What is it with people when they are in a pedestrian role? Is there a sudden brain shift that gives us, walking down the footpath, a sense of total superiority to people driving cars? And makes us exercise that superiority simply because we can?
Like many of us I am both driver and pedestrian as the occasion demands.
When I'm in pedestrian mode, I am aware of people in driving mode, and I am mindful of them.
Let's take a zebra crossing for instance. If the road is clear in one direction, and there is only one car coming in the other, with no other cars in sight, I will NOT simply walk out onto the zebra crossing and make the poor bastard grind to a halt. I'll wave him on or stand back from the crossing.
Why? When I have the right to make cars stop for me?
Because it's polite is why. I can wait another couple of seconds for the car to pass and cross when the road is completely empty. It's easier for me to come to a stop than the car.
Additionally, when that car grinds to a halt for me, it has to take off again afterwards, and cars in low gear use a lot more fuel than cars running in a higher gear at a higher speed. It is a minor bit of karma (or carma) I'm doing for the environment by waving the car on.
I never see any other pedestrians wave motorists on at zebra crossings. Countless times I've been the one car driving down the road who has stopped at the crossing when there is no other bloody car in sight. Anywhere.
Another beef is busy pedestrian crossings. Some of these - in Eastwood, Sydney for example - have signs at the side encouraging pedestrians to wait and cross in groups to aid traffic flow, as Eastwood is super-busy. Do they wait and cross in groups? Do they hell! Nope, you'll sit there while a couple of dozen people amble in single or double file across the road, nice and slowly, while cars bank up in both directions behind them. Once that group has crossed one, perhaps two cars will get to go before the next person strolls out onto the crossing, solo and proud of it. Sitting at the Eastwood crossings reminds me that there is no slower, dawdling pedestrian than a teenager in a school uniform, except perhaps an elderly person. The elderly, however, have an excuse for being slow walkers, as do people with a disability. Able-bodied folk have no excuse for the 1km/h speed over zebra crossings.
Finally, there are the school kids. Here in NSW we have 40 km/h school zones which are active twice a day, even when there isn't a child in sight. 40km/h is a nice slow speed which enables teenagers in particular to play chicken and run across the road in front of you, because they are too lazy/impatient to walk to the nearest zebra crossing or traffic lights. This scares the hell out of me when I'm driving. I was driving down Lane Cove Road in Ryde two years ago when two teenage boys in school uniform decided to bolt across all six lanes of it when traffic was moving at a relatively good peak hour pace, i.e. 30km/h. They ran straight in front of my car. I was shaking afterwards. There were traffic lights only 100 metres behind me, but oh no, the kids couldn't be bothered walking up there and crossing safely. And if anyone had hit them, it would have been the motorist's fault even though the kids had put their own lives at risk with their stupid behaviour.
There is a law in NSW which pedestrians break if they cross the road within 20 metres of traffic lights or a zebra crossing, rather than using the lights or crossing. Every afternoon at my local high school this rule is smashed to smithereens despite a zebra crossing having been installed last year right outside the school gates. Prior to that, it was like dodging Brown's Cows as the teenagers ran or walked, even dawdled, across the road any old how. There is a set of traffic lights 100 metres up from the school and another zebra crossing 200 metres down the hill. But why use those when you can simply run in front of cars?
Seriously, people, think before you cross the road. Don't make one poor sap stop just for you if the rest of the road is clear. When you do cross, walk quickly so cars - on whose territory, the road, you are currently traversing - can get moving again. And at busy crossings, show a bit of consideration and try and cross with others. In short, do someone behind the wheel a good deed.
And it doesn't hurt to give a little wave or nod to people who do stop for you. Yes, I know it's the law that they have to stop, but it's nice to acknowledge that they actually saw you and stopped, particularly if it's that one car on the road, with nothing else in sight, who stopped for you.
Thursday, December 12, 2013
Friday, December 6, 2013
Bugger the hospital corners - I like my bed made my way!
I have a beef with hotels, B&Bs and other places at which I've stayed over the years.
I hate, desperately hate, the way they make the beds.
The sheets are turned down and tucked in so tightly that when you get into bed, your shoulders aren't covered. The blanket or duvet barely reaches to my nipples. I love to have at least a sheet over my shoulders except on the hottest nights. As a female of a certain age, I'm prone to waking at 2am screamingly hot (oh, OK, I have hot flushes. I'm menopausal), in which case I throw the covers off for a few minutes until I'm back to normal. But I like to have the choice. I don't want to spend all night with the top half of me too cold, awaiting the next hot flush.
Inexorably therefore, at any hotel, I have to remake the bed somewhat - untucking the sheets, blankets and duvet at the foot end and hauling them up towards the pillow.
I also untuck the sheets at the side, as I like to stick a leg out of bed as well if I get too hot. At home, there is usually at least one cat sleeping on the bed. In winter, I'm likely to have both of them tucked behind my knees (my knees, you'll note. G is too fidgety for them to get a good night's sleep behind his knees). So a little foot ventilation is necessary. I'm used to folding back the bottom end of the blanket or duvet to allow for the heat given off by the cats. Amusingly, I found myself doing that at hotels in Tasmania before I remembered the cats were back in Sydney.
My other alternative is to drag the pillow half way down the bloody bed so I can get the blankets up to my chin.
I'm not sure where the trend came from for making beds with blankets that don't come up to the pillow, but I suspect I'm not alone in remaking hotel beds to make them comfortable and practical rather than simply neat-looking.
What about you? Are you a fan of the hotel/hospital style of bed making, or do your sheets and blankets tuck happily under your chin at night?
I hate, desperately hate, the way they make the beds.
The sheets are turned down and tucked in so tightly that when you get into bed, your shoulders aren't covered. The blanket or duvet barely reaches to my nipples. I love to have at least a sheet over my shoulders except on the hottest nights. As a female of a certain age, I'm prone to waking at 2am screamingly hot (oh, OK, I have hot flushes. I'm menopausal), in which case I throw the covers off for a few minutes until I'm back to normal. But I like to have the choice. I don't want to spend all night with the top half of me too cold, awaiting the next hot flush.
Inexorably therefore, at any hotel, I have to remake the bed somewhat - untucking the sheets, blankets and duvet at the foot end and hauling them up towards the pillow.
I also untuck the sheets at the side, as I like to stick a leg out of bed as well if I get too hot. At home, there is usually at least one cat sleeping on the bed. In winter, I'm likely to have both of them tucked behind my knees (my knees, you'll note. G is too fidgety for them to get a good night's sleep behind his knees). So a little foot ventilation is necessary. I'm used to folding back the bottom end of the blanket or duvet to allow for the heat given off by the cats. Amusingly, I found myself doing that at hotels in Tasmania before I remembered the cats were back in Sydney.
My other alternative is to drag the pillow half way down the bloody bed so I can get the blankets up to my chin.
I'm not sure where the trend came from for making beds with blankets that don't come up to the pillow, but I suspect I'm not alone in remaking hotel beds to make them comfortable and practical rather than simply neat-looking.
What about you? Are you a fan of the hotel/hospital style of bed making, or do your sheets and blankets tuck happily under your chin at night?
Monday, December 2, 2013
Eye di mi!
Well this is a nice kettle of fish. I have a hyphema - bleeding - in my left eye. There's a little dollop of blood in front of the iris. I can't see much out of it either.
The not seeing much is old news; I was born with a faulty left eye, it's a long oval shape rather than round, and I've never been able to read a word with it. But even so, the sight in my left eye has deteriorated over the last weeks. I'm not seeing 50 shades of grey, I'm just seeing one.
Thankfully my ophthalmologist, whom I haven't seen for several years as she's expensive and I don't have much cash flow, had a cancellation this morning so I was able to see her.
Despite a couple of rounds of dilating drops in my eye, and the brightest of lights, she couldn't see through to the back of my eye. So who knows what is lurking there. A detaching retina? I have retina damage and suspect I was born with it. Hopefully not a tumour; that's my worst fear.
I'm now on eye drops to help inflammation and hopefully stop the little beads of blood, and have to go for an ultrasound on my eye on the 18th of this month. Her receptionist tried to book me in sooner but the professor my doc would like me to see is away next week.
Shitting myself? You bet.
The not seeing much is old news; I was born with a faulty left eye, it's a long oval shape rather than round, and I've never been able to read a word with it. But even so, the sight in my left eye has deteriorated over the last weeks. I'm not seeing 50 shades of grey, I'm just seeing one.
Thankfully my ophthalmologist, whom I haven't seen for several years as she's expensive and I don't have much cash flow, had a cancellation this morning so I was able to see her.
Despite a couple of rounds of dilating drops in my eye, and the brightest of lights, she couldn't see through to the back of my eye. So who knows what is lurking there. A detaching retina? I have retina damage and suspect I was born with it. Hopefully not a tumour; that's my worst fear.
I'm now on eye drops to help inflammation and hopefully stop the little beads of blood, and have to go for an ultrasound on my eye on the 18th of this month. Her receptionist tried to book me in sooner but the professor my doc would like me to see is away next week.
Shitting myself? You bet.
Wednesday, November 27, 2013
Pulling the chain and other puerile joys
This morning at my Mum's house I found - finally! - my photo album from my first visit to Tasmania 11 years ago. I went there with a friend I'll call The Photographer. We spent ages seeking out perfect locations and framing our shots and the album is a stunner, even if I say so myself. Postcard photos!
Mixed in with the postcard shots of heavenly scenery are the pics of us having fun.
In one photo, I am balancing a chamber pot on my head. You'll be pleased to know it's empty. (Unfortunately my computer can't read the CD it's stored on, which is a bit of a worry and something I'll have to sort, otherwise you'd see it here in all its glory.)
I have always found chamber pots to be a wonderful source of amusement. I have a very advanced sense of toilet humour, which was the bane of my grandmother's existence when I was a girl. She wanted me to be A Lady. I wanted to be a tomboy.
My grandparents didn't have an indoor toilet until some time in the early 1970s, so my early childhood memories of staying there for holidays involved chamber pots. There was always one under the bed, as nobody wanted to head down to the back yard and the unlit outdoor dunny in the pitch black of night. If you needed a pee in the middle of the night, you squatted carefully over the pot. Even more carefully the next morning you took it through the house and down the back yard and tipped it into the loo. Or Mum did. Hilarious as I thought chamber pots were, the sight and smell of a semi-full one was a bit too much for me.
As for the outdoor dunny, it was a gem. The walls were of fibro, the roof of corrugated iron. The door had a gap top and bottom so the light could get in. The bog roll was on a hook that was always a little rusty. My grandparents lived by the sea.
My cousins and I used to delight in peeking under the door and teasing whoever was sat on the seat (which was made of utilitarian black plastic).
Best of all, it had a chain flush. A proper old-fashioned chain with a black bakelite handle which released a thunderous fall of water from the cistern near the roof. Pulling the chain was very satisfying - you'd give it a damned good tug, release it and watch it fly roofwards - and one of the things I missed when the indoor toilet was installed, as its cistern was conventionally behind the seat and it flushed quietly with a discreet little button.
You don't see chain flush toilets much anymore. My other grandmother had one too in her old house in Clovelly. It was an inside toilet next to the scullery, on the covered in back porch.
At the primary school I went to chain flush toilets were still in place in the 60s and 70s. The newest school building, built in the 1960s, featured chain flushes. In the girls' loo there were two rows of toilets from memory, and it was a good game to have a race to see who could dash into each cubicle and pull the chain down the row of loos. Even better, you'd wait until someone was sat down, climb silently into the cubicle next door, reach over and pull as quickly as you could, trusting you wouldn't be seen by the unlucky girl who just got a wet bum.
This year's Tassie photos don't feature any chamber pots - but I did spy one in an antique shop and, looking at the price, wish we'd kept my grandparents'! I didn't encounter a chain flush toilet either, although I'm sure many still exist, hidden on farms and in older houses. If the chain flush toilet still exists in any number, it will exist in Tassie, my heart tells me.
Mixed in with the postcard shots of heavenly scenery are the pics of us having fun.
In one photo, I am balancing a chamber pot on my head. You'll be pleased to know it's empty. (Unfortunately my computer can't read the CD it's stored on, which is a bit of a worry and something I'll have to sort, otherwise you'd see it here in all its glory.)
I have always found chamber pots to be a wonderful source of amusement. I have a very advanced sense of toilet humour, which was the bane of my grandmother's existence when I was a girl. She wanted me to be A Lady. I wanted to be a tomboy.
My grandparents didn't have an indoor toilet until some time in the early 1970s, so my early childhood memories of staying there for holidays involved chamber pots. There was always one under the bed, as nobody wanted to head down to the back yard and the unlit outdoor dunny in the pitch black of night. If you needed a pee in the middle of the night, you squatted carefully over the pot. Even more carefully the next morning you took it through the house and down the back yard and tipped it into the loo. Or Mum did. Hilarious as I thought chamber pots were, the sight and smell of a semi-full one was a bit too much for me.
As for the outdoor dunny, it was a gem. The walls were of fibro, the roof of corrugated iron. The door had a gap top and bottom so the light could get in. The bog roll was on a hook that was always a little rusty. My grandparents lived by the sea.
My cousins and I used to delight in peeking under the door and teasing whoever was sat on the seat (which was made of utilitarian black plastic).
Best of all, it had a chain flush. A proper old-fashioned chain with a black bakelite handle which released a thunderous fall of water from the cistern near the roof. Pulling the chain was very satisfying - you'd give it a damned good tug, release it and watch it fly roofwards - and one of the things I missed when the indoor toilet was installed, as its cistern was conventionally behind the seat and it flushed quietly with a discreet little button.
You don't see chain flush toilets much anymore. My other grandmother had one too in her old house in Clovelly. It was an inside toilet next to the scullery, on the covered in back porch.
At the primary school I went to chain flush toilets were still in place in the 60s and 70s. The newest school building, built in the 1960s, featured chain flushes. In the girls' loo there were two rows of toilets from memory, and it was a good game to have a race to see who could dash into each cubicle and pull the chain down the row of loos. Even better, you'd wait until someone was sat down, climb silently into the cubicle next door, reach over and pull as quickly as you could, trusting you wouldn't be seen by the unlucky girl who just got a wet bum.
This year's Tassie photos don't feature any chamber pots - but I did spy one in an antique shop and, looking at the price, wish we'd kept my grandparents'! I didn't encounter a chain flush toilet either, although I'm sure many still exist, hidden on farms and in older houses. If the chain flush toilet still exists in any number, it will exist in Tassie, my heart tells me.
Friday, November 22, 2013
Paradise may have its serpents, but it still appeals
Outside it's raining; it's blowing on the windows and on the seemingly endless row of neighbours' roofs. My glimpse of the sky is cut into segments by terracotta tiles and brickwork. I feel closed in, in a way I didn't feel for ten days earlier this month.
I've been in Paradise, you see. Godzone Country. In other words, Tasmania. In this underpopulated island there are big skies. When it rains, you can see the rain approaching for many kilometres. Even in Hobart and Launceston, the world is on a human scale and you still get the sense of space and sky.
It's even better in the country. We stayed by the sea in Bicheno for a few days, watching the weather change kilometres away and the seas turn from dead calm to white horses to waves crashing against the shore and up through the blowhole. It rained - it poured! - but somehow that didn't matter. We chucked on our raincoats and headed to the shore to watch nature at work. Who cared if it was only 13 degrees with summer a fortnight away? Not us. I prefer cool climate holidays to tropical islands anyway.
We stayed in Ross, in the midlands, where the river had broken its banks, creating a wide blue pond that reflected the wide blue sky. Around us the hills were green and gentle. Tassie has had a very wet winter and spring, and the island is rejoicing in it. Lushness everywhere.
We were snowed on at Mt Wellington near Hobart. From the top of Mt W you get, if the mountain isn't in cloud, a superb view of Hobart itself. Our time there was limited so we took a chance and drove up, passing joggers and cyclists who clearly had masochistic tendencies. Higher and higher, until little blobs of snow sat at the side of the road. I was excited. I love snow. What I didn't expect was that before we would reach the summit the weather would turn and we would be caught in a snowfall. Not a heavy one, but enough to make me pull on hats and gloves, laugh and stand in it, catching snowflakes on my tongue. Beside me a family of tourists were clearly unprepared for the weather and stood in shorts, skimpy tops and flip-flops, shivering for the camera.
As quickly as it started the snow stopped, and we were wreathed in cloud with crunchy white stuff underfoot. Driving down the mountain Hobart reappeared when we slipped below the cloud base, dotted along the riverbanks on either side of the Derwent. It's a town that looks at peace with its environment; not too encroaching, with the only blot being the high rise Wrest Point Casino at Sandy Bay.
Launceston is even nicer in that regard, with heritage buildings - none over six stories - and a friendly feel; ten minutes' drive and you're out of town and in the country, with spring all around you, exuberant with wild colour. The road winding beside the Tamar gives you panoramic vistas. Launceston isn't a blot on the landscape, there is no pall of smog hanging over it - or Hobart come to that. You know it's there, behind those hills, but it has a kind footprint.
Our final few days were with G's family in a remote spot down the side of the D'Entrecasteaux Channel, near Gordon, a one horse village whose one horse was probably a Shetland pony. The Cousin lives on 5 acres outside town, up on a hill with the Channel visible through the gum trees. There's some space around the property for fire protection, and the farmlet is home to native chooks, goshawks, possums and the odd tiger snake. The bloke next door has set up a rescue home for retired racehorses, but in a very minor way; he only has half a dozen as that's all he can support. The Cousin is building a veggie and fruit garden and is going to enclose it in chicken wire because of the possums. It's a magical spot only an hour south of Hobart, on a two lane road that winds along beside the channel through villages and small towns. From the Cousin's deck you can see forever.
We drove away from the Cousin's place feeling very envious. Neither of us is particularly handy with our hands - unlike the Cousin, an ex-carpenter and builder - so we probably couldn't manage the maintenance on a property like that. But oh boy, did we ever wish we could!
I had been to Tassie before but G hadn't, and I could see the stars forming in his eyes from the first day. Like me, he was bewitched by the place. After only a few days he was thinking sea change. Not right now, as we have my elderly Mum to look after, but in the future.
All Paradise has its serpents, however, and Tassie has a couple of big 'uns. One is the cost of living. Despite being a farming island a hell of a lot of stuff is imported from The Big Island/The North Island/The Mainland, which puts the prices up. Petrol is 20c a litre dearer than Sydney. Utility costs are higher too and if you have a really dry summer you can cop water restrictions as the dams aren't as big. Winter is cold, so heating your property is more expensive. The Cousin is a dab hand with a chainsaw and has plenty of firewood to hand, so his heating bills won't be horrendous.
Land and housing, on the other hand, is cheaper than Sydney (most places are!!!!), except for upmarket areas such as Battery Point and Sandy Bay in Hobart. Lovely suburbs right close to town but almost at Sydney prices. If you had a good enough house in Sydney you could sell, move to Tassie and live off the leftover money, invested wisely.
Unemployment is another serpent. We drove through several towns down on their luck with businesses for sale or simply closed down and boarded up; not pretty enough for chocolate-box photos, and with no outstanding natural beauty nearby, they are truly struggling. (Fingal springs to mind here.) Life is not pleasant if you're living in a small town and unemployed, wondering how you're going to keep your poorly insulated house warm next winter. The Cousin keeps his doors and windows locked and blinds down even when he drives to the nearest town to pick up groceries, as crime is a real problem in the less affluent rural areas.
The prettier towns, the tourist spots like Ross, have a fair percentage of Big Islanders as residents. They've moved from Sydney or Melbourne, cashed up, and can afford a pretty cottage in a nice place; often they have started their own tourism/hospitality business there. Cafes, BandBs…
Realistically if you are self-employed you can do okay, particularly in the trades people need, although the Cousin told us that Tasmania operates on Tasmanian Time, which means tradies have a relaxed interpretation of the word urgent. My business might survive in Tassie - heaven only knows it's barely surviving here, where there are thousands of potential clients. However if we moved south I'd be giving up the business and taking on art and writing fiction I should think. Ideally we would be in a position where I wouldn't have to work full time.
Until then… we'll be spending a bit more time there, exploring, researching, calculating. G is already talking about having a longer holiday in Tassie within the next two years. I did warn him ten days wouldn't be enough!
Still raining - but I can't see beyond the neighbour's house to find out what the weather has in store for me. Oh for those big skies!
I've been in Paradise, you see. Godzone Country. In other words, Tasmania. In this underpopulated island there are big skies. When it rains, you can see the rain approaching for many kilometres. Even in Hobart and Launceston, the world is on a human scale and you still get the sense of space and sky.
It's even better in the country. We stayed by the sea in Bicheno for a few days, watching the weather change kilometres away and the seas turn from dead calm to white horses to waves crashing against the shore and up through the blowhole. It rained - it poured! - but somehow that didn't matter. We chucked on our raincoats and headed to the shore to watch nature at work. Who cared if it was only 13 degrees with summer a fortnight away? Not us. I prefer cool climate holidays to tropical islands anyway.
We stayed in Ross, in the midlands, where the river had broken its banks, creating a wide blue pond that reflected the wide blue sky. Around us the hills were green and gentle. Tassie has had a very wet winter and spring, and the island is rejoicing in it. Lushness everywhere.
We were snowed on at Mt Wellington near Hobart. From the top of Mt W you get, if the mountain isn't in cloud, a superb view of Hobart itself. Our time there was limited so we took a chance and drove up, passing joggers and cyclists who clearly had masochistic tendencies. Higher and higher, until little blobs of snow sat at the side of the road. I was excited. I love snow. What I didn't expect was that before we would reach the summit the weather would turn and we would be caught in a snowfall. Not a heavy one, but enough to make me pull on hats and gloves, laugh and stand in it, catching snowflakes on my tongue. Beside me a family of tourists were clearly unprepared for the weather and stood in shorts, skimpy tops and flip-flops, shivering for the camera.
As quickly as it started the snow stopped, and we were wreathed in cloud with crunchy white stuff underfoot. Driving down the mountain Hobart reappeared when we slipped below the cloud base, dotted along the riverbanks on either side of the Derwent. It's a town that looks at peace with its environment; not too encroaching, with the only blot being the high rise Wrest Point Casino at Sandy Bay.
Launceston is even nicer in that regard, with heritage buildings - none over six stories - and a friendly feel; ten minutes' drive and you're out of town and in the country, with spring all around you, exuberant with wild colour. The road winding beside the Tamar gives you panoramic vistas. Launceston isn't a blot on the landscape, there is no pall of smog hanging over it - or Hobart come to that. You know it's there, behind those hills, but it has a kind footprint.
Our final few days were with G's family in a remote spot down the side of the D'Entrecasteaux Channel, near Gordon, a one horse village whose one horse was probably a Shetland pony. The Cousin lives on 5 acres outside town, up on a hill with the Channel visible through the gum trees. There's some space around the property for fire protection, and the farmlet is home to native chooks, goshawks, possums and the odd tiger snake. The bloke next door has set up a rescue home for retired racehorses, but in a very minor way; he only has half a dozen as that's all he can support. The Cousin is building a veggie and fruit garden and is going to enclose it in chicken wire because of the possums. It's a magical spot only an hour south of Hobart, on a two lane road that winds along beside the channel through villages and small towns. From the Cousin's deck you can see forever.
We drove away from the Cousin's place feeling very envious. Neither of us is particularly handy with our hands - unlike the Cousin, an ex-carpenter and builder - so we probably couldn't manage the maintenance on a property like that. But oh boy, did we ever wish we could!
I had been to Tassie before but G hadn't, and I could see the stars forming in his eyes from the first day. Like me, he was bewitched by the place. After only a few days he was thinking sea change. Not right now, as we have my elderly Mum to look after, but in the future.
All Paradise has its serpents, however, and Tassie has a couple of big 'uns. One is the cost of living. Despite being a farming island a hell of a lot of stuff is imported from The Big Island/The North Island/The Mainland, which puts the prices up. Petrol is 20c a litre dearer than Sydney. Utility costs are higher too and if you have a really dry summer you can cop water restrictions as the dams aren't as big. Winter is cold, so heating your property is more expensive. The Cousin is a dab hand with a chainsaw and has plenty of firewood to hand, so his heating bills won't be horrendous.
Land and housing, on the other hand, is cheaper than Sydney (most places are!!!!), except for upmarket areas such as Battery Point and Sandy Bay in Hobart. Lovely suburbs right close to town but almost at Sydney prices. If you had a good enough house in Sydney you could sell, move to Tassie and live off the leftover money, invested wisely.
Unemployment is another serpent. We drove through several towns down on their luck with businesses for sale or simply closed down and boarded up; not pretty enough for chocolate-box photos, and with no outstanding natural beauty nearby, they are truly struggling. (Fingal springs to mind here.) Life is not pleasant if you're living in a small town and unemployed, wondering how you're going to keep your poorly insulated house warm next winter. The Cousin keeps his doors and windows locked and blinds down even when he drives to the nearest town to pick up groceries, as crime is a real problem in the less affluent rural areas.
The prettier towns, the tourist spots like Ross, have a fair percentage of Big Islanders as residents. They've moved from Sydney or Melbourne, cashed up, and can afford a pretty cottage in a nice place; often they have started their own tourism/hospitality business there. Cafes, BandBs…
Realistically if you are self-employed you can do okay, particularly in the trades people need, although the Cousin told us that Tasmania operates on Tasmanian Time, which means tradies have a relaxed interpretation of the word urgent. My business might survive in Tassie - heaven only knows it's barely surviving here, where there are thousands of potential clients. However if we moved south I'd be giving up the business and taking on art and writing fiction I should think. Ideally we would be in a position where I wouldn't have to work full time.
Until then… we'll be spending a bit more time there, exploring, researching, calculating. G is already talking about having a longer holiday in Tassie within the next two years. I did warn him ten days wouldn't be enough!
Still raining - but I can't see beyond the neighbour's house to find out what the weather has in store for me. Oh for those big skies!
Thursday, November 7, 2013
Wondering if the end is nigh
I'm a little worried. Not about the end of the world, in case you're wondering about the title of this post. But I'm worried about the state of my friendship with a certain friend I'll call Posh.
Posh and I have been close friends since we were in our late teens. Our friendship has lasted through different cities and different continents. We are able to not see each other for months and when we do, it's like we haven't been apart; laughter all the way. But suddenly, she isn't returning my calls.
I know she's been busy - she and her husband sold their house last month so they'll be scrabbling around trying to find a new place to live with their teenaged kids.
For the last couple of years Posh and I have celebrated Melbourne Cup day together, with a bunch of her friends. This year though, not a word from Posh and now she's in pics on Facebook at someone else's Cup party with a bunch of new friends. Posh is a people collector, I may add here.
So what's gone wrong?
I think it's this: I'm now a Candle Lady. Posh wanted me to be a Thermomix consultant with her, and earlier this year I agreed to do that. However, with the stress The Scarlet Pimpernel put me under, I put any new business ideas on hold. I was sick at the thought of having to go out and do demos at other peoples' houses with a bit of gorgeous kit that costs almost $2K; you wouldn't expect to sell one at every demo at that price. I'm not a natural sales person and I knew if I didn't get a sale I'd feel down and inadequate.
So when I decided that candles were for me, as it's impossible to hold a demo without someone buying something, I rang Posh to tell her my intentions and apologise for not going into Thermomix with her. The phone went to voicemail - it does quite often with Posh as she's out and about or leaves the phone in another room.
That was six weeks ago. I've left four messages since then, and not one of them has been returned. I've messaged on Facebook. No reply. I've commented favourably on some of her recent Facebook pics. No Likes, no comment in return.
I believe I'm being shunned, rather than just ignored because Posh is busy. If that's the case, and it's as a result of my business decision, I think Posh is being a bit shallow.
Or maybe she's just grown out of our old friendship. After all, the friends she has made in the last ten years are wealthy with children who go to the same private school as Posh's. They live in a nice part of Sydney's north shore. In big houses which are typically mortgaged to the hilt. They spend like there's no tomorrow, have expensive holidays and they are all foodies to a woman. I am not wealthy and I don't have kids; I live in a townhouse in Sydney's west; my holidays are usually planned to a budget but are enormous fun; while I love my food I'm not a princess about it.
For now, I guess I have to accept the end may be on its way for our friendship. It would have taken Posh only a minute to pick up the phone, or send me a text.
To paraphrase a famous quote from one of my favourite movies, Casablanca, "This could be the end of a beautiful friendship."
I guess I'll know one way or the other - it's almost Christmas card season.
Posh and I have been close friends since we were in our late teens. Our friendship has lasted through different cities and different continents. We are able to not see each other for months and when we do, it's like we haven't been apart; laughter all the way. But suddenly, she isn't returning my calls.
I know she's been busy - she and her husband sold their house last month so they'll be scrabbling around trying to find a new place to live with their teenaged kids.
For the last couple of years Posh and I have celebrated Melbourne Cup day together, with a bunch of her friends. This year though, not a word from Posh and now she's in pics on Facebook at someone else's Cup party with a bunch of new friends. Posh is a people collector, I may add here.
So what's gone wrong?
I think it's this: I'm now a Candle Lady. Posh wanted me to be a Thermomix consultant with her, and earlier this year I agreed to do that. However, with the stress The Scarlet Pimpernel put me under, I put any new business ideas on hold. I was sick at the thought of having to go out and do demos at other peoples' houses with a bit of gorgeous kit that costs almost $2K; you wouldn't expect to sell one at every demo at that price. I'm not a natural sales person and I knew if I didn't get a sale I'd feel down and inadequate.
So when I decided that candles were for me, as it's impossible to hold a demo without someone buying something, I rang Posh to tell her my intentions and apologise for not going into Thermomix with her. The phone went to voicemail - it does quite often with Posh as she's out and about or leaves the phone in another room.
That was six weeks ago. I've left four messages since then, and not one of them has been returned. I've messaged on Facebook. No reply. I've commented favourably on some of her recent Facebook pics. No Likes, no comment in return.
I believe I'm being shunned, rather than just ignored because Posh is busy. If that's the case, and it's as a result of my business decision, I think Posh is being a bit shallow.
Or maybe she's just grown out of our old friendship. After all, the friends she has made in the last ten years are wealthy with children who go to the same private school as Posh's. They live in a nice part of Sydney's north shore. In big houses which are typically mortgaged to the hilt. They spend like there's no tomorrow, have expensive holidays and they are all foodies to a woman. I am not wealthy and I don't have kids; I live in a townhouse in Sydney's west; my holidays are usually planned to a budget but are enormous fun; while I love my food I'm not a princess about it.
For now, I guess I have to accept the end may be on its way for our friendship. It would have taken Posh only a minute to pick up the phone, or send me a text.
To paraphrase a famous quote from one of my favourite movies, Casablanca, "This could be the end of a beautiful friendship."
I guess I'll know one way or the other - it's almost Christmas card season.
Friday, October 25, 2013
Dan the Man - Dream Invader
Back in the 80s I had a fling with Dan the Man (as he described himself). Dan was a Canuck, a French Canadian guy I'd met on a holiday in Europe. I thought the fling was the real thing, he viewed it as a holiday romance. Naturally, it ended in tears - mine - but that's another story and too turgid to go into. I'll digress if I do.
Anyway, last night I dreamed about Dan the Man. I was in Montreal on holiday, with Mum. I was the age I am now but Mum was younger and fitter. We'd gone to Montreal but were hoping we wouldn't bump into Dan.
So we spent our holiday peeking around corners and of course, found ourselves in the same building as Dan the Man. I think it was a hotel. I don't always remember my dreams terribly well once I'm awake but I remember hissing at Mum, "Don't tell him I'm here!" and hiding under something. Bedcovers? Cushions? Something soft.
Dan, naturally, peered around a corner and found me, and we had an argument about something. Nothing obviously had changed in the many years since we'd last met. I should add here that we'd met up for holidays twice more after the initial one - 1991 in the US and 1996 in Canada, with the clear understanding that any sex involved was fling-like rather than the indication of a lasting relationship. We used to argue. It was an unhealthy relationship in many ways and around ten years ago we lost touch altogether.
My vague recollection of my dream is about me and Mum trying to move away from Dan the Man, with him pursuing and finding us, and finally he was being very pleasant and friendly, offering to show us around town. By the way, I've never been to Montreal so the Montreal I saw in my dreams probably bears no relation to anywhere on Earth.
I woke up wondering why the hell I'd dreamed about Dan the Man. Then I twigged. I'd watched an excellent show last night on ABC1, Redesign My Brain with Todd Sampson. Todd is also Canadian, and a thin and wiry/muscly build like Dan the Man. The physical similarities must have lodged in my brain - which clearly needs redesigning in that case - and lo! a dream was duly delivered.
Over the years I've wondered about Dan the Man. Whether he's still single, and I suspect he is, as he's too fussy about women's looks. He's a very intelligent guy and a perpetual student; I suspect he has at least two degrees by now.
I've tried to find him on the internet - little ole stalker me - and he's curiously invisible. No Facebook or Twitter. Not on LinkedIn. He's in the phone book and still living at the same address I've always known for him. I'd love to know what he looks like these days. Still skinny, I bet, and still bespectacled. Whether he's kept the wild mop of curls is another thing; I suspect he's rather thin on top these days. In my dream the curls were still there but a bit grey. The lush curls, I may add, were part of the attraction; I've always liked good hair on men. (Doesn't explain why I'm married to someone who's quite bald on top - I guess he has other attractions :-) ).
I wonder which old flame will pop up in my dreams next?
Anyway, last night I dreamed about Dan the Man. I was in Montreal on holiday, with Mum. I was the age I am now but Mum was younger and fitter. We'd gone to Montreal but were hoping we wouldn't bump into Dan.
So we spent our holiday peeking around corners and of course, found ourselves in the same building as Dan the Man. I think it was a hotel. I don't always remember my dreams terribly well once I'm awake but I remember hissing at Mum, "Don't tell him I'm here!" and hiding under something. Bedcovers? Cushions? Something soft.
Dan, naturally, peered around a corner and found me, and we had an argument about something. Nothing obviously had changed in the many years since we'd last met. I should add here that we'd met up for holidays twice more after the initial one - 1991 in the US and 1996 in Canada, with the clear understanding that any sex involved was fling-like rather than the indication of a lasting relationship. We used to argue. It was an unhealthy relationship in many ways and around ten years ago we lost touch altogether.
My vague recollection of my dream is about me and Mum trying to move away from Dan the Man, with him pursuing and finding us, and finally he was being very pleasant and friendly, offering to show us around town. By the way, I've never been to Montreal so the Montreal I saw in my dreams probably bears no relation to anywhere on Earth.
I woke up wondering why the hell I'd dreamed about Dan the Man. Then I twigged. I'd watched an excellent show last night on ABC1, Redesign My Brain with Todd Sampson. Todd is also Canadian, and a thin and wiry/muscly build like Dan the Man. The physical similarities must have lodged in my brain - which clearly needs redesigning in that case - and lo! a dream was duly delivered.
Over the years I've wondered about Dan the Man. Whether he's still single, and I suspect he is, as he's too fussy about women's looks. He's a very intelligent guy and a perpetual student; I suspect he has at least two degrees by now.
I've tried to find him on the internet - little ole stalker me - and he's curiously invisible. No Facebook or Twitter. Not on LinkedIn. He's in the phone book and still living at the same address I've always known for him. I'd love to know what he looks like these days. Still skinny, I bet, and still bespectacled. Whether he's kept the wild mop of curls is another thing; I suspect he's rather thin on top these days. In my dream the curls were still there but a bit grey. The lush curls, I may add, were part of the attraction; I've always liked good hair on men. (Doesn't explain why I'm married to someone who's quite bald on top - I guess he has other attractions :-) ).
I wonder which old flame will pop up in my dreams next?
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