Work lunches

My sentiments exactly.

Photo by M. Have to ask her where.

The Power of Introverts

The Power of Introverts: Join the Quiet Revolution: Extracts from a Manifesto by Susan Cain

• Solitude is a catalyst for innovation.

• Everyone shines, given the right lighting. For some, it’s a Broadway spotlight, for others, a lamplit desk.

• Rule of thumb for networking events: one genuine new relationship is worth a fistful of business cards.

• It’s OK to cross the street to avoid making small talk.

• If the task of the first half of life is to put yourself out there, the task of the second half is to make sense of where you’ve been.

.

Distractions

 

Fast Rode the Knight

~ Stephen Crane

Fast rode the knight
With spurs, hot and reeking,
Ever waving an eager sword,
"To save my lady!"
Fast rode the knIght,
And leaped from saddle to war.
Men of steel flickered and gleamed
Like riot of silver lights,
And the gold of the knight's good banner
Still waved on a castle wall.

 

***

 

Gadzooks.  It's early morning and I have to prepare for a dental appointment before work. The process line of lunches needs attending to and a pair or two of soccer boots needs to be resurrected from the shed.  So I'm sitting here in front of the computer with a cup of coffee instead!  My photo challenge is not progressing but I aim to do a mega-catch-up again by the weekend.  The Strong Silent One is back in the saddle heading out to an office and carrying a brief case again after a four-month interlude.  Relief with an undertow of continued anxiety.  He is my knight and all will be well.  But uncertainty is not a good friend of mine.  Thankfully the weather is fabulous and the days are long so this takes my mind off things.  That, and the need for cut lunches and evening meals every day.  If only I could cook like What Katie Ate whose new book is in the bookstores and is seductively beautiful.  But I do not need another cookbook. That would simply be another glorious distraction and a denial of reality, which is more about macaroni and cheese and two-day old bread rolls.

Scavenging

Now, I fear I've descended into recording crummy iphone 3G photos and links to online articles I've read as a substitute for writing anything vaguely meaningful.  Perhaps this is a reflection of where I am at the moment.  Scavenging rather than creating anything original. I can't keep blaming the loss of my camera for my lack of inspiration.

So, what have we been doing?  It's school holidays and I have some time off. As usual, this means I'm ironing to episodes of The West Wing, writing lists, failing to take decisive action, trundling children to playdates and cooking scratch meals from whatever food is close to hand. Perhaps this explains the doldrums.  That, and the seasonal windy weather that always messes with my psyche.

Every-one seems to be spring-cleaning or de-cluttering as it is now called and I've hopped on that bandwagon in casual, somewhat indecisive way.  There are three bags of clothes and miscellanea in the garage waiting to be deposited at the Salvation Army depot in Fyshwick, numerous items to flog off on the work bulletin board and piles of children's art work to be scanned and catalogued possibly for uploading into a fancy digital scrap book if I can find the time.  Not too bad if they actually make it out of the house.

So anyway ... here are a few of the things I've been picking through in the virtual recycle bin that is social media.

Hope for those who find it hard to justify 'non-productive' time.

A short TED-Ed video clip about using Plain English.

A New Zealand - South American (?) children's book series Saffron and Sage with sweet illustrations reminiscent of Lola and Charlie.

 

The language of emoticons translated.

 

Nine common sense parenting strategies.

Will these links still work in years to come, d'you think?

Endurance

Love this excerpt from today's email from The Writer's Almanac.  There's hope for the plodders amongst us and inspiration for the chidlren's 'Talk Time' at school.

Churchill wrote all of his own speeches, and he was a gifted orator, but people thought that his vocabulary and style of speaking were old-fashioned. But after the beginning of World War II, Churchill's dramatic rhetoric fit the mood of the country.

His father, Lord Randolph Churchill, served in the Parliament and was a talented debater, famous for making spontaneous speeches. Winston, on the other hand, labored over every speech. He brainstormed, researched, planned out the speech in his head, then dictated it aloud to his secretary. From there, he revised it several times and typed it up in what he called "psalm form." His speeches looked like blank verse poetry on the page, so that the rhythm and pauses were laid out just how he wanted them. Before Churchill delivered a speech, he would practice over and over, sometimes in the bathtub.

We appear to be gearing up for the end of soccer season with parties planned in the park and the prospect of reclaiming our Saturdays in summer.  Last weekend I stood in the blistering cold wind on an oval in outer Kaleen to watch the U12 girls play.  It was agonising as I was completely under-dressed for the weather conditions and even resorted to wearing a stretchy child-sized pair of gloves I found in the bottom of the sports bag.  Complete with puppet fingers.  No Winston Churchill on the field.  Head was aching by the end and I was glad we'd also packed some cinnamon donuts and apples for sustenance.

Rainbow steps

Rainbow toes for Annie.  

A wander around the Australian Institute of Sport Swim School.

Thinking about life. 

One step at a time.

Reflecting about what is important. 

Decisions.  Hopes.

Childhood.  Aging. 

Constancy.  Change.
Self.  Others.  Friends. Strangers.

Having it all plus the laundry

Life is mostly froth and bubble,

Two things stand like stone,

Kindness in another's trouble,

Courage in your own.

***

Here I am, emerging from that strange other world which revolves mechanically around cut lunches, soaking socks, supervised music lessons (I use that term loosely, as I listen and shout encouragement from another room while stirring white sauce), Year Two Home Readers, water balloon games, unwrapped birthday presents, wiped food spills and overdue library books.  That is just my spare time. The bulk of the day is spent in the Big Open Plan Office reading and writing stuff of serious bureaucratic importance.  In addition to which, my work is entirely conducted in front of a computer screen.  In the remaining shreds of time at the day's end, therefore, I have hardly the energy to sit in front of computer even for leisure.  So this space if often neglected.

Lots of other women in this city juggle making or administering public policy with changing the sheets and pressing school uniforms. Most of my friends and colleagues are on the same mouse wheel. Sometimes I wonder if the hard-fought-for gains of the feminist movement weren't a little skewed.  It takes an exceptional person and lots of outsourcing of domestic tasks to keep a family afloat with two parents working outside the home.  Plus good parking or a fast commuter system.  I don't think you can really 'have it all'.  But the childcare industry, and a fear of not being able to exercise choice over essential items like health and education, creates an environment where we think we can, and possibly should 'have it all'. 

I read a ministerial press release today about measures to increase the standards of childcare in Australia.  It was citing the introduction of improved carer-to-child ratios and enhanced minimum training for childcare workers as huge advancements.  Indeed they may be.  But a small quiet voice in my head still thought that the care of children is best undertaken by a parent at home for the bulk of the time and that we have created an artificial industry out of Children's Services.   This is an issue I wrestle with daily. 

What do I tell my daughters and son as they work out their own careers? Am I doing the right thing? Is this a good example? Will I look back with regret at my efforts to 'have it all'?



Verse: Adam Lindsay Gordon, Ye Wearie Wayfarer

Images: Single quilt covers.  Laundry.

Now and Then

As from the house your mother sees

You playing round the garden trees,

So you may see, if you will look

Through the windows of this book,

Another child, far, far away,

And in another garden, play.

But do not think you can at all,

By knocking on the window, call

That child to hear you. He intent

Is all on his play-business bent.

He does not hear, he will not look,

Nor yet be lured out of this book.

For, long ago, the truth to say,

He has grown up and gone away,

And it is but a child of air

That lingers in the garden there.

Robert Louis Stevenson

***

So true, my  precious little ones.  The days are long but the years are short.  We watched some of the SBS program, Who Do You Think You Are, tonight.  It's become a bit of a favourite in our house when we manage to catch it. My, what facinating stories they unearth and how it affects people to learn about the struggles of their forebears. Tears well up as the subjects are reconciled with the past and the jigsaw puzzle pieces of their heritage connect.  Some tough lives has been lived. Don't I know this more than most coming from tough Anglo-German-Swedish migrant stock. It taken many generations for my lineage to be able experience the opportunities my children currently enjoy. It's really a gift to know this.  I reflect on it often.

Maroc in the Mail

She very much liked Marrakech, its easy feel, the quality of its light, its pinkish earth and rose-coloured walls. In Fez life seemed concentrated and intense, contained beneath and within the jagged mountains enclosing the city. The mountains seems to turn Fez in on itself...

Extract from Larabi's Ox, by Tony Ardizzone

***

Guess what came in the mail the other day?  The boys' member's pass and 2012 season tickets to the Brumbies rubgy team matches and a post card from Morocco!  Every-one was doing cartwheels.  Me especially.  The card was from the 'awesome' (as we say around here, or 'epic'), and peripatetic, Jeanne from Collage of Life.   Frankly the post card easily pipped the Brumbies.  Every-one ooh-ed and ahh-ed and marvelled that this virtual friend from across the oceans should send something tangible in the mail.   Thanks a bunch Jeanne  *waving*.  I can hear the soundtrack to The Sheltering Sky in the background; it's a wonderful piano piece by Ryuichi Sakamoto.  It also reminds me that I must read the book. 

Fanciwork

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

{WB Yeats}

Crotcheted Milk Jug Cover

Souvenir Handkerchief

Jaunty Printed Tablecloth

Hand embroidered tableclothes

***

I have all of both my grandmothers' and a great aunt's fanciwork as well as a small collection of retro homewares which belonged to my mother.  I'm glad I've held onto them.  I'm too sentimental to dispose of them in a rush of decluttering but I've no idea what to do with multiple embroidered duchess sets (one large doily and two smaller ones for a lady's vanity table), masses of edged handkerchiefs and assorted tablecloths in a riot of glorious patterns which do not fit any our tables. 

As I am an aspirational rather than practical crafter, I am resisting the temptation to turn the hankies into bunting or make a curtain out of crotcheted doilies or lay an artful table using mismatched tablecloths placed on the diagonal.  It would not end well.  Thankfully as I work full-time, I can't indulge in such whimsy.  This is, as the SSO* would attest, one of the advantages of my being at work.  There's no getting caught up in fanciful domestic projects. I'm sure I would get better with practice.  'I only need time', she says, thinking of the unfinished baby birth sampler for the first-born (which I am aiming to complete for her 21st birthday!). 

I am thoroughly enjoying this final week off nonetheless; pottering to my heart's content, sorting, arranging and planning up to the end of term one on 13 April, interspersed with baking, ironing and abundant free time on the computer (for research and inspiration, you'll understand).    

The modem is my sewing basket.

* Strong, Silent One (Husband)

Poem by WB Yeats.

Of geraniums (red) and delphiniums (blue)

The Dormouse and the Doctor

~ A. A. Milne

There once was a Dormouse who lived in a bed
Of delphiniums (blue) and geraniums (red),
And all the day long he'd a wonderful view
Of geraniums (red) and delphiniums (blue).

A Doctor came hurrying round, and he said:
"Tut-tut, I am sorry to find you in bed.
Just say 'Ninety-nine' while I look at your chest....
Don't you find that chrysanthemums answer the best?"

The Dormouse looked round at the view and replied
(When he'd said "Ninety-nine") that he'd tried and he'd tried,
And much the most answering things that he knew
Were geraniums (red) and delphiniums (blue).

The Doctor stood frowning and shaking his head,
And he took up his shiny silk hat as he said:
"What the patient requires is a change," and he went
To see some chrysanthemum people in Kent.

The Dormouse lay there, and he gazed at the view
Of geraniums (red) and delphiniums (blue),
And he knew there was nothing he wanted instead
Of delphiniums (blue) and geraniums (red).

The Doctor came back and, to show what he meant,
He had brought some chrysanthemum cuttings from Kent.
"Now these," he remarked, "give a much better view
Than geraniums (red) and delphiniums (blue)."

They took out their spades and they dug up the bed
Of delphiniums (blue) and geraniums (red),
And they planted chrysanthemums (yellow and white).
"And now," said the Doctor, "we'll soon have you right."

The Dormouse looked out, and he said with a sigh:
"I suppose all these people know better than I.
It was silly, perhaps, but I did like the view
Of geraniums (red) and delphiniums (blue)."

The Doctor came round and examined his chest,
And ordered him Nourishment, Tonics, and Rest.
"How very effective," he said, as he shook
The thermometer, "all these chrysanthemums look!"

The Dormouse turned over to shut out the sight
Of the endless chrysanthemums (yellow and white).
"How lovely," he thought, "to be back in a bed
Of delphiniums (blue) and geraniums (red.)"

The Doctor said, "Tut! It's another attack!"
And ordered him Milk and Massage-of-the-back,
And Freedom-from-worry and Drives-in-a-car,
And murmured, "How sweet your chrysanthemums are!"

The Dormouse lay there with his paws to his eyes,
And imagined himself such a pleasant surprise:
"I'll pretend the chrysanthemums turn to a bed
Of delphiniums (blue) and geraniums (red)!"

The Doctor next morning was rubbing his hands,
And saying, "There's nobody quite understands
These cases as I do! The cure has begun!
How fresh the chrysanthemums look in the sun!"

The Dormouse lay happy, his eyes were so tight
He could see no chrysanthemums, yellow or white.
And all that he felt at the back of his head
Were delphiniums (blue) and geraniums (red).

And that is the reason (Aunt Emily said)
If a Dormouse gets in a chrysanthemum bed,
You will find (so Aunt Emily says) that he lies
Fast asleep on his front with his paws to his eyes.

***

I've just had a rather confronting round of doctor's appointments over the past four months for what was, as it turns out, a relatively minor condition which Mother Nature seems to have taken care of by herself.   While I am extremely relieved, the experience has taught me great respect for those who don't get off so lightly.  Honestly, I don't know how I would have coped with grim news.   What with the long wait to get an appointment with private specialists, the rising anxiety, the sober waiting rooms and the total submission into the hands of strangers, it would have been overwhelming to have received a more sinister diagnosis.  

And the medical fraternity don't offer to make their investigations a pleasant consumer experiences for the price they charge.  (Except for a charming new radiology practice in Kingston which is spacious and modern with extremely capable and sympathetic technicians -- a veritable haven, a day spa by comparison. I would recommend it if you need these services.) After my recent experience, there's much feedback I could offer the Royal Colleges on effective doctor-patient interaction, waiting room aesthetics and the benefits of electronic record-keeping and direct lodgment of Medicare forms.   Pity privatised medicine isn't high-end retail.   I'm sure we could strike a better deal.   Perhaps it's the male dominance.  For now however, I'm treasuring good health and counting my blessings. 

 

 

 

Creative Collections

Pied Things

~ Gerald Manly Hopkins

Glory be, glory be, glory be to God for dappled things
Glory be, glory be, glory be to God for dappled things —
For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Glory be, glory be, glory be to God for dappled things

Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches' wings;
Landscape plotted and pieced — fold, fallow, and plough;
And all trades, their gear and tackle and trim.
And all things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
Praise him.

*** Little Miss M. is practicing styling on her dresser complete with rocks or rather a pile of builders' rubble amidst the girly trinkets.  She's quite a bower bird and makes shrines out of her found objects. But I don't know how she managed to smuggle this lot of rocks in.  I'll regularly find wrappers, pebbles, sticks, flowers and Shrinky Dinks* in her pockets and at the bottom of her school bag.. and then have to discreetly dispose of items.  Unless she catches me, then all hell breaks loose.

Right now she's making Beados** so that will be more creative material to add the installation art.

* Trade name of a children's craft kit which appears to involve drawing etched designs on lethally sharp pieces of a material designed by NASA.   Usually the by-product of After-School Hours Care or Holiday Programs.

** Tradename of a children's craft kit which involves the decorative placement of tiny coloured balls which adhere to each other when wet.  Falls apart easily and stray balls can be found for months later in strange places. 

Both need to be recalled in the interests of parental sanity... along with the dreaded Hama Beads.

A meditation on the sea

In my Kitchen in New York

~ Allen Ginsberg

Bend knees, shift weight

Picasso's blue deathhead self portrait

tacked on refrigerator door

This is the only space in the apartment

big enough to do t'ai chi

Straighten right foot and rise--I wonder

if I should have set aside that garbage

pail

Raise up my hands and bring them back to

shoulders--The towels and pyjama

laundry's hanging on a rope in the hall

Push down and grasp the sparrow's tail

Those paper boxes of grocery bags are

blocking the closed door

Turn north--I should hang up all

those pots on the stovetop

Am I holding the world right? That

Hopi picture on the wall shows

rain and lightning bolt

Turn right again--thru the door, God

my office space is a mess of

pictures and unanswered letters

Left on my hips--Thank God Arthur Rimbaud's

watching me from over the sink

Single whip--piano's in the room, well

Steven and Maria finally'll move to their

own apartment next week! His pants're

still here and Julius in his bed

This gesture's the opposite of St. Francis

in Ecstasy by Bellini--hands

down for me

I better concentrate on what I'm doing

weight in belly, move by hips

No, that was the single whip--that apron's

hanging on the North wall a year

I haven't used it once

Except to wipe my hands--the Crane

spreads its wings have I paid

the electric bill?

Playing the guitar do I have enough $

to leave the rent paid while I'm

in China?

Brush knee--that was good

halavah, pounded sesame seed,

in the icebox a week

Withdraw and push--I should

get a loft or giant living room

The land speculators bought up all

the square feet in Manhattan,

beginning with the Indians

Cross hands--I should write

a letter to the Times saying

it's unethical

Come to rest hands down knees

straight--I wonder how

my liver's doing. O.K. I guess

tonite, I quit smoking last

week. I wonder if they'll blow

up an H Bomb? Probably not.

***

Actually, this is tai chi, Karate Kid-style, on a quiet road in a sleepy outpost by the south coast of New South Wales.  The photo was taken months ago when we last had a weekend away. I can't tell you how much I miss the beach, stuck here, land-locked on a warm, bright and cloudless day. I can hear the bush birds call from my vantage point in bed looking out across the treetops.  If only the ocean was on the other side.  We could go for a morning walk along the shore, eye the horizon and inhale the tangy air.  But it's the start of the cricket season and the first match begins today.  The boys have headed off early, faces glowing with sunscreen. The girls and I are lolling about, doing our own thing.  There's no milk.  The thought of Monday has already inserted itself into the lazy morning and dictated the chores that need to be completed before sundown. It seems like a harsh, unnatural rhythm; unlike the ebb and flow of the tide.  Pesky practicalities intruding on a meditation. 

October School Holidays: Howzat!

Twice a Week the Winter Thorough

~ A. E. Housman

Twice a week the winter thorough

Here stood I to keep the goal:

Football then was fighting sorrow

For the young man's soul.

Now in Maytime to the wicket

Out I march with bat and pad:

See the son of grief at cricket

Trying to be glad.

Try I will; no harm in trying:

Wonder 'tis how little mirth

Keeps the bones of man from lying

On the bed of earth.

***

School holidays are almost over and we've had a relaxing time at home for most of it.  Ro-Ro participated in the Kookaburra Cup cricket series at Manuka Oval and a separate, junior cricket clinic.  He's come home with two decent cricket hats signed by Ricking Ponting, two souvenir shirts made of a synthetic, breeze-through material, $10 off voucher from the Sportmans Warehouse and a couple of ornamental cricket ball key rings as part of the kit.  I hope he also picked up some decent cricket skills. 

The rest of us have enjoyed a semi-open house arrangement with the neighbouring children which has involved lots of competitive DS and Wizard 101 tournaments, zipping over the lower part of the fence at the back of the yard to bounce on our respective trampolines and probably eating twice as many snacks as strictly necessary as they blithely saunter into each other's kitchens and raid the pantry.

I've been cooking up a storm myself in order to use up left overs.  Rather like the daytime TV show which involves a chef and a member of the studio audience having to devise a menu around a handful of ingredients, this has resulted in some unexpected creations such as almond friands from "out of the fire and into the frying pan" - a collection of recipes from the Duffy Primary School community and friends - October 2003, Nigella Lawson's Mughlai Chicken and Susan Duncan's "House at Salvation Creek" Lemon Cake.   The results have been varied.  I blame the oven.  It has been fun trying though, without the pressure which normally accompanies the after school and work, weekday rush.  I could so get used to this more moderate tempo, in which I can hear and listen to bird calls and notice the flowering azaleas and lavender in the garden, rather than leave it all behind each morning unnoticed and unappreciated in a workday blur.  Would I miss work?

Ladies in Lavender Silk

The Little Old Lady In Lavender Silk

~ Dorothy Parker 1931

I was seventy-seven, come August,

I shall shortly be losing my bloom;

I’ve experienced zephyr and raw gust

And (symbolical) flood and simoom.

When you come to this time of abatement,

To this passing from Summer to Fall,

It is manners to issue a statement

As to what you got out of it all.

So I’ll say, though reflection unnerves me

And pronouncements I dodge as I can,

That I think (if my memory serves me)

There was nothing more fun than a man!

In my youth, when the crescent was too wan

To embarrass with beams from above,

By the aid of some local Don Juan

I fell into the habit of love.

And I learned how to kiss and be merry—an

Education left better unsung.

My neglect of the waters Pierian

Was a scandal, when Grandma was young.

Though the shabby unbalanced the splendid,

And the bitter outmeasured the sweet,

I should certainly do as I then did,

Were I given the chance to repeat.

For contrition is hollow and wraithful,

And regret is no part of my plan,

And I think (if my memory’s faithful)

There was nothing more fun than a man!

***

 
I blushed when I was mentioned by Jeanne of Collage of Life in one of her Blog Love posts long, long ago.  In typically generous form, Jeanne initiated this concept to introduce readers to new sites and to provide encouragement to every-day blogspeople like myself who chronicle ordinary events from our little corner of the world.  The idea was to spread the word about our own favourite bloggers and those who have supported and influenced us.

On my list are folk who have legions of adoring fans and certainly don't need my help to raise their profile, but I mention them because they have influenced me in small, but significant ways - making me look at life a little differently, appreciate the small details of family life and igniting a long dormant creative spark.  

So here we go:

Distracted by Shiny Objects from A Tidings of Magpies -- who started it all for me through her poetry and reflections of life as a critical care nurse from Cincinnati.

Jo from A Cup of Jo -- who doesn't love Jo, Alex and Toby? OK, I'll go the back of the queue.

Kerry from A Tranquil Townhouse  -- extra special as she's from my town, knows my beat and always writes humorous and uplifting posts. Wise and wonderful. 

Tania McCartney  -- gasp!  So clever, crafty, energetic and stylish. Also from my town which is extra spesh.  In awe, I am.  Always.

A-M from The House that AM Built  -- love that Cape Cod/French Provincial/industrial decorating style and deeply moved by her ability to rise above personal travail.

Millie from The Laurel Hedge  -- mixes thoughts about her work, decorating and life with MOTH and five (FIVE!) sons

Meredy from Count it All Joy -- warm, honest insights into bringing up a large brood, with a spiritual touch. Responsible for my attempting a rainbow cake; not as good as her signature creation, but baked to an impressive height nonetheless.

Sharon from my french country home -- what a life, what a romantic story of her move to France.  Knows her way around French linen and lace, including granny's ancien bloomers and night attire, like no-one else.

Miss Parker might have though men were fun, but, by golly, these women, plus all the other gorgeous gals over there on the side bar {waving}, sure know how to enjoy life.   I don't have time these days to catch up on every one daily, but when I do gorge on multiple posts in the one sitting, it's always enthralling to see what everyone has been up to.  It's one of the wonders of modern technology that we can connect this way; scribble our thoughts or paste a photograph and reach more readers in faraway places than Ms Parker would have ever dreamed.

It's all fiction

A Poem, on the Supposition of an Advertisement Appearing in a Morning Paper, of the Publication of a Volume of Poems, by a Servant-Maid

~ Elizabeth Hands 1746–1815

The tea-kettle bubbled, the tea things were set,

The candles were lighted, the ladies were met;

The how d’ye’s were over, and entering bustle,

The company seated, and silks ceased to rustle:

The great Mrs. Consequence opened her fan,

And thus the discourse in an instant began

(All affected reserve and formality scorning):

“I suppose you all saw in the paper this morning

A volume of Poems advertised—’tis said

They’re produced by the pen of a poor servant-maid.”

“A servant write verses!” says Madam Du Bloom:

“Pray what is the subjectd—a Mop, or a Broom?”

“He, he, he,” says Miss Flounce: “I suppose we shall see

An ode on a Dishclout—what else can it be?”

Says Miss Coquettilla, “Why, ladies, so tart?

Perhaps Tom the footman has fired her heart;

And she’ll tell us how charming he looks in new clothes,

And how nimble his hand moves in brushing the shoes;

Or how, the last time that he went to May Fair,

He bought her some sweethearts of gingerbread ware.”

“For my part I think,” says old Lady Marr-joy,

“A servant might find herself other employ:

Was she mine I’d employ her as long as ’twas light,

And send her to bed without candle at night.”

“Why so?” says Miss Rhymer, displeased: “I protest

’Tis pity a genius should be so depressed!”

“What ideas can such low-bred creatures conceive?”

Says Mrs. Noworthy, and laughed in her sleeve.

Says old Miss Prudella, “If servants can tell

How to write to their mothers, to say they are well,

And read of a Sunday The Duty of Man,

Which is more I believe than one half of them can;

I think ’tis much properer they should rest there,

Than be reaching at things so much out of their sphere.”

Says old Mrs. Candour, “I’ve now got a maid

That’s the plague of my life—a young gossiping jade;

There’s no end of the people that after her come,

And whenever I’m out, she is never at home;

I’d rather ten times she would sit down and write,

Than gossip all over the town every night.”

“Some whimsical trollop most like,” says Miss Prim,

“Has been scribbling of nonsense, just out of a whim,

And, conscious it neither is witty nor pretty,

Conceals her true name, and ascribes it to Betty.”

“I once had a servant myself,” says Miss Pines,

“That wrote on a wedding some very good lines.”

Says Mrs. Domestic, “And when they were done,

I can’t see for my part what use they were on;

Had she wrote a receipt, to’ve instructed you how

To warm a cold breast of veal, like a ragout,

Or to make cowslip wine, that would pass for Champagne,

It might have been useful, again and again.”

On the sofa was old Lady Pedigree placed;

She owned that for poetry she had no taste,

That the study of heraldry was more in fashion,

And boasted she knew all the crests in the nation.

Says Mrs. Routella, “Tom, take out the urn,

And stir up the fire, you see it don’t burn.”

The tea-things removed, and the tea-table gone,

The card-tables brought, and the cards laid thereon,

The ladies, ambitious for each other’s crown,

Like courtiers contending for honours, sat down.

Source: The Longman Anthology of Poetry (2006)

***

Rather predictably, I'm thoroughly enjoying "Downton Abbey" on a Sunday night after having worked my way through most of the BBC adaptations of Jane Austen during recent bouts of the flu.   I do love a good costume drama and the rustle of a bustle.  The most exquisite Austen film in my view is the Sense and Sensibility TV series of 2008 starring the outstanding Hattie Morahan as my alter-ego Elinor Dashwood and Dan Stevens as Edward Ferrars (wilt). It far surpasses the Ang Lee movie of 1995 with its glutinous cast.

Notwithstanding these personal preferences, I can always make space for family viewings of Glee (slightly advanced social references for my lot but, hey, the music is fabulous) and Doc Martin, but not rugby replays or historical documentaries.  It's definitely got to be fiction over fact.

Which brings me to the passing of Godfrey Philipp, producer of the classic 1960s children's television series, Adventure Island, which both my darling mother and I adored.  We hummed the songs and parrotted back to each other the closing lines whenever we parted.

It's time to say Goodbye, Goodbye, it's sad but time's the reason why…

Think of us, a little bit, 'cause we'll be thinking of you...


So 'til we meet again, be good, do all you can that's right

and we'll be back to see you same time tomorrow night.

Photos: (Top) Australian Mint, Canberra June 2011 and (bottom) http://bethspencer.com/blog/

Large lobsters and foreigners

Goody for Our Side and Your Side Too

~ Ogden Nash

Foreigners are people somewhere else,

Natives are people at home;

If the place you’re at

Is your habitat,

You’re a foreigner, say in Rome.

But the scales of Justice balance true,

And tit leads into tat,

So the man who’s at home

When he stays in Rome

Is abroad when he’s where you’re at.

When we leave the limits of the land in which

Our birth certificates sat us,

It does not mean

Just a change of scene,

But also a change of status.

The Frenchman with his fetching beard,

The Scot with his kilt and sporran,

One moment he

May a native be,

And the next may find him foreign.

There’s many a difference quickly found

Between the different races,

But the only essential

Differential

Is living different places.

Yet such is the pride of prideful man,

From Austrians to Australians,

That wherever he is,

He regards as his,

And the natives there, as aliens.

Oh, I’ll be friends if you’ll be friends,

The foreigner tells the native,

And we’ll work together for our common ends

Like a preposition and a dative.

If our common ends seem mostly mine,

Why not, you ignorant foreigner?

And the native replies

Contrariwise;

And hence, my dears, the coroner.

So mind your manners when a native, please,

And doubly when you visit

And between us all

A rapport may fall

Ecstatically exquisite.

One simple thought, if you have it pat,

Will eliminate the coroner:

You may be a native in your habitat,

But to foreigners you’re just a foreigner.

I know I'm running with the wrong tribe in this blogging game.  Here I am, obsessed with craft and SAHM sites, when I neither quilt nor home-school.  I swoon over design, shelter and interior blogs but can't work out furniture placement or window dressing in my own house and I find restoration projects a complete and utter drag.  I have no time to write or research eloquent and informative pieces on history or emerging technology, or to reflect on my meetings with fascinating people.  I have no useful information to impart. I don't sell anything.  I'm not passionate about organic produce.  I don't grow things, except guerilla parsley in the front garden that no-one eats.  I suspect I have an embarassingly large carbon foot-print (but I'm too scared to look down and measure it).  I'm not fond of second-hand books, clothes, bric a brac or furniture.

In short, I'm really an imposter. 

A foreigner in the virtual land I inhabit. 

Sticking out like a giant lobster on the Princes Highway. 

I do try to mind my manners though.  I appreciate the diversity.  I have learnt plenty from reading about others niche interests.  I bought some Danish Oil the other day and I've started wearing bangles.

But where, oh where, are the other blogging mothers in full-time paid employment dealing with BIG issues who enjoy silly and sober poetry, take amateur photos on a compact camera  and spend  ALL their limited free time keeping house, shopping in big supermarkets, cooking standard nursery meals and driving children about between parties, playdates and clubs?  Where are yoooouu fellow lobsters?



Image: The big (17 metre) lobster at Kingston, South Australia.  The great Summer 2010-11 road trip.