10-10T00:00:00.004+11:00

I had a purple leash, when I was a child. I had a purple leash. My purple leash clipped to a bridle, a pale pink bridle. I pawed the ground as I was strapped into my harness, my pink bridle with its purple leash.

There were buckles in my bridle, my pretty pale pink bridle. Shiny buckles. Tiny straps went through the shiny buckles. Tiny straps that curled at the ends. They waved on my chest.

The leash jerked me to a stop. I could pummel my legs, but could not move - except in an arc, an arc around my paranoid mother. I think it lucky my bridle had no bit.

Come here, little girl; this way, not that. You can run, but you cannot hide beneath that car. Be careful of that strange man. Don’t pick that up; you don’t know where it has been. Stay close by.

Reading the signs

2010-10-09T14:35:00.005+11:00

I chalk the sums for the lesson across the black-board. I am momentarily interrupted by a flash of reflection in the long bank of windows to my left. It is not until the next occurrence that my brain unscrambles the reversed, silent, slow-motion image. A sandshoed boy leaps up the rear wall of the class-room. My back stands frozen. I know not what to do. Turning around is not an option. An intelligent response is required, not barked discipline.

A new vibe had filled the air. Although 34 backs were bent, and nearly the same number of black-leads were working the sums, a hum of expectation infused the room. To buy time, I continue to add the next long-division to the morning's list. Mesmerised, my eye registers the shower of powder as it cascades from the moving stick of chalk. Flash. And again, flash. The boy silently leaps. This is an initiation. There is an aim, I realise. As I scratch the final digit for the tenth long-division, I voice my intention to turn.

'Okay, Year 4, you now have twenty minutes to complete this exercise. Show all working.'

The vibe turns to barely audible groan, their arched backs slump. My perambulate of the room, takes me past a pair of newly whitened sandshoes, tucked around the leg of a chair. I guessed who was calling the shots here, and it wasn't Robbie. I turned, leaning against the rough brick courses of the rear wall. My eyes were trained on young Mr Englund, second from the front, left. When he cast a furtive glance, as I knew he could not resist, I eased the white chalk through the mortar groove about ten courses high. His sight tracked from my eye, to the thin line of white, then back to my eye. Exposed, he retreated to the set task. Checkmate? I should be so lucky. No point setting him double the work-load, as even one was beyond his ken.

'Doris, what is the drum with Robbie Jones at the moment?'

Even I thought Mrs Shirley to be a bit of a tartar, and did not enjoy her tug on my sleeve as I entered the staff-room for elevenses. She regaled me with a litany of infractions, some downright humourous, others of a more substantial gravity. I had learnt, as term eased into term, to listen and to nod, hearing her out, acknowledging her experience, if not her wisdom. I realised Robbie was becoming a handful, getting a reputation. I figured this to be his aim. Why else be at Glen Englund's beck and call? Why else do his bidding? Englund was loading the gun and, like desperate outsiders before him, Robbie was pulling the trigger.

'Get his parents in for a chat, sooner rather than later, please' and with that she vacated the small room, leaving her staff to their boorish whinges and eternal regrets. As she glided out to the verandah, however, talk moved from Gestetner ink and psychological testing, to football ladders and last night's tellie. I'd never had to do this before - confront a parent. With Robbie being newer to the school than me, I had never set eyes on his family. Something told me that neither had Mrs Shirley. A sense of dread lodged in the pit of my stomach.

'Robbie, would you get your Mum or Dad to pop in for a chat on Thursday afternoon, please?'

A deathly hush enveloped the room. I was caught by surprise. I had not expected this reaction. To be frank, I had not expected any reaction. Thirty three pairs of eyes were trained on me. I shifted my buttock where it perched on the front of the wobbly table. Just one tousle of knotted hair was bent over an exercise book, pencil frozen. Cutting through the silence from stage left, Glen's ten year-old nasal rasp took control.

'They're spazoids, Miss. Never leave the 'ouse.'

A suppressed giggle of culpability dominoed around the room. The harsh clatter of a lunch bell reverberated against a corrugated iron hoarding. Saved. They were off. Brown paper bags clutched in grubby hands. Tupper-ware containers tucked under smelly armpits. A waft of Vegemite and squashed banana trailed in their wake. A lone red-faced boy remained exposed at his desk. He uttered no sound. He cried no tears. Urine dripped down the chair leg, and puddled on the cracked linoleum.

Dryly clad in faded King-Gees from the storeroom, Robbie pushed the gate. Flakes of rusted iron fluttered down. We stood in front of an unkempt fibro house. The grass had gone to seed. A lank Easter Daisy splayed across the path. As Robbie led the way, I caught the flutter of net curtain. Splattered on the door, caked egg yolk was encrusted with shards of shell. Robbie turned the iron key. His shape filled the door frame.

My eyes took time to adjust to the gloom. A television screen spluttered in a far corner, a cascade of static. Two shapes stood beside a laminated kitchen table. Their eyes welded to Robbie's hands.The hands told who I was. The hands told why I was there. Patient. Eloquent. Robbie's hands responded to each guttural utterance; to each body jerk. They crafted the silence with tenderness, with respect. The hands conveyed understanding. The hands, in turn, were understood.

'Me Mum wants to know if you'd like a cuppa, Miss.'

Blood pounded through my inner ear, deafening the language for which I was desperate. In comparison with the hands, I was reduced to monosyllables.

Written in response to a prompt ('Softy-spoken bullets; Hardly-spoken lips') from the Tenth Daughter of Memory, a writers' collective

282. Morning has broken

2010-10-09T00:00:00.002+11:00

There is a pleasure to fried eggs. Fried eggs over easy. Take a fork and plunge the tines into the heart of the yolk, the rich golden yolk in its curved sac. There is a piquant ooze. The golden yolk oozes over the smudged white of the albumen, and leaks into the crispy edge of sourdough, its heart open to the morning.

The rising sun wonders where to go, where to seep next, what now needs warmth and light in this little cafe clinging to the edge of Heeley Street. Just as these hands stand frozen, contemplating missed opportunity, contemplating a lost plan. Where to now for these hands, stranded in the morning sun? The yolk is but a golden smear, devoid of white. The mushrooms remain as they began, in their little huddle splattered with parsley, curly green shards of parsley.

A way through will be found, perhaps. Enjoy.

281. Home-cooked meals

2010-10-08T00:00:00.002+11:00

Looking back, Mike cannot recall when he stopped having meals at home. Being single for longer than the average, it was easier to eat at the pub or the local Maccas. That food was as good as Mike could rustle up in his own lame excuse for a kitchen.

When Lucille came into his life - inexplicably, suddenly – Mike found himself waking up with the same old song on the gramophone. Cooking is a calling, a skill, a passion. If you aint got it, then leave the kitchen.

He and Lucille would shower and wander down to ‘the precinct’ to see what was open. Not for them Bircher Muesli or Couscous with roast potato and stringed English spinach. Not for them roasted beans from Toby’s Estate or Campos. They were simple folk, Mike and Lucille. Hamburger with the lot, folk.

And when Raelene came along, she fitted like a glove.

Hardly softly

2010-10-07T07:13:00.003+11:00

Without so much
as a by-your-leave
it lodged in her brain.
Bent over the washing-up
before the Big Brother final
she didn't hear it knock -
the lodger.

Malware
facilitating unauthorised usage -
a trojan horse
by MI5
out of Mossad.
Dressed to kill
a geek bearing
the gift of death.

Cut it out.
Zap it out.
Nuke it out.
Before it oozes -
Before it multiplies -
into the folds of the cerebellum.

Dull eyes staring.
Dry eyes crying.

Younger than Christ.
Trust me -
there is no god.

Written in response to aprompt from the Tenth Daughter of Memory, a writers' collective
To M and JD - with respect

280. The red bike

2010-10-07T00:00:00.002+11:00

For his eight birthday, Jason was given a shiny red bike by his grandparents. Jason had always wanted a bike, not necessarily a shiny red one, any old bike would do. Then he could go down the park with Cecile and Leon.

They had bikes already, did Cecile and Leon. Their bikes were not red, and they were no longer shiny. They rode them everywhere, up the track beside the stream, over the bridge to the shop for a chocolate paddle pop when the sun rose strong and mighty. Jason liked Cecile and Leon.

They let him join in, even before he had a bike. They taught him how to balance and how to steer. He learned to stand on the pedals going up a hill. He learned how not to cry when he came a buster.

Jason could not wait to take the shine off his new red bike.

279. Clarrie's living room

2010-10-06T00:00:00.002+11:00

Clarrie was the third youngest of nine. His mother loved him very much. He was short and stocky with a shock of blonde curls. But he slipped through the cracks, did Clarrie. That can sometimes happen when there are nine and there are limited resources to stop up the cracks. So Clarrie slipped through early, and was well gone by the time he should have gone into high school.

Clarrie wandered along beneath the floor boards for a long time, he was a ‘borrower’ before Mary Norton ever created them, and besides, Clarrie grew up. He was dragged up really, along the rough edges of the street. Until he got to this place, this living room.

Clarrie’s living room is on the concourse outside Central Station. Many people share Clarrie’s living room, both as borrowers and lenders. The lenders have a van with hot soup. Clarrie is a life-long borrower.

278. Miss Scarlet in the Billiard Room with a Candlestick

2010-10-05T00:00:00.004+11:00

Stealthily, Miss Scarlet picked her way down the rickety stair-case. In a reprobate kind of way, she was looking forward to this. Visions swayed before her of the heavy metal object coming into contact with the shining skull of her dull-witted, but terribly wealthy, father-in-law. Her heart fluttered, as her resolve strengthened.

Oh, to have done with it. To have him out of the way. To watch as tiny sprays of dark red blood, fanned across the alabaster plaster of his stuffy wood-panelled Billiard Room. In her haste, the terribly vain Miss Scarlet failed to remember the third stair from the bottom. A loud crack resounded up the stairwell and along the tiled foyer. Miss Scarlet froze, her heart pounding, her stomach heaving.

Flattened along the wall, she heard footsteps approach the heavily embossed door.

“Who’s there?’

With one mighty heave, Miss Scarlet laid the candlestick into his gleaming skull.

277. Hanging out his shingle

2010-10-04T00:00:00.003+11:00

It was all the down time that annoyed Quentin. It was not like he was a road-worker with a shovel that needed propping, nor a bureaucrat with paperwork that needed shuffling. He was a Private Investigator and he demanded a murder that needed solving, a missing person that needed finding, a buxom blonde that needed seducing.

He took another drag on his no-name cigarette, downed the dregs of his whiskey sour, patted his rear pocket and took off, down the colonnade, behind the 378 just pulling into the Eddie Avenue stop and over to his serviced room.

As he spun his hat onto the stand, he noted the flashing red light on his landline. With a deft flick, as he eased himself out of his leather jacket,he started the tape.
‘Quentin, come quickly. I need ... aarrrgggghhhhh ... ‘

Yes, finally! A smile cleft Quentin’s face in two. Success beckons.

276. Here we go round the mulberry bush

2010-10-03T00:00:00.002+10:00

The camera sweeps down low over the stationary man. He stands with coffee in hand. Beside him, dog waits patiently. He continues a gentle rocking of the stroller. Inside the stroller, one male child is refusing to respond appropriately. The camera backs off to observe this figure in context.

The afternoon eases into evening. But there is a problem here. Our camera is confused. It sees only men. Young men striding purposefully. Why are these young men in this suburban intersection, unaccompanied by young women? Where are all the mothers, and sisters, and aunts?

We zoom in searching for evidence to the contrary. The attentive whippet is accompanied by a small kelpie. Our eye is attracted by the red chairs in the background. Ah, two humans of the female variety and another child. Our eagle eye notes the beagle cleaning up scraps from the table.

God is in his heaven.