Mid-January or thereabouts

Early January is a lizard slumbering in the sunshine.  There is not a lot of action.

The arrival of mid-January heralds the passing of the holiday season, the end of the lizard’s slumber and a gradual return to the usual routine.

At the Queen Vic. Market, I discovered a number of stalls were closed in the dairy produce section, with no indication of when the stall-holders would be back.  The following week this had been remedied – someone must have complained.  No, it wasn’t me.

Some of my usual cafes are closed and I make alternative arrangements.  This is no bad thing, it happens occasionally I discover another new café, which is just fine.  

 I also have to make alternative arrangements for my shopping but I know it’s only for a short time, so I just get on with it.

Sitting at the overview here in the Trash Palace living-room I see action at the distant building site.  Ant like creatures in orange hi-vis vests have appeared again, walking back and forth along the top section of the construction site. The enormous crane, which has crouched, resting over the work break, rears up into the sky and begins its daily work of lifting and moving slabs of concrete.

The ex-Newsline crew get together for their annual lunch, at the usual place.  Helen and Rob entertain us with terrible tales but true about train travel in Egypt. The most disturbing part of the train travel was the unclean state of their sleeping quarters. Especially the curtains. The curtains were filthy and stiff with grime. Everyone in the travel group complained about their filthy curtains. The guide placated them with bottles of red wine.  Much laughter at our table about the magical qualities of red wine for immediately improving the appearance of filthy curtains.

More laughter from our group when they told us a week in Thailand was needed immediately on their return, to recover from the trauma of travel in Egypt.

Poor things, life is tough for world travellers.

I listen regularly to radio programs through the day.  Over summer the programs of Radio National revert to re-runs of popular programs broadcast through the year. If I’ve heard a program and liked it, I can listen again. Sometimes a program is a re-run and it is new to me.

 I sat listening intently to a recorded interview from a regional Writer’s Festival earlier in the year. This program was new to me.  The guest was Lemn Sissay, a British writer and broadcaster. He was speaking about his childhood in England as an adopted child. It was a harrowing story, of being passed around like a parcel. A wrapped parcel, one which might be unwrapped, the contents glanced at, found to be wanting, the parcel repackaged and passed on.  A  story bound up by the social attitudes, opinion and prejudices of the time.

Lemn Sissay speaks quite quickly and I had to pay attention in order not to miss a word.  Half an hour passed in the blinking of an eye and I knew I wanted to listen to this interview again. 

I really must clear all those photos off my phone and get the app which will allow me to listen back to broadcast of interest on Radio National.

And in this way the first two weeks of January passed.

Kyoto street scene                            April 2016

Lone wolf

“We are not designed to be lone wolves.”

The above is an excerpt from a recent blog; the discussion point was around people who are widowed, divorced, or for whatever reason, without a partner.

There’s something for single people to consider; those people who are seen as having made the choice to live a single life.

 How do they like the idea of being seen as lone wolves?

Hunting around, (appropriately) I find a definition for lone wolf:   

                                               

A lone wolf is an animal or a person that generally lives or spends time alone instead of with a group. The term originates from wolf behaviour.  Normally a pack animal, wolves that have left or been excluded from their pack are described as lone wolves.

I sit, staring at the computer screen, my mind idling in neutral, while images and words jump around and flicker by, like an old newsreel.

 A frame freezes.

Writ large in the frame is that well-known phrase ‘wolf in sheep’s clothing.’

Maybe this is the solution for the lone wolf who has been running outside the pack and might like to join the pack again; pull on some sheep’s clothing, saunter into the flock and mingle.

But first, there are things to consider.  Your chosen sheep’s clothing needs to be the right fit. Look down. Those feet are not the feet of sheep. Remember this when you are walking through a field.  Walking - not trotting. Think about it!

And when you have succeeded in mingling there is a lot to be said for resting in the shade of trees and assessing the situation. Getting up too close and personal, too soon, and you run the risk of smiling and exposing that long thin nose and those shiny white, sharp teeth.

Panic and pandemonium are to bound follow.

Do not be too discouraged if this mingling venture does not pan out the way you might have hoped.

 

Being a lone wolf is OK. Toss the sheep’s clothing high up in the branches of the nearest tree and head back to your lair.

A good book or a DVD will pass the time in the evening. Maybe Hilary Mantel’s book, Wolf Hall. None of the main characters are wolves, though some of them possess personal traits not unknown to wolves.

And there’s  the movie, Wolf Creek, designed to scare even a wolf into staying closer to home and not wandering along, down by the highway.

And finally you can always resort to those old familiar fall-backs; a run through the forest in the wee, small hours, or one night with the moon in the right phase, finding a high, rocky outcrop and having a long, drawn out, cathartic howl.

Live your life.  Be your own wolf.

Griping about the weather

So far this summer there have been only a handful of hot days where the temperature has topped 30C. I’ve been happy with this, one day at a time is easy to manage and recover from, though no doubt throngs of beach goers out there are griping about the lack of suitable weather for a skin-sizzle at the beach.

The media manages to make a big deal of hot weather, both before, during and after the event. Dire warnings are made about extremes of heat which may kill babies and old people; both ends of the age scale which have either not had time to build up their coping-with-heat mechanisms or at the other end where their coping-with-heat mechanisms have simply worn out and no longer deliver the required goods.

I had a conversation recently with an acquaintance and the talk moved swiftly to the topic of the hot weather we’ve endured this summer. When I ventured the opinion that the hot days, so far, hadn’t been too unbearable that idea was promptly squashed. 

I then listened to a blow by blow description of every unbearable minute of a recent unbearably hot day. Not only was it an unbearably hot day but there was a gathering at a pub to attend.Travel to and from was in an air-conditioned car and no self-respecting pub would be without cooling on any day of summer, never mind a hot one. You might think this would be a plus and make for some comfort. 

Not at all.

An opportunity to feel even more aggrieved about the weather must never be lost. In the griper’s car there is a temperature gauge and on the journey home this showed the outside temperature standing at 44.5C.   But was the temperature gauge accurate? It is a Korean car after all.  Maybe their temperature gauges are limited to a maximum reading.  Maybe it was even hotter and you wouldn’t know how much you were suffering.

Imagine that?

At this point I interrupted to say the thing which annoyed me most of all through this hot weather, was the constant talking about it. Articles in the paper and talk back radio never let up on the constant refrain of how terrible the weather will be and how will we cope with it.  I listen to the radio and all I want to do is shout ‘Shut up. Just shut up about the weather. Talking about it endlessly doesn’t make it more tolerable.’

There was a moment’s silence on the line, the conversation went on but it was a new subject.

So, there you have it. 

That’s my gripe for today; people who gripe incessantly about the weather.

Avoiding defeat

The Centenarian went to extremes today in order to avoid defeat at the Scrabble board.

The day was a warmer one than any we have experienced these last few weeks, as summer approaches. As a result, my foot steps were slower on the stretch between the railway station and Regis and there was barely an hour remaining to squeeze in a game.

The Centenarian was having a coffee and watching television when I arrived but agreed to a game of scrabble in the lounge/dining area where we usually play. 

At this point things took a turn for the worse. As she walked out from her room and turned into the corridor, she lost her balance and took a tumble, landing on the floor and bumping her head against the door of the room opposite.

Drama.

No one in the nurses’ room. Pressed the room bell to summon help and in short order three staff were with her and attending to any immediate needs.  A wait while the hydraulic lift was brought from another floor and then another wait while the sling was found for the lift.

After a concerted effort from everyone involved, the Centenarian was back in her room and recovering. As often happens when people fall unexpectedly, it takes a little while to recover.

Needless to say, the scrabble game was cancelled and she was chided for going to such lengths to avoid a possible defeat, two weeks in a row.

After twenty minutes of chatting, which is really me shouting - the hearing aid was not where hearing aids are supposed to be -  the Centenarian had perked up considerably and was ready to order her evening meal, which included an added bonus of a serve of ice-cream.  As far as I’m concerned, a serve of ice-cream is a sure-fire cure for whatever ails you.

Game number eight will be played at another time; maybe not next week as I have other plans on the drawing board.

Okra

The café. Not the vegetable. 

The new venue for the annual gathering of those few remaining volunteers who, at the turn of the century, formed the Newsline reading group for Vision Australia.

Last year I handed over the organisational reins for the annual get-together to Jane Strode of Strode Villa. She is more than well equipped to take on the task.  Jane is a can-do person.  

As a result, our small group arrived at the restaurant yesterday at midday, sat around the table where we talked, ate, drank and generally had a fine old time.  In order to accommodate my current unwillingness to use stairs, a downstairs table had been booked. Upstairs is sometimes quieter but if there was a problem with quiet in the restaurant this year, it might have originated at our table.

We were welcomed with big smiles; the Okra staff know how to look after their customers and the food is excellent.  It was a hawker’s lunch and we chose to share dishes with two or three people making their choice; the rest of us agreed and the food appeared on the table. I made a poor choice, steamed chicken - bland - it wasn’t as good as I anticipated.  We ate it. 

When you don’t see people for a year there is always plenty to talk about and the talk ranged over the usual topics: sport, travel and health – we are mostly Older People these days. Occasionally controversial matters arise and heated discussions follow; nothing too controversial this year and when the discussion centred around roast vegetables we were all in furious agreement.   We were as one voice; you can never bake too many vegetables with the roast. Everyone had their own idea about how the left-overs could be used. Much laughter greeted one observation, that in their house there were never any left-overs.

A good time was had by all and we were all pleased to have made the move to a new venue.

International flavour

An international flavour was an added extra at our lunch table today.

The flavour did not arrive on our plates as part of the food order; it was seated at the table. Lady Gallant of Gallant Drive, Mississauga, Ont. is visiting our fair city and what better place to take an international visitor than to dine at the seat of government in this state – Parliament House.

And to the Stranger’s Corridor dining room.

The Strangers Corridor was opened in 1892, as a place where members of parliament could dine with visitors while doing deals and attending to the wants of their more important and influential constituents. As the name suggests the dining room is set in a corridor, albeit a very wide one, with wood panelling, carpet and side alcoves for more private occasions.  

Sounds all very grand doesn’t it?

Lady Gallant didn’t think it was very grand at all. Looking around, she remarked on the scarcity of diners, assuming it was a place neither well patronised nor well advertised. It is not a restaurant vying for a place at the top of the best restaurants in the world and usually attracts members and their invited guests in non-parliamentary sitting days, plus other people in the know.

I chose this venue for one reason in particular; the Stranger’s Corridor dining room is quiet. The floor is carpeted, there are no glass walls and no concrete floor.  Plus it has the aforementioned alcoves; we settled into one of those.  Ideal for three ladies and their accoutrements.

The Old Girl, who arrived from her country seat earlier in the morning, found her way upstairs and we eased ourselves into the comfort of the alcove seats. Seafood linguine was the choice for everyone, and the conversation flowed in a constant stream as you might expect at a table where grandmothers gather and the first topic of conversation is grandchildren. Once the grandchildren were dealt with and it took some time, talk moved onto other happenings, here in Melbourne, in regional Victoria and across the Pacific in Canada.

All this chatter left us without time for coffee.  The Old Girl had a country train to catch at 2.30 so we shouldered out way onto a crowded tram and arriving at Southern Cross station, we walked the long walk to the country train platform and waved The Old Girl goodbye.

These biennial lunches are quite special for us, separated as we are by the Pacific Ocean and half the land mass of Canada.

Alcove for three - Strangers Corridor dining room.

Leaving soon

 Neighbour Heather is packing up her tent and stealing away to a new campground.

She has been offered a deal too good to refuse; a chance to move to a new, modern building, downsize, and still stay in the area.

There is much to do and although NH is in a tizz about getting everything done, once she sets her mind to achieving a purpose you can bet it will happen. And happen sooner rather than later. 

This move is being co-ordinated by her youngest daughter who owns the apartment and the first item on the agenda is for NH to sort through all her current possessions and decide which ones will make the move to the new apartment.   It is much smaller and this dictates which goods will be discarded and which ones will make the move; both the dining setting and the lounge setting will be moving to another place, via one of the charitable organisations.

Although NH insists she has ‘so much stuff’ she is not in the same street as Britt Eklund. When Britt moved from London to California she found she had more stuff than she could fit into her new home.  What did she do?  No charitable organisations for her; she called in Mr Christie, whose representative was greatly impressed, both by the quantity and the quality of her possessions and proceeded to arrange an auction of what was billed as The Britt Eklund Collection.

There will only be one auction for NH and that will be her apartment; the Neighbour Heather Collection will be distributed between the family, the opportunity shops and the hard rubbish collection.  

Energy and logistics - both required for making a move.  File photo: Bolte Bridge July 2016

Anti-cyclonic gloom and another year.

I seem to have started the year off on a gloomy note which is not intentional. 

The gloom is a few days of repetitive, grey, overcast skies, something I am not crazy about but I have to take it or leave it.  I am not the controller of the sky.  Anti-cyclonic gloom was something I was unfamiliar with until I spent some time in England years ago where I became well acquainted with this weather feature.

I’m more of a blue sky person, especially early in the day.  If it changes later then so be it; at least the start of the day holds a bright prospect.

And so it was under a gloomy grey sky that Neighbor Heather and I set off on our usual jaunt to breakfast out on New Year’s morning.  Our hotel choice this year would not be described as up-market but the food was fine; omelets made to order were a feature and the outlook across the road was towards one of our lovely Melbourne gardens. 

The day continued under anti-cyclonic gloom with the prospect of more food and the fun of waiting in front of a supermarket near one railway station while the person who was collecting me was waiting at another railway station.

I had ample time while I waited to survey the car park and the people and note that shorts were the clothing of choice for most women; that it was very easy for two large 4WD vehicles to reverse out of their parking spaces and collide; that people are lazy, untidy beggars (my paternal grandmother’s polite expression) who just dump all their rubbish on the ground outside the charity bins; that there is always someone who will stop and sift through said rubbish for some trophy; if you stand in one place for long enough the whole world will go by and happily that includes the people who were supposed to collect you an hour ago.

New Year’s Day lunch was on the back deck at The Lovely Pamm’s with old and new faces, lots to eat including pavlova and chocolate roulade and a variety of conversation.

And so 2017 gets under way.

Macarthur Square - Carlton.  Dec file photo

Zsa Zsa Gabor

Zsa Zsa Gabor, who died earlier this month at the age of 99, was larger than life and no shrinking violet.  She will be remembered, among many things, for her flamboyant life style, blond hair and acerbic comments on marriage and men.

Unlike the photo accompanying this post, I always think of Zsa Zsa as wearing black velvet dresses with a revealing décolletage  and, of course, that inimitable accent.

I also associate her with an evening in a hotel restaurant in Moscow in 1990; the word restaurant is big stretch of the imagination.  As guests in the hotel, two of us fronted up to the dining room to find it in darkness and we were told in no uncertain manner the dining room was closed and the unspoken idea was quite simple.  The management did not care whether we ate or where we that evening; it was our problem, not their problem.

Regrouping, we joined forces with an American couple and en masse, fronted the restaurant manager again.  This time the husband of the American couple took charge of proceedings and our obstinate attitude and his persuasion won the day.  

We were shown to an area at the far end of the restaurant, behind a black curtain. Here another group, the men wearing uniforms of varying colours, were seated at a long table.  They were obviously very important people, food was served to the table at regular intervals and the liquor flowed. We smiled and nodded obsequiously in their direction and our reward was a bottle of champagne. 

Time passed, speeches were made and we speculated on the speech content and who the bemedalled and uniformed men might represent.  We also speculated about the three women in the group.  Two of the women stood and moved alongside the man at the head of the table, where they commenced to sing songs of nostalgia, longing and tragedy.

They were buxom women, wearing full length black velvet dresses with a very revealing décolletage. Their long blond hair was swept up and fastened on top of their heads and pearl necklaces adorned the décolletage; the instant they began to sing in heavily accented voices, I thought of the Gabor sisters.

From that moment until today, when I hear or read about the Gabor sisters, I immediately recall that evening in the Belgrade Hotel in Moscow.

Hitchhiker/hitchhikee

For the purposes of this post the use of the words hiker/hikee falls into the same word relationship as employer/employee and the word hikee has no connection with the urban dictionary definition.  

 Hitchhiking adventures for Ms Soup have been very tame and few and far between; the following two sum it all up.

Hitch-hikees.

 A group of five young girls, most in their early twenties decide one summer to plan a girls’ weekend away.  How very, very adventurous they were; the destination a popular beach holiday town, about 100 miles away.  There was a catch.  No one had a car.  The return journey was organised; the only way to get there was a combination of cadging a lift and hitch hiking.  Two of this group cadged a lift with a carpenter who worked in their town Monday to Friday and then drove to his home town of Bairnsdale each weekend.   There was one definite snag with this arrangement; Bairnsdale was quite a few miles short of the weekend destination.

Undaunted, they decided to hitch hike the last few miles.  It is unclear whether parents were apprised of their daughters' plans to stand on the side of the road thumbing a lift.  It is highly likely those small details might have been glossed over and more emphasis placed on the safety of the already arranged lifts and the respectability of their hotel accommodation.

The carpenter’s car vanished into the distance and the pair stood helpless with laughter at their audacity and the realisation that the moment of truth had arrived.  The helpless laughter lasted while quite a few prospective lifts passed by; finally it dawned on the pair that finding a ride was a serious matter and being doubled up with hysterical laughter was not going to find them a ride.   A car which actually pulled over and stopped wiped the last of the laughter off their faces. The moment of decision.  Go or stay?

 Without a second thought they grabbed their bags and piled into the station wagon and in short order learned the driver lived in their holiday town destination and his brother was a policeman who had been stationed some time back in their home town.  The hitch-hikees sat back and relaxed, chattered non-stop and in no time at all were deposited at the front door of the very respectable hotel.

Hitch-hiking adventure number one accomplished, safe and sound.

Hitch-hikers.

Time passes.

Three of the original group were away on another girls’ weekend.  Now they have a car, albeit a very small one.  The destination is far eastern Victoria with a quick foray over the border into the alpine country of New South Wales. 

A good time was had by all.

On the return journey along a back gravel road leading down to the main highway they find not one, but two hitch-hikers standing together by a car, looked forlorn and a little sheepish. One of them held an empty petrol can.

Masters of the quick decision,the three decided the numbers were in their favour and, with some minor adjustments and a hasty re-arrangement of baggage, all five squashed into the car.  The back seat passengers, the shortest fellow crammed in between the two girls, were the real sardines but for the two men it was preferable to waiting for another vehicle on a road rarely used by anyone other than locals.

When the highway and civilization arrived there was relief all round; the hitch-hikers climbed out in front of a garage and stretched their cramped limbs and the very small car with its merry band of girls, laughing and making unkind remarks about dim-wits who ran out of petrol in the bush back-blocks, went speeding on its way homeward.

Another hitch-hiking adventure accomplished safe and sound.

Enthusiastic Rita

A group of four; two young men, one in a wheel chair, a woman of indeterminate age and their carer, wait for the lift which will take us from the train platform to the concourse.  When I join the group the young woman fixes her attention on me and I sense she is eager to start a conversation. 

I am not wrong.

‘Merry Christmas.’ she exclaims, holding out her hand to shake mine.  Her smile and enthusiasm are infectious and I can’t resist laughing as I shake her hand.  She produces an unused coffee cup with a Christmas illustration on it and points out Santa.  We talk about what a great fellow Santa is and then a momentary pause follows in the conversation.

The next question is about where I am going and I say I am on my way to the hospital.  In reply to her question about why I am going to the hospital I say they are going to see what is wrong with me.  

At this point the carer interrupts the conversation and tells Rita she is asking me a personal question. Rita quite clearly understands personal questions and this caution from the carer puts paid to our conversation.

The lift arrives, we travel to the concourse; the group head off to their home and I walk in the opposite direction to the tram which will take me to the hospital.

Distinctly scary twins

Two sisters, dressed in an identical manner. Long white socks, matching boots, pale blue dresses with a pink ribbon tied around their waists and shoulder length hair; they appear on the roof top garden at the hospital.

They are on a scavenger hunt which calls for a costume and are dressed as the Grady twins/sisters from The Shining. I’ve seen The Shining and although I found it a very creepy and unsettling movie I do not have the faintest recollection of the Grady twins.  Even today when I watch a couple of videos on YouTube I have no recollection. When I watched the movie I think I saw the Grady twin’s appearance as a figment of a deeply disturbed Danny’s imagination.

These two girls are having the time of their life and one of them has the Grady look perfected. A photo of the city from the garden rooftop – a selfie, of course – might just give them the edge on a cityscape from an unusual place. Their next task is to find a Clydesdale horse. They see the Collingwood Children’s farm as a possibility but I wouldn’t count on that.  Cows, goats, sheep, pigs and horses are often in residence but a real live Clydesdale? You might be disappointed girls.

In character, they wave, chorus ‘Goodbye’ and vanish back through the café. 

The Grady Twins - yesterday

The Grady Twins - today

Eial

One glance at the name tag the barista is wearing and I have my post title for today.

Eial. 

I search around for information about the name origin.  It could a variation on the Hebrew name Eyal or it could be a name strung together from a series of vowels and one consonant at the end.  It is a popular name in the USA and also in Israel.  Or it could simply be a stuff up on the part of the person making up the name badge.

I decided against asking the wearer about his name.  He is a tall, fair, curly haired young man with a high colour, who stands behind the machine as if asleep.  He also carries the look of privilege; good looking, healthy and well fed and possibly living somewhere in the neighborhood of the coffee shop where privilege is not entirely an unknown.

As it is Sunday morning, there is a steady stream of coffee-buyers pushing through the door and the somnolent barista slowly but surely works his way down the list.  Slowly is the operative word; I have eaten my Danish pastry and stand up to ask for a take-away not sit-down coffee, only to find the waitress coming towards me coffee in hand and apologizing for the delay.

The train to take me to Hurstbridge Farmer’s Market is less than ten minutes away from arrival at the train station across the road.

I drink up and leave.

Alice in Wonderland

There are some days when I feel much as Alice might have when she fell into that hole in the ground and found herself in an unfamiliar world.

As part of my serious work of assessing the various Eton Messes offered on menus around this town, today it was the turn of White Mojo.  I have had past problems finding addresses in Hardware Lane but today I am in luck. The café inside is packed and buzzing with conversation; it is noisy and I opt for sitting outside even though rain is threatening.

While I wait for my order to arrive I survey the scene outside.  It is like being in a foreign country without the expense and hassle of travelling, packing and spending a small fortune. At the next door table, queuing and waiting at the café across the street and later when I pay inside and look about at the patrons I realise that I am the white western minority.  This café is very popular with Asian people; mostly young, immaculately turned out, very well dressed couples, who may be visitors from overseas.  In this microcosm of Cup Day Melbourne I could be a foreigner in an Asian country.

 It comes as a surprise, sometimes, to realise how the face of this city has changed over the years I have lived here.   Today, for many of these people, all the hoo-ha attached to the day that stops the nation, the first Tuesday in November and the running of the Melbourne Cup, is not of the slightest interest.  They are more interested in sampling the food offerings in this fashionable part of town.

My Eton Mess arrives. A pink, gooey yoghurt with thin slabs of meringue, fresh and dried berries and a coconut concoction; it draws looks of wonder and enquiry from the Chinese family of three at the next table and I mime a response to their questioning looks.

The Mess is not the best I have eaten but if I don’t try it I won’t know will I?

Eton Mess - the breakfast version.

Managing the move

There’s nothing like the challenge of packing up and moving on to the next stage of the journey.

There’s nothing like this challenge to make you wish:

a)      You’d never left home

b)      The case you have should be twice the size

c)        Why the hell is it not possible to be like Dervla Murphy and travel with a notebook and six pencils and maybe a handgun to ward off evil-doers?

Of course it’s the much anticipated three weeks at sea that decided most of the contents of said suitcase.  And why on earth would I need a larger one when I can barely lift the one I have?

The dining room at the hotel was packed each morning and today I discovered the reason. A great variety of food, Western and Japanese and everything I tried was delicious.  With my possessions finally jammed into the case and backpack, I make a last minute excursion around the nearby streets where I made the discovery that a building I was certain would be a place of culture was nothing other than a pachinko parlour.  Shock!! Horror!!

I find these treasures growing in a narrow area beside a  tall building.

And then I find this - I can scarcely believe my eyes.  It's not one of my favourites.

And near the hotel, the back of a house where space is at a premium and plants are potted.

Finally, I stand on the station platform waiting for the shinkansen, my possessions gathered around me and the requisite bento box purchased and ready for lunchtime on the train. 

Settled into my seat with the case jammed into the space between my knees and the seat in front, I sit back to take in the passing scenery and demolish the contents of the bento box.  Most of the seats in this car were taken by Japanese business men, using the train time to catch up on lost sleep.

Not for them the wonder at the hoped for, but not expected, sight of Mt Fuji, which appeared as the train drew closer to Yokohama. Excitement!!   The remainder of the passing scenery was the usual mix of commercial, industrial and residential buildings with smaller areas of agricultural land, some of which appeared to be tea plantations. 

Mt Fuji

Shin Yokohama station was the setting for much walking back and forth, looking all about and sometimes walking in circles. I could have avoided all this if I had studied the train lines map more carefully. I was on the correct train when I left Shin Yokohama – I couldn’t get out the map to verify it while I was strap hanging and case-herding on the train. With a little bit of help from my friends, new found friends at ticket barriers and information boxes, I made it to Kannai station.

On the last leg; all I have to find is the Yokohama stadium, it’s huge and it must be nearby.   I’m rescued by a kind man, who no doubt thought if I didn’t stop spinning around in every direction in an effort to find a recognisable land-mark, I would fall to the ground.  Pointed in the right direction, I was soon walking by the stadium.  

Massed tulip beds near Yokohama Stadium

Alongside this huge building was a magnificent display of tulips, a sight to lift my drooping spirits.  Ever onwards and past a very inviting bar, where I could easily have paused and rested over two or ten beers.  At last, Osanbashi Pier and the ship and the formalities of checking in then opening the door to my home for the next three weeks.

What bliss, to thrown myself down on the bed and rest my weary legs and know I do not have to pull that goddam case anywhere for the next three weeks.

Going to lunch

Not just going to lunch, but going to breakfast too. Overreach if ever I saw it.

I’m down to the scraps in the frig. and food cupboard now, so going to breakfast this morning seemed like a good idea.

Maybe not.  I had forgotten that Sunday breakfast is supposed to be a relaxed laid back affair and the service in the café of my choice was just that, relaxed.

Happily before I placed my order I heard the waiter tell a couple seated nearby that the oven had turned itself off, which delayed their order. I abandoned any thought of a cooked breakfast and settled for muesli and a coffee.

At midday I met Pearlie Shirley and the Godchild and BoyJack in the city; there was a sudden and unexpected change of venue when we found I had chosen a place closed on Sunday.  How smart is that?

We adjourned to another cafe nearby; moved tables which annoyed the waitress and then once settled, enjoyed our meal.  BoyJack who is not always happy about leaving home to do boring adult stuff was on his very best behavior, much to his mother’s surprise, and ate, chatted and filled in his activities book – with a some help from the old girls.  The old girls just ate and chatted, we don’t need an activities book to amuse us.

A couple of items on the to-do list have been placed on the panic back-burner for tomorrow and a couple of others were solved this morning by finding useful items already on hand.

The list of Absolutely Essential Items (passport, plastic cards, kick-off cash, airline tickets, cruise tickets – to name but a few )  has been writ large in the Holiday Pack Book and will be stashed into the ever reliable and well-travelled blue and red day pack tomorrow.

It may look less than chic but I can fit a good deal into the pack and it leaves free hands to wrestle with tickets and passports and other documentation.

Ah well; less than 24 hours now until Uber-M arrives to chauffeur me to the airport.  

 Ample time for a complete nervous break-down and those oft repeated words “I really don’t know why I do this.  It’s just not worth it.”

World Press Photos

I discovered the WPPF awards by accident via rferl.org and I scrolled through to see what the judges had selected. Most of the awards went to photos depicting war casualties, conflict and displaced persons.

The World Press Photo Foundation fosters the development and work of photographers around the world engaged in many situations, including hotspots of trouble and conflict around the world.

 The contest website opens in December, closes in January and the results are announced in February.

From the 19 photographs, which received awards for 2015, I have chosen three which cover disaster, nature and refugees and these three are not nearly as confronting as many of the other award photographs.

This first photo was awarded third prize in the General News Stories category, the photographer is Daniel Berehulak and the image shows people searching through the rubble after the earthquake in Nepal.

When I look at this scene I see the destruction wrought by the earthquake, the piles of bricks and rubble; soldiers standing around, a man with a rake hoping to find something, scattered doors and splinters of timber spread about the area. Wreckage all around.  How utterly shattering for the people who must have once called those buildings home.

My second choice was awarded first prize in Stories in the General News category, won by Russian photographer, Sergei Ponomarev. His image, taken in October 2015, shows a Slovenian police officer  on horseback escorting migrants after they had crossed from Croatia.

In this photograph  the horse and rider are to the fore, the scene is one which might be in a rural setting. A man on his horse tending a flock, until closer inspection reveals the 'flock' as a mass of people, reduced to anonymity in the background. The anonymity of refugees, which can be transferred from the photograph to the consciousness in the minds of many people throughout the world.

My third choice moves away from disasters and displacement to a happier place. This image by Mexican photographer, Anuar Patjane, was awarded second prize Singles in the Nature category. It shows a humpback whale and its newborn calf off the coast of the Revillagigedo Islands

A marvellous photo. In the right of the photo are smaller marine inhabitants and to the left, strange robotic looking creatures.  Photographers, no less. Thanks to them, we are able to witness the wonders of the deep. 

Here are the complete list of awards; be warned, some of them are not a pretty sight.

Passing time in the library

Once I established the opening times for the local library, I spent some time there each day.

The library has two on line options; use the library computers or take the Android Tablet along and sit in my place of choice, usually near a window and then get on with checking emails or even following some of my blogs.  All of this is online business is a mystery to MyVeryBestFriendCarmel who is not the slightest bit interested in technology, apart from her Smart Phone.

As well as the online facilities there are the daily papers, magazines and any other reading matter that I fancy.  Kale features on the menu at MVBFC’s kitchen and I found two new recipes which didn’t make it to the kitchen because my time at the library was taken up on line.  She was not all impressed with my priorities. 

Apart from computers and reading material the library was also a source for people listening.  Sitting at my computer occasionally a voice would pierce my consciousness and I would stop to listen. One afternoon I wasted the best part of fifteen minutes tuned into an English tutorial.  I was fascinated; it was Year 12 VCE class all over again.  The tutor was discussing an essay a girl had written and she was being advised about the “Show, don’t tell” maxim.  The premise for her essay was a holiday in India and she had started off with a strong and colorful introduction which petered out into ‘telling’ in no time at all.  I sat listening to the advice and her responses and I really wanted to see the next draft.

   

Another voice that stopped my on line reverie one day was that of a young Down syndrome man who was laboriously reading a simple story from a book.  By his side sat a young woman who prompted him when he was lost for the word or quietly corrected him when he stumbled.  He read doggedly on for the best part of a half hour; I was as jubilant as he was when he read a whole page without a prompt or assistance of any kind.  What a triumph.

It was also a place for meeting people; one day the Godchild’s sister and her small boy appeared at my side. Her sister lives locally and it is long time since I last saw her; her son Mitch is a live-wire.  What a lad, never stuck for a word; a trait he might have inherited from his Dad…..

Libraries are indeed wonderful places.

the library

Golden opportunity

The Godchild came to visit today and this presented me with the golden opportunity to deliver the cards and chocolates to the hospital and allow me the great feeling of having accomplished another task.

The Godchild arrives with The Boy; he sits in the back, eyes glued to the mobile phone screen. It is colder today and the sky has a dull, even grey cover of cloud with sporadic spatters of rain on the windscreen.

We do not waste time when we arrive at the hospital; we pile out of the car and take the lift up to the ground floor, then down the concourse to the other lifts which to take us up to Ward Six. The Boy demonstrates his not inconsiderable skills regarding hand hygiene when we step out on the sixth floor; he puts me to shame, when I was a patient I hardly ever used it, in spite of the fact it is right in front of the lifts and has a big sign asking all visitors to use it.  However I am a visitor today, so I comply.

The nurse at the station takes the parcel and envelopes and assures me the card for Day Surgery will be forwarded through the internal mail system. 

Job done.

The Godchild, The Boy and I allow ourselves a treat to celebrate Mission Accomplished.  We take a detour to my café of choice in Bridge Road and I settle down to a chip-eating contest with The Boy.  He really puts my through my paces.

 What bad mannered, greedy pigs we are, as we race to the last chip in the dish