Hanging basket: Not at its best yet.
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I’m going to pretend that Christmas is over (it isn’t — my deadline is the 21st).
But, as I can’t tell you about something that hasn’t happened yet, this will be like Forrest Gump’s box of chocolates — you don’t know what you are going to get — and neither do I. Let’s see what happens.
Vic Baker
A couple of weeks ago, I told the story of Vic’s great-grandfather, who was born in Watlington, England. We both doubted that anyone had even heard of this small town. However, when Vic attended his Probus gathering, a member told him that she and her husband had visited Watlington three times and knew every street. Their daughter lives there.
He also took good-natured ribbing from the group. One gentleman suggested that the reason it was difficult to find a copy of The News that day was because Vic had bought them all.
A memory
On our first visit to London, my husband asked what I wanted to do first. I said: “I want to see Buckingham Palace, and then I want a pork pie in a typical London pub.” Unsurprisingly, Buck House looked exactly as it looked on television. So, we headed for a pub.
Now, pork pies may have improved since, but in 1986, they were tasteless and horrid. It didn’t matter; I was staring out the windows at baskets filled with flowers hanging from buildings. Some of them are very high from the ground. “How on earth do they water them?” I asked my husband. However, the reply came from a voice with an indiscernible accent. “This is England, lovey. It rains.” He then asked what part of Victoria we were from — and our first conversation, in London, was with a guy from Echuca, who was the landlord of this pub. He had been living in England for around 20 years and could place Aussies into their home state with ease.
Our second conversation was when we were stopped by a Qantas hostess and asked for directions. She thought we looked friendly! Like Sgt Schultz, we knew ‘nuffing’ but did have a good map and were able to help her out. She said, “See you at home”, and we all walked away laughing.
All this stays in my memory as the day I fell in love with hanging baskets; mind you, they do take a lot of care. Mine prefer daily watering.
An email from a long-time reader
“Hello.
“After reading your story on positive thinking, I have changed my mind. Don’t take off your ‘rose-coloured glasses’! They work just fine. Your friend, Roger.”
As I always try to follow our readers’ suggestions, it looks like there’ll be more of the same in 2024. However, it hasn’t all been sunshine and light. I have been critical of Daniel Andrews many times — no more so than now, as he trots off into the sunset with 300 grand a year to await his bronze statue.
And I have been critical of our local council — twice, in fact — about Australia Day. And about the shortage of land, when at least 700 families wanted to build. If half that number made the homes they wanted — and sold or rented the homes they were leaving — the current situation would have been made better.
(By the way, does anyone know when the Australia Day ceremony is being held? If not the 26th, then when? I went to council’s website, but all I could find was information about previous years.)
Anyway, I was also quite nasty about the previous head of the Reserve Bank. And I have a few more on my list, including the supermarkets — the big two need to be fixed. (The Christmas gift I just received from one of them does not help at all.) And the banks themselves, after announcing their billions in profit, decided they really needed that last interest rate increase.
World War II: From the frontlines
If you have an interest in World War II, you will want to watch this series on Netflix. It is remarkable in that it is all original footage and in full colour. In addition, for all the major battles, there is a participant to tell us about it from first-hand experience. These people come from ‘all’ the countries involved: England, France, the United States, Germany, Belgium, Russia, Poland and Japan. Not us, of course; according to this document, no Aussies were present in the European, Pacific or African campaigns.
This isn’t pleasant, but it shouldn’t prevent you from watching. For example, the extensive footage from Stalingrad; this film tells us that the Germans lost almost 800,000 soldiers — either killed, died from starvation/freezing or captured. And incredible footage from a Japanese island where women and their children jumped to their deaths to avoid being ‘used for pleasure’ by the Americans. So, do be warned, it is not Christmas watching — because some of it is difficult and distressing. (Oh! I forgot. Christmas is over, isn’t it?) Anyway, it wasn’t exactly enjoyable; my rose-coloured glasses misted up there for a while, and I had to get the tissue box.
A strange little incident
This week, quite late into the night, I was reading Australian author Pip Williams’ first book, The Dictionary of Lost Words. It is about the dictionary compiled under the guidance of Dr Murray in the mid-19th century. I was reading about the scriptorium, where the words were being carefully checked.
My reading glasses were giving me a headache, so I turned the television on to Netflix and clicked on its first suggestion. I thought I was almost ready for bed, and it didn’t really matter what it was. The title was The Professor and the Madman. I thought Netflix had got it wrong again. It didn’t sound like something I’d choose.
As I was putting my book back where it belonged, I looked at the screen, and there was the scriptorium; Professor Murray was on the screen. And there were the pieces of paper, cut to a specific shape where the words were written. What was my book doing on the television screen?
It took me a while to figure out that the book, though written around historical events, was a novel. The characters, with the exception of Dr Murray, were fiction. The movie told the true story of a brilliant American who, when sane, sorted out thousands of words for the English dictionary. When not sane, he murdered someone. It’s a good show and worth watching, so I’ll avoid the spoiler. It stars Mel Gibson and Sean Penn, and I watched every minute of it.
After I’d figured out that I was not a mad person.
Mr Google, mind your own business
Yesterday, I took a photo with my phone and discovered that, although I had deleted old photos, Google had saved pics of our Christmas tree — one year ago, two years ago and five years ago. The one it selected from 2018 wasn’t perfect — but it reminded me of the colour theme the Elves have chosen for next year. I’ll share it because I haven’t much else.
However, Google seems determined to do whatever it wishes with our material.
I think I understand now
In the past, I’ve mentioned my confusion about vegetarianism. For a while there, I thought it was contagious as — one after another — my grandchildren seemed to decide it was an excellent way to live.
Most of our family have accepted that animals are here for humans to eat, a wise decision made by God or Allah or The Force — or whatever you want to call them. At the same time, our vegetarians are, without exception, agnostic or atheist (two grandsons, one granddaughter and two in-laws).
If you haven’t that belief, if you don’t believe you are entitled to eat the animals, and if you think deeply — you feel guilt and no longer eat meat. Second grandson said: “When I can look an animal in the eye and kill it, I’ll eat the meat.”
It struck me a couple of nights ago that the sacrifice is real. My eldest grandson sent a text message that went something like this:
“Is it too late? We’ve thought about it, and for Christmas Day, we’d love some yummy meat. Only for Christmas Day.”
Of course, it wasn’t too late. I gave them four options, and they chose beef Wellington with lobster mornay as an entree.
I checked with the second grandson, and he will stay with his original vegetarian choice.
However, I feel a little wiser. This isn’t some fad — it’s a moral choice.
Okay! That’s it for 2023. I hope you found something sweet in the box of chocolates and didn’t break a tooth on the toffee. Enjoy this pleasant part of the year, and — if Christmas is over — happy new year.
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