ear's business






I amused myself today with the Biz Quiz, a page of multiple choice questions which appears to be a tongue-in-cheek approach to a few of the national and international financial disasters for which this year may be long remembered in the minds of some people. I’m thinking of those people, who for reasons best known to themselves, made poor choices when investing their money and now stand penniless, having lost – according to some newspaper reports – the proverbial shirts off their backs, not to mention the roof over their heads.

Multiple choice questions allowed the whole quiz format to take on a humorous aspect, with that old chestnut ‘all of the above’ putting in frequent appearances, plus a whole lot of tongue-in-cheek and hilarious red herring answers.

The quiz led off with BHP Billiton’s takeover offer for Rio Tinto followed by words of wisdom from a leading whitegoods and furniture retailer here in Australia, who always has plenty to say about everything. When I read these words again I wonder what he was thinking when he said them; if indeed he was thinking at all at the time. “We’re over retailed for the population we’ve got.....bulky goods developments have proliferated over the past 20 years and we’re one of the main offenders”.

Now let me just read that last sentence again. Over retailed. Oh, I get it. You’ve imported, with the help of those container ships bringing their daily cargoes from far-away places to our capital city ports, way too much stock and now having done your sums you find there aren’t enough people to buy all the whitegoods and furniture crammed into your stores. Oh dear.

I can only assume ‘bulky goods developments’ is retail jargon for stores that stock large items: beds, refrigerators, plasma TVs, lounge suites, washing machines, clothes dryers and dish washers. There is absolutely no doubt about the proliferation of these stores; they are everywhere and the main attraction seems to be their ability to offer cheaper and cheaper goods while at the same time sacrificing quality.

We are reminded that the Australian Government stepped up to the plate at the request of the banks to guarantee their deposits; a jolly good thing because banks in other countries seemed to be toppling over at an alarming rate. It is nice to know that if something nasty comes out of the woodwork and devours your life’s saving that the government will stump up a small amount to tide you over until better times arrive.

A leading childcare provider lost its lead smartly when the GFC struck and the combination of over extending one’s ambitions and rising interest rates made for a lot of crying in the playground sandpits and other places. A brewing company kicked out the chief executive because its shares were underperforming and the shareholders were decidedly unhappy about this state of affairs. A petrol retailer who struggled to show a profit when oil prices rose along with the Australian dollar then excelled themselves by still struggling to show a profit when oil prices fell and the Australian dollar fell. I ask you; what is going on here?

And now I am going to let you share in the quiz.

Here is the final question:

Leading economic forecasters believe that share markets in 2009 will:

a) Fall perhaps as much as 50%
b) Gain perhaps as much as 50%
c) Matter not one iota, given everyone’s packing their pickups with guns and canned food and driving into the hills
d) Be a crap shoot

Hint: there’s no right answer here dear readers. The choice is entirely yours.

And best of luck for next year with your nest egg. Maybe under the mattress is the best option. Of course that creates its own problems; it might mean sleeping on the floor. After all you don’t want to smash the nest egg do you?

Same old same old from these two - not a word from Z this month - not even a hint of best wishes for 2009 to anyone who happens upon this post.

Such bad manners.

"See ya next year" they shouted, as they galloped off into the sunset of 2008

Z December 2008

tenuating circumstances

Pearlie Shirley is declining to take up her ticket for the New Year’s Day races at Hanging Rock and is putting forward extenuating circumstances as her reason. She has just come back from spending Christmas with her family in Queensland and claims she is too tired from all the travelling and general family socialising when she was away.

I’m not all that keen on the idea of going to the races on my own. This picnic race meeting attracts a wide ranging group of people – apart from the top hat and tails group that you might find at an important race day at a city meeting. At Hanging Rock there is entertainment and colour and always something to watch in between races; never a dull moment in fact.

I will phone MyVeryBestFriendCarmel who is always up for a day at the races and see if she is able to come down on New Year’s Day. A lot will depend on the train timetable from her northern Victorian city and whether it will allow us enough time to make it worthwhile travelling out to the races for the day.

We will be bound to find lots to comment on and talk and laugh about if my plan comes to pass.

inding up

Today I present - (drum roll) - the last recipe to wind up the International Year of the Potato.

I had considered doing something in the summer potato salad line – and then I found this one, which combines two of my favourite foods; potatoes and fish in a salad.

Salted blue-eye, potato and lemon salad.

Serves 3-4

You can poach the blue-eye fresh, but salting gives it more charm, a little firmness and a more complex flavour.

500g fillet blue-eye, trevalla or other firm white-fleshed fish, without skin.
About 1 tbsp table salt
1 bay leaf
1-2 tbsp white wine
500g pink-eye or other fresh, young waxy potatoes, well scrubbed
1 large green (spring) onion, finely sliced
2 tbsp exceptional extra virgin olive oil
1 tbsp fresh lemon juice

Start the day before if you salt the fish, otherwise allow a good half hour.

Take the blue-eye and sprinkle the salt all over and let it stand in the fridge, covered, overnight. If you don’t have the time, still salt it and leave for as long as you can.

In an 18cm saucepan or deep frying pan, heat 750 ml water with the bay leaf and white wine until it just starts to simmer, then immerse the fish and poach gently for about 5-10 minutes, depending on the thickness. Remove when cooked through (test by seeing if the fish will flake).

Meanwhile cut the spuds into smallish pieces if large, or leave whole if true baby potatoes, and simmer in salted water until tender. (I would use the fish water to boil them, to reinforce all that flavour in the dish). Drain, put into a serving bowl and toss with the onion, oil and lemon juice while still hot.

Flake the fish into the potato bowl and toss again, adding more lemon and oil to taste, and salt and pepper if need be. Serve for lunch with some green vegetables or leaves, or as a light dinner on a hot evening with a glass of riesling.


From Good Weekend Living – food by Matthew Evans...

ake Two

Back to Capital Road again today, for the Boxing Day gathering.

This time the extended family, or as many are in town, will roll up the drive way and sit down at the tables on the back veranda. The outdoor furniture is in high demand again today and anyone who leaves their seat and walks away is very lucky not to find some-one else sitting in it when they go back.

Today a very long table is set out on the veranda and there is a frenzy of activity in the kitchen as the meal is produced and served on to the plates. I always enjoy the extended family gatherings. It means that I have to rack my brains to remember the different names but they are all pretty good and the sisters usually say hello and follow that up with their names right away. It’s their partners who may or may not be the same ones as last time and their children who are the same ones but maybe two or three years older.

And then there is Patsy, the mother of the clan, whom I am always very pleased to see. We are the same vintage and have many things in common; we can relate to the same events and ideas without any controversial disagreements. We are miles apart in life-style and talents but that isn’t any barrier to conversation between us.

I was quick to notice that Lindy has brought along some small spinach and fetta muffins and as I guessed they are from the same recipe that I have been sitting on for years now waiting for the right time to make them. The meal progresses and the plates and food are cleared away and it’s time for the washing up. Although the dishwasher is filled up there are plenty of dishes and saucepans and baking dishes to be done by hand.

I have been eyeing off the coffee machine over the past two days and today I get the opportunity to see how it works. The coffee machine is Chris’ baby and he is the one who makes the coffees. I like this machine so much and it seems quite simple to use; I may even consider getting one for the Trash Palace.

I have a few words with Flo who is taking things easy today, the bigger crowd of people and all the activity have tired her out and she has gone to have a quiet snooze in her sitting room.

I feel a bit overwhelmed with all the talking and eating myself and head off home to Our Street around four o'clock.

nusual outlook

I was intrigued by this window in the house next door yesterday and just had to have a closer look at it today.








I can hardly credit that some-one has built their house so close to the fence line that they need to cut pieces out of the fence to allow some light to come into their house. I can also hardly credit that the council allowed it to happen. Of course there have been many things done in the past when it comes to domestic buildings that are simply done and the council is none the wiser.

I walk out onto the street and look at the house from the front to see how close the house is to the fence line but the actual entry to the house obscures the view down the side of the house.

I shake my head in disbelief and wonder at this arrangement.

olunteer stayover








I will be going over to stay with Flo in early January.

A recruitment drive was held this afternoon at Capital Road to find enough volunteers to help out while Jac and Chris’s go on holidays for a week or so. Patsy will do the Friday night, I will do the Saturday night and Flo’s other grandson Graeme and his wife will do the remainder of the time.

It should all be pretty straight forward; meals and instructions as to the order of the day will be set out and left on the kitchen bench.

I don’t anticipate too many problems – in fact I don’t anticipate any problems. How about that for a positive attitude? All I have to do is remember where I am supposed to be on January 10!!

mall Group

I’m invited to Christmas lunch this year is at Jacquivieve’s; at the house in Capital Road where she and Chris now live.

It is only a twenty five minute drive and on Christmas Day there is not much traffic around. I’m not familiar with the area but once I negotiate Dandenong Road and make a sharp left turn I am soon at the house.

I get the guided tour; it is a big house on a big block and suits their purpose at the moment which is to provide not only enough living space for Jac and Chris but also to give Flo her own bedroom, bathroom and small lounge.

Flo is Chris’ grandmother, she is in her late nineties, and although she is not as nimble on her pins as she might wish, she certainly has all her wits about her and then some. She is no longer able to live alone in her own home which is only a few streets away and so she has recently moved around to Capital Road.

Before lunch we gave the outdoor furniture a workout, sitting in the back garden under the shade of the walnut tree chatting and having pre-lunch drinks. As the others all knew each other or were family of sorts and I only see Jacquivieve now and then I feel a bit like a fish out of water and am pleased when lunch is announced and we move inside.

Jac knows how to turn on a good spread and there is always plenty of food – way too much in fact – and I am more than a little dismayed at how much finishes up in the garbage bin after we finish the meal. The idea of using up left-overs is totally foreign to their thinking; plenty of money apparently goes hand in hand with never giving a thought to wasting the planets resources.

After lunch I sit with Flo in her cosy lounge and we talk, mostly about her life in England and how she and her husband came out to Australia and made a new life when she realised that her grandchildren were getting the short end of the stick as the result of some dysfunctional parenting. As a consequence both the grandsons, now well into middle age, think of Flo more as their mother than their grandmother. She is a woman who knows her own mind, likes to live as independently as possible and takes a lively interest, not only in her own family, but also in current national and international happenings.

The afternoon is wearing on, I gather up my bit and pieces, say my goodbyes and head off home.

early there





Only one more sleep till Santa arrives.

In my inimitable style the cards, less in number each year, have been thrust into the red letter box on the corner with the faint hope that they will reach their destination before Christmas Day.

Whatever happened to New Year’s cards? A great fallback when that unexpected card arrived in the letterbox and needed a response. New Year cards seemed to go the way of the dinosaur and the dodo; I haven’t seen one around in years. New Years cards, not dodos!! Of course it would not surprise me in the slightest if a NY card turned up in the archaeological dig in the back room one of these days.

For those people in the far flung corners of the earth – read Toronto, Alabama, Auckland and Arizona - there is always that wonder of modern times – email. And so it was that with a few words and a click on the send button, I could sit back and consider the Christmas greetings finished.

In spite of the convenience and speed of the internet I always feel there is something impersonal about emails. They always seem so bland in appearance; somehow disconnected with real life and hastily flung together to fill a gap.

In my opinion emails will never take the place of a post card; and having said that I will now move along to the next post which is not unrelated to this one, as you will see if you read on.

utmoded ideas





Picking up where I left off in the last post; email will never replace postcards in my world. I live well and truly in the past when it comes to many things and postcards are just one of them.

I like colour and a glimpse of exotic places on the front, a few handwritten lines of news scrawled on the other side and a real stamp affixed. I like to be able to stick the postcard on the front of the fridge or on the kitchen door where it might well sit for years until I finally decide it is past its use-by date and remove it. Try doing that with an email print out; doesn’t have quite the same attraction as far as I’m concerned.

Another outmoded idea of mine applies to one of the basics of life; namely the old-fashioned bar of soap. I just can’t come to terms with the idea of bath gel; it’s slippery and slithers off onto the shower base before you can bat an eyelid. Give me a bar of soap any day; if that slithers away at least you can pick it up again. Try picking up the shower gel, once it has hit the floor.

I will however make a concession towards a container of liquid hand wash sitting by the hand basin. It caters to those people who have germ phobia and worry about who might have previously used the bar of soap to wash their hands; not to mention the affront to their sensibilities when faced with a tired old bar of soap cracking up as it reaches the end of its useful life.

I’ll stop right here before I subject you to any more information that might fall under the heading of “too much”.

ainting presented

A collage style painting, put together by the children of St John’s school is now hanging in the children’s section of the local library.




This painting, a colourful illustration of a playground scene is a tribute to and a celebration of the life of Yadav, and will be donated to his parents at the end of Term 1.





In the photograph Reuben is seen talking with Yadav's mother about the completed picture.

Rueben, a student in Grade 4 who befriended Yadav at the local library and helped him to use the computers, wanted to do something nice for him; the students from the school under the guidance of their art teacher got to work and produced a playground scene depicting things which Yadav loved; his two sisters, football goal posts and all the fun of a playground filled with kids having a good time.

I like the idea of this piece of art hanging in the children library. It serves two purposes; a tribute to the memory of Yadav and recognition of the work and affection the children at his friend Reuben’s school felt for him.

The letter

is taking a well earned rest for December......

eading now

At this time of the year I grab an armful of books from the library for my over-Christmas reading.

In the days of long ago and far away the library was closed for two or three weeks and in the last week before Christmas the shelves looked as though the Great Book Robbery had taken place and anyone who left it to the last minute to borrow had a very limited choice indeed.

Now the library is only closed for the public holidays, maybe four or five days depending on how the public holidays fall, there doesn’t seem to be the same urgency and there certainly is a wide choice of books to borrow.

At the moment I have a bit of a mixed bag to read – the pick seems to be La Bonne Table by Ludwig Bemelmans. His tales of life are centred around grand hotels, their kitchens and dining rooms and they kept me endlessly amused and entertained; to read his book is to step back in time to a world that no longer exists.

In total contrast I have recently made the acquaintance of Gabriel Allon, art restorer and former Israeli agent in Daniel Silva’s book The Kill Artist. As you may have already deduced it is crammed full of mystery, intrigue, espionage and death; all this against the backdrop of Palestinian-Israeli conflict.

Another choice I made for my holiday reading was to re-acquaint myself with Eric Ambler, whose books I started reading maybe forty years ago. This time I am reading Light of Day, which seems to me to be more of a chapter of errors and than a real dyed-in-the-wool espionage story.

A mixed bag indeed.

arlene arrives

As is often the case with Marlene at this time of the year, her arrival is announced after the event.

We spoke on the phone, went through the usual tight schedule she faces when she comes to visit her family down South and settled for a time when she would be staying with one of her sons in Brunswick. Simple.

It’s Saturday afternoon and I drive over to Brunswick, street directory on the seat beside me and find my way to the house. Car parking in the inner suburban streets is often at a premium; when this suburb was settled in the dim and distant past it was a working-class suburb. The working class didn’t own cars; they walked, rode a bicycle or took the tram or train. Drive-ways and garages were unheard of and there was very little space between each house. It makes for interesting times now when the norm is a two car household.

Marlene is staying in this house while the family are on holidays; we sit with our cups of tea and talk about the alterations within the house made to accommodate the family and cater for modern living. Food is in short supply in the pantry, Sydney Road is only a short walk away and off we walk to find a cafe and have a bite to eat.

The best we can find is an alternative place where grunge and a mish-mash decor is the order of the day. Eating out with Marlene is something of an ordeal; she peruses the menu at length and catalogues a long list of foods not suited to her particular dietary requirements. Eventually she finds something which she orders but not without dire prognostications about the outcome if it does not agree with her delicate constitution.

I decide on my choice from the menu without too much ado and to my annoyance much later in the evening find I am the one who suffers nasty repercussions from something that disagrees with my constitution. I suspect that maybe the grunge in the decor extended to the hygiene in the kitchen. All that was in the future as we sat eating and chatting and drinking water (Marlene) and coffee (Ms Soup) and catching up on events in places near and far. The seating is a very casual arrangement, a bench along the wall side of a long table scattered with vari-coloured cushions of all shapes and sizes and degrees of lumpiness. I punch three into some semblance of order and perch atop; I now able to see over the top of the table. I like to look down upon my food and not be at eye level with the plate. This eye-level view of your meal may be part of the attraction for the young people sitting at the other tables, but for my money, alternative life-styles, especially those which involve a high degree of discomfort, are no longer at the top my list of life’s priorities.

We stroll back to the house and come across a sight that defines the Brunswick of today. A vegetable garden is being constructed on a nature strip; a nature strip is not a convenient urban space for those people wishing to throw off their clothes and prance about enjoying the delights of the sunshine and fresh air before alarmed members of the community call the Boys in Blue. It no doubt has a more contemporary name, given the predilection of local council staff for filling in their hours of employment with the arduous task of dreaming up even more obscure terms to confuse and bewilder the ratepayer. When I was little kid staying with my grandmother she would drag the old push mower out of the back shed and announce she was off to mow the front lawn and the nature strip. It is a strip on the foot path immediately adjacent to the kerbing along the roadside. In the ‘good old days’ most footpaths had a strip of grass but today, in this age when to find a footpath is a rare thing in some suburbs, they are not so common.

A young woman was busy transplanting tomato and what looked like cucumber seedlings into some very dry sandy soil and then carting buckets of grey water from her house to help them get established. They will need massive amounts of good luck and water in equal parts to survive the current dry weather and scorching days.

Goodness!! This post has turned into a marathon and run all over the place in every direction. I shall try to make the next post short and to the point.

Do I hear the sound of distant laughter?

ynch lunch

This is not a lunch for those in favour of summarily hanging people – I felt I should clear up any possible misunderstandings about the title at the outset.

Lynch’s was the restaurant of our choice (Neighbour Heather and I) for our Christmas treat. I have to be honest here and say we were greatly influenced by the set price menu I discovered was on offer this month. Under normal circumstances only the well heeled eat at Lynch’s. After many years the original owner sold up and new people are in charge; perhaps the slowing of the economy has prompted them to offer a set price lunch menu. I can only imagine some regulars might take a dim view of this and be sniffing and muttering about the riff-raff that will now come through the door.
We did not disappoint them when we arrived, looking just what we really are, the riff-raff. We put on our best fraudulent “we can buy and sell this lot” faces and were shown to our table.

The restaurant is in an old terrace house; consequently there are several small rooms some of which have been opened up with one or two still the original size. The larger ones cater for larger groups although none of the rooms caters for numbers like fifty or more – not any of the rooms we could see. At the front the veranda has been converted into a conservatory like area with a glassed area and a view across the park to the Botanic Gardens. We were not lucky enough to score a seat out there but sat inside in a small inside room.

The meal was lovely, the service attentive without being overwhelming and we spent a lot of time looking about to see who and what we could see. A lot of this looking about was aided by the mirrors placed at strategic points in each room; a way perhaps of the staff keeping tabs on how things are going at the tables without being intrusive.

We walked out into the sunshine and along to St Kilda Road very happy with our choice of Christmas lunch venue for this year.

omaneko













I have recently discovered Komaneko – the Curious Cat.






I picked up the kids’ flicks program from ACMI the other day and there on the cover was a photo I could not resist. The distance between adulthood and the return to childhood is very short indeed some days and immediately I knew I would have to see this movie.

Komaneko is a would-be animator who makes not only her own puppets (cat puppets, of course) but also makes the film sets and then films them on an 8mm camera. This is a Japanese production and I am sure it will be worth seeing.

I’ve missed out this time as I picked up the info and then promptly forgot about it. Let’s hope ACMI show it again some time in the future.

I must be reverting to my childhood - really want to see this little movie.

istory Resurfaces







I never know what might work its way to the top of the archaeological dig. Today a tattered, yellowing newspaper article from The Herald– an evening paper in Melbourne at that time, now defunct- of Wednesday December 14, 1983 made an appearance.
How timely, I thought as I read the date – twenty five years and I can make this fit to the day. The headlines are attention grabbing to say the least. In big black bold capitals IT’S HATRED IN THE WILDERNESS headline sets the tone for the article.

It’s an interesting exercise to read an article that is twenty five years old and to recall how things were then and how they are now. The wilderness is the site where the Franklin Dam was set to be built and the hatred (and there was plenty of that around at the time) was centred in the west coast Tasmanian towns of Queenstown and Strahan and aimed at those lower than low life “greenies”.

The High Court decision to halt the construction of the dam had already been handed down but resentment was still smouldering in these towns who saw jobs being lost and interference in local affairs by a bunch of tree-huggers and mainlanders who should have been minding their own business and keeping out of Tasmanian affairs. Over the previous year only a brave (or foolhardy) person would venture into these towns with interstate plates and a No Dams sticker on their car.

At the time this article was published, Bob Brown, today a Senator in the Federal parliament, was a state MP and a major force behind the campaign to save the wilderness from yet another hydro-electric dam in Tasmania. It had been a long hard slog for the No Dams proponents and the opposition had been vocal and unrelenting in their resistance to any idea of saving the Franklin. After all, this was the all-electric island where the Hydro was king and nothing was going to change the status quo if the pro-hydro Tasmanians had anything to do with it. Much was made of the absolute necessity for yet another dam without which the economy of Tasmania would collapse and there would be a catastrophic loss of jobs. Now twenty five years later Tasmania still ticks over, has more electricity than it can use and the jobless situation is still much the same as it has been for many years; it could be better but it could be a lot worse.

The newspaper article tells us that already the more entrepreneurial and far-sighted people have seen the opportunity for tourism and have purchased big cruise boats to take people on sightseeing trips across Macquarie Harbour and then to the upper reaches of the Gordon River to see this special wilderness that has been granted a reprieve.

And so it is that twenty five years after all this trouble, turmoil and division one of the main reasons people drive to the west coast and town of Strahan is to take a boat up the Gordon or a helicopter to see an area of unsurpassed natural beauty that came within a whisker of being lost forever.

ndefatigable Constance





Constance Little has been a prolific writer of letters to the editors of the two major Melbourne papers for a many, many years.

My first recollection was of short letters appearing in the Fifty-Fifty column in the Sun; this was a column where such letters (no doubt edited by the paper) on current topics would appear. I was intrigued by this woman from East Gippsland who had something to say so often about so many topics.

At that time we had family friends living in Lakes Entrance and Constance then lived on a property near Swan Reach; when we drove through this dot on the map some comment would often be made about Constance and we would debate whether she might be out on the farm writing a letter at that very moment we were driving through the town.

A few days back an article appeared in the Melbourne Age announcing that Constance E Little was putting the top on her pen permanently after fifty years of writing letters to the editor. Along with those people who had looked forward to reading her letters I also was aghast and not a little saddened to think I would no longer see her in print.

Constance was unafraid to take a stand at odds with popular opinion and often took the side of the underdog. Some of her letters were reprinted and it was interesting to read a letter on global warming written in 2001 where her she put forward the idea that global warming was already here and how we adopt this ostrich attitude to this threat to our planet. My sentiments exactly Constance!!

Alongside the letters were two photographs, one black and white taken in the early days of her writing, evinced by her hair style and sensible country style dress and the other more recent showing a stylish Constance wearing an elegant dress and jacket complete with pearls, earrings and a lovely hat.

Constance first started writing letters at age 14 for her school paper and claims to be a descendant of Charles Dickens. Her daughter describes her as a tough country woman with style and grace who is equally skilled at turning out fine soups and fruit cakes as well as fine written words.

Age may have wearied Constance and prompted her decision at age 89 to call a halt to her letter writing career but I am sure that she will not be forgotten and many people will miss her short, sharp and succinct written opinions on contemporary issues.

Well done Constance, goodbye, your writing will not be forgotten.

acaranda blossom

There seems to be something about the first half of December that attracts heavy downpours of rain here in Melbourne. Last year it happened around the time of Steve and Katie’s wedding and now it has happened again.







The rain, of course, is most welcome and provides some respite from the early morning watering. The jacaranda trees were just looking at their best and now the rain has pelted the blossom down onto the ground. I pick up the camera and go downstairs to take a couple of photos of the purple scatter of blossom strewn along the wet path.




Walking around to the north side of the building I find more purple blossom scattered over the concrete. Bending down to take a photo I spy a couple of struggling fuchsias, buried among the lantana undergrowth. Goodness knows how long they have been there – I have never noticed them before. How these plants came to be there I have absolutely no idea; we did have one old gnarled and misshapen fuchsia on the south side of the building but it went some time ago to that great garden paradise in the sky.

Although this rain means I don’t have to water for a couple of days we are going to need a whole lot more in the right places – preferably the catchment areas - before it will make a real difference to Melbourne’s water supply.

oodbye Su-Chen

Su-Chen has packed up her tent and stolen away, metaphorically speaking.

The doors closed for the last time on the exhibition and it was all hands to the pump while the prints and the accompanying text were taken down, rolled up and packed ready for the trip back to Taiwan. A lot of repetitive hard work is involved in taking down an exhibition within a short time frame.

Setting up has an air of expectation and excitement but taking down is the other end of the scale, there is something deflating about it and a distinct sense of finality as the work is taken down. It is not unlike moving house in some respects, especially that moment when you look around and find something has been tossed into a corner and now a space has to be found for it in the packing box. Groan.

Su-Chen organised a get-together for ethnic members of a two community gardens on the final weekend and they all met up in the afternoon at the Botanic Gardens for a picnic and a last look at the exhibition.

It has been a busy and exciting time while Su-Chen has been here and I hope I might have shown her something about Melbourne that she might not have known before she arrived. I have learned much about some aspects of the terrain and people of Taiwan and a little about digital photography as an art form. There should always room for meeting new people, they often add another dimension to the fabric of our lives.

Yes, you’re right – that is not an original thought on my part – I first heard it from an American woman I met while on a tourist adventure to some outlying islands off the coast of Vancouver Island; I like the idea and trot it out whenever I feel it is appropriate to the topic.

Goodbye Su Chen and Mr Lu. Maybe I will see you in Taiwan one day…..

inal concert

Tonight was the last concert in the JA MSO concert sweepstakes. As the old saying goes, all good things must come to an end; John is going to hand over the MSO season ticket to his daughter Eugenie who will carry on the tradition.

We kick off the evening with the usual pre-concert dinner and I meet up with John, his sister and her guest, in the restaurant before the concert. His sister is eldest in the family and often is on the receiving end of some mild sibling-oriented teasing. John insists that she has become very vague, but if she has I have to say she conceals it very well.

John’s sister always brings along a guest to the concert and they are always interesting people. Tonight it was her daughter-in-law Kristina, who passed with flying colours thus maintaining the past high guest standard . Kristina is one of nine siblings in a Hungarian family and was raised with a strong sense of community involvement. As a result she is now an advocate for a mentally disadvantaged friend of the family who, sadly, does not have the social skills to run her own life. Kristina has taken on the responsibility of advocate for this family friend but wonders and sometimes worries what will happen if her charge outlives her even though this Katrina is ten years younger than her charge. It's heartening that people can be found who have a social conscience and who often take on duties many people would shirk from as too onerous or too time-consuming.

With the chit-chat and dinner was behind us, we make our way to the concert hall where I sit for one last time in the centre two rows back from the front; where the view of feet and legs is unsurpassed but beyond the front row of musicians the players and their instruments can only be discerned by sound.

Tonight the program was Berlioz, Strauss and Ravel; Ravel won hands down. The concertmaster threw her all into her violin playing and through the progress of the program many of the strings in the bow parted company and were swiftly dispatched to the floor.

I consider myself to be very lucky to have been part of the MSO Sweepstakes over the past three years and will now have to be content with listening to any of their concerts which may be broadcast over the radio.

nd session





The next day saw a smaller class as one or two dropped out for reasons best known to themselves.

Today we tackled structure – something else totally foreign to me. I think I need to return to school and do a total refresher course in the English language at a basic secondary school level before I entertain the idea I might be able to write something worth reading

Today we move on to structure; the direction a memoir might take and how the story needs a pleasing shape together with the idea of linking the end back to the beginning. The over-arching ideas that make a story into a readable entity. In my dreams I think to myself.

When writing a memoir it is important to get all the vitriol and bitterness out in the first draft. I am aware there are a couple of people in the class who have had what might be described as dysfunctional and often unhappy lives. I inwardly sigh with relief at not having a sufficiently interesting life to write about. At least I don’t have to face the long slog of writing something which will be eventually tossed out. Bitterness and vitriol are sometimes difficult to let go of; you might be then faced with the idea that you life hasn’t been nearly as bad as you think and be forced to rethink you whole life from an entirely different point of view. Phew. Lucky escape for me there.

Chronology and themes and how they might fit in are ideas we next explore and unwittingly I am are creeping towards a small glimmer of light at the end of my personal writing tunnel. There are many ways of approaching the memoir writing process, not the least of them being a set of stories around a particular theme.

The light dawns. I’ve got it. I’ll write a series of stories about my travels. It will be purely an exercise in writing for my own personal satisfaction. To hell with the idea of ever being a published writer. After this weekend reality has struck and I now certainly know my limitations.

On the other hand there is absolutely nothing to stop me from doing something for my own satisfaction and enjoyment. I leave the writing circle for the last time realising all is not lost and my weekend has not been time entirely wasted.

Already I have a couple of ideas about how this might take shape. Now to find the notes and diaries I need and to get down to business. I should warn you not to hold your collective breaths waiting for an outcome.

Rome wan’t built in a day.

athedral Arcade.





















Cathedral Arcade is the entrance to the Nicholas Building, currently the home of the Writers’ Centre. The arcade has a vaulted lead light ceiling which can be seen in the photo on the right. In the space of a week countless people might walk through this arcade but I wonder how many look up and admire the lead lighting above their heads? It is an architectural delight straight out of the nineteen twenties.

I walk into the arcade and make a choice between taking an easy walk up the stairs to the next floor or taking the lift, another relic from the past. One lift has an operator and the other is the the do-it-yourself model; the model where your heart skips a beat when the door clangs shut and your mind rapidly assesses the chances of escaping from this little cage on the next floor. A hearty breakfast and strength training are two things increasing your chances of escape. The doors are unbelievably heavy. The outer door automatically closes after you, the inner door has to be closed and then opened along with the outer door at the floor of your choice.

All this heaving and pushing at doors makes for a strenuous start to the day. Tottering out of the lift I find the room where our workshop will take place; a large room overlooking the street below. I don’t think there will be too much looking out onto the street today or tomorrow. Chairs are arranged in a semi-circle, the ultra punctual and the early birds have already secured the places of their choice. Patti, our tutor, greets us and one by one the course participants fill the chairs.

While part of me is extremely apprehensive about the outcome of the workshop another part of me is consumed with curiosity about the other participants, their backgrounds and the part they will play in our group over the weekend. I am not some-one who might be described as a “people person” but I am fascinated by people and their behaviour.

After an opening pre-amble Patti hands out copies of her book “Writing Your Life”. What should be a straight forward exercise morphs into a skirmish of sorts. One of this group already has a book and doesn’t feel the need for another copy. Out tutor explains it is already paid for in the cost of the course. Suggestions to solve this dilemma are offered from around the room and I flippantly suggest she might be able to pass it on as a Christmas present.

In nearly every group of strangers gathered together for a common purpose there is a shakedown process. It is the establishment of pecking order, where the leading lights, the in-betweens and the also-rans find their level in the shake-out. My flippant remark drew swift retribution from Ginny seated next to me; she apparently saw me as the perfect piece of furniture suitable for a claw-sharpening exercise. She makes it very clear to me that not everyone does Christmas and quickly dismisses my response with a swift rejoinder about not making assumptions.

Suitably chastised, from that point on I am careful to avoid any engagement or dispute around ideas Ginny might put to the group; believe me she is not short of words or ideas for the duration of the workshop. She has plenty to say on nearly everything and reminds us she is after all, a published author; albeit in one particular field – food – thus establishing herself as a suitable candidate for the leading light group.

There are only two men in the group, both older men and both with the ability to diffuse volatile situations; George through his use of verbal and written humour and Murray whose skill at written detail and the ability to make a story come alive are a welcome addition to the group. I am very grateful to Murray, who arrives late and drags a chair into the circle between Ginny and myself, so reducing the possibility of any further damage following on from my being perceived as suitable claw sharpening furniture.

Early on I made my judgements about who has interesting backgrounds and therefore a wealth of material to draw on. Jhi Ling, wishes to write about her childhood in China. She was left at a young age to be reared by her grandmother. It is her intention to leave her daughters with a better understanding of the contrast between her upbringing in China and theirs here in Australia. Laura, whose background is Namibian/Croatian – imagine that combination if you will - has the potential to draw on many colourful and contrasting aspects of her life. Laura has a sparkling personality and generous nature and at our first tea break disappears only to return a few minutes later with a box of doughnuts. Morning tea for everyone.

Leona, down from Sydney for the workshop is nursing a hangover as a result of a night on the town with three friends last night, but was clearly a leading light as she had already submitted a manuscript to Patti for perusal.

Mostly everyone else is vying for the middle ground having strong backgrounds in writing in some form or other; academic, report writing and the occasional thesis. Nearly everyone wants to write a complete memoir of some type.

I was beginning to think this was not the best idea I had ever had in my life and it was only mid-morning of the first day. I stuck however, to the old maxim of paying your money and taking your chances and tempted as I was I didn’t run away immediately after the morning tea doughnut feast.

ay one

After morning tea we settled down to the serious business of writing and it isn’t long before the feeling of having jumped in at the deep end of the pool and being totally out of my depth is at the forefront of my mind. I begin to question my bravado about staying on and not running away after the doughnut feast.

It is a distinct advantage, I realise, to have previously attended a workshop; this way at least you have some understanding of what lies ahead. I hadn’t and didn’t. As a result the day was one long learning curve, in which I did a lot of writing and then found I was often wide of the mark in writing about the set topic.

We are set written exercises on a given theme; people put their heads down, write furiously and come up with a sizeable piece of work in a short space of time. Not me. Thinking and writing are both slow processes for me and I have great difficulty in differentiating between show and tell. I probably didn’t give the S&T any thought at all as I struggle to get down any words about the topic. The upside is I am in the company of people who have plenty to write about and they write in an engaging manner. Laura writes a vivid description of a house in Croatia and Ji Lhing writes about the room which she and her grandmother shared with a nesting hen.

After each task we read our pieces – a terrifying and embarrassing exercise for me – our tutor comments and everyone else in the writing circle is free to make constructive comment. Once I move out of my paralysis of terror and humiliation I listen to the others read their pieces which turns out to be the best part of the day.

Discussions are held about mnemonics and ideas for prompt recall when writing memoirs. I consider the possibility of maybe doing a mnemonics workshop. If there is one thing I am short of it is prompt recall. We refer to the book which is set out in a way that should give us the tools to achieve memoir writing tasks and discover how we can use it to best advantage.

We also write and discuss small pieces which should reveal out ‘writing voice’ and also dialogue to see how that might work best in particular situations. I consider dialogue akin to writing a play and see immediately there is no future for me as a playwright.

I seem to spend most of the day putting the cart before the horse and go home entirely discouraged and disillusioned.

ig decision








I’ve made the big decision about the writers’ workshop. Right on the deathknock. I am going to do it. Nothing ventured nothing gained – all that stuff.

Cash in hand I stood at the reception desk at the Writers’ Centre and requested a place for tomorrow. After negotiating successfully for a concession rate I take out a membership for a year and a place in the workshop tomorrow and hand over the cash.

I leave the building, my thoughts and feelings evenly divided between elation and anticipation on the one hand and fear and dread on the other.

nswer Here








Wait no longer.

Here is the answer to the question posed in this post.

It is a drum is a piece of equipment used in the production of chocolate coated nuts and other chocolate coated goodies.

To learn more about how it works click here and The Nut Factory will fill you in on the details as well as make your mouth water if you just happen to click on any of their other product pages.

Tricked you all there didn't I?