tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-215723212024-03-07T01:26:27.274-08:00The Hobart ChroniclesMiss Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06625127146984448283noreply@blogger.comBlogger55125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21572321.post-47716871348782772692008-06-22T22:39:00.000-07:002008-06-23T21:52:10.867-07:00The Hobart Chronicles XXXVIII: Off To See The WizardOk, I've finally made my mind up. Thank you for your help and suggestions - it was a hard decision.<br /><br /><a href="http://redsultana.com/">Cellobella</a>'s suggestion, <em>A Capital Idea</em> was sharp and pithy - an absolute joy, and far too witty for me. You'll have to cast your pearls before a better class of swine, Cellobella!<br /><br />I liked <a href="http://hobartdaily.com/">Greg</a>'s <em>A Long Way From The Beach</em>, but it had too many end-of-the-the-world, Neville Shute connotations. Damian's <em>West of Sydney, North of Melbourne </em>had legs for a while, but the sub-editor streak in me agreed it was too long. Garry's bad <em>Can'tBerrit</em> pun was good - I've also heard and enjoyed <em>Can'tBerra</em>. It was better than Mollong,... Molung,... Mlong... that electorate I can't spell. <br /><br />Other inside knowledge was appreciated, including <a href="http://jamesobrien.id.au/">James</a>'s recollection that the area was once known as the Limestone Plains, and Lemmiwinks's musings about Woden Valley hospital were amusing in a Schadenfreude sort of way.<br /><br />And <a href="http://davefromalbury.wordpress.com/">Dave From Albury</a>, thanks fer nuthin. You rock.<br /><br />In the end I incorporated ADM's suggestion of circles, and shortened Can'tBerra to The Berra - think of Kenneth Cook, and his 'Bundanyabba' as 'The Yabba'. And Damian, <em>Lord of the Rings </em>made me think (perversely) of the <em>Wizard of Oz</em>. So here you have it:<br /><br />The <a href="http://berracircular.wordpress.com/">Berra Circular</a>, adventures in the National Capital of Oz.<br /><br />See you there.Miss Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06625127146984448283noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21572321.post-47378408013095890352008-05-18T05:17:00.000-07:002008-11-15T02:17:01.013-08:00The Hobart Chronicles XXXVII: So long, farewell<strong><blockquote>The lights of Devonport are fading<br />- Weddings Parties Anything, <em>Riveresque</em>, 1997</blockquote></strong><br />Hasta la vista, hasta manana til we meet again... so many movies and songs, and I can't remember the last line of the Weddos song that actually deals with sailing away from Devonport. I'll fix it later.<br /><br />Since finishing work a week ago, it's been a strange, nostalgic week of doing-things-for-the-last-time. Last fish and chips from a punt at Constitution Dock. Last coffee and breakfast at Tricycle. Last beer at the Republic. Last sourdough loaf from Salamanca Market. Last visit to South Hobart Vinnies, the Hobart Mission and Hello Gorgeous. You know what I mean. I'll be coming back, but when you're a visitor it's different.<br /><br />I finally abandoned the futile (and token) attempts to pack and on Friday drove away to catch the ferry. For non-Tasnarnians, you may be surprised to learn that Devonport, where the Spirit of Tasmania berths, is at quite the other end of the state to Slobart, and thus necessitates a road trip of significant distance and hours for the average Tasnarnian. It was a strange, hazy-shade-of-winter day, a combination of mild still weather and everyone from Forestry to local gardeners burning off (just the sort of thing mainlanders used to do thirty years ago) and the resultant glare made driving uncomfortable. It also buggered with the usually beautiful views Tasnarnia is so famous for, which was a bit disappointing on this my last trip up the highway.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixakCjqrGVGcA23D2eIzFPX0nM3R_I82rfAfCVerhKlOTqgIZERWyZWi2JO-QEVC0PgE432xr-nZCox46FPylFQZT1IUiLQhp8P4wIt885bKS6FIQBYk8q_oQQnctwzdqoonTKiw/s1600-h/Spirit+of+Tas.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixakCjqrGVGcA23D2eIzFPX0nM3R_I82rfAfCVerhKlOTqgIZERWyZWi2JO-QEVC0PgE432xr-nZCox46FPylFQZT1IUiLQhp8P4wIt885bKS6FIQBYk8q_oQQnctwzdqoonTKiw/s200/Spirit+of+Tas.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5201701577681544674" /></a>There in Devonport the Spirit of Tasmania loomed large on the Mersey. I find any travel exciting and boat trips thrilling, so the sight of the ferry fed my anticipation. It compensated for the disappointing lack of cullinary options presenting themselves there in town. At least this stunning view was available from the McDonalds carpark.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAPu6J3uiFFyyY1yzuff-PfmnOD9bFkuUiHCdQ4q9Sq26pWCvOE12P5MKvpLOtkfVzQN28kr77O1hq1CMC61SKbEYtLyFmpQPzI1CCBF6Ku-MtdDHv9pJmazklwBnncV00KrdRww/s1600-h/Volvo.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAPu6J3uiFFyyY1yzuff-PfmnOD9bFkuUiHCdQ4q9Sq26pWCvOE12P5MKvpLOtkfVzQN28kr77O1hq1CMC61SKbEYtLyFmpQPzI1CCBF6Ku-MtdDHv9pJmazklwBnncV00KrdRww/s200/Volvo.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5201701581976511986" /></a>When boarding the trusty old Volvo onto the ferry, I was instructed to go to a vehicle area in the lower hold, and parked as directed. The traffic controller smirked as I pulled up, "Not bad for a Volvo driver!" Har har. After all, it was a VERY big space I'd been assigned. I got out and that's when it dawned on me: every other vehicle in that hold was a very large 4WD, a 1-tonne ute or a commercial van. There was just one ordinary car - mine. The size difference was profound. Evidently they were allowing me significant leeway - just in case.<br /><br />The trip was pleasant, and the 30 knot winds didn't create undue swell. Watching the lights of Devonport fade was sad, and I stayed outside for as long as I could until I got sick of the wind forcing my hair into my mouth and the occasional sting of sleet, and went inside for a glass of wine.<br /><br />Arrival in Melbum yesterday morning was heralded with grey skies and precipitation, a typical weather welcome except that it hasn't been in these drought years. The 30mm rainfall was trumpeted in news bulletins and papers around the state as a welcome turn of the weather, and I had to remember how to drive in the rain.<br /><br />I've spent a quiet weekend under paternal care (food, and lots of it) and tomorrow head north, for Our National Capital. <br /><br />Keep those suggestions for new titles coming.Miss Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06625127146984448283noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21572321.post-19058829174526346012008-05-04T23:15:00.000-07:002008-05-04T23:25:45.988-07:00The Hobart Chronicles: IntervalThere was movement at the station, for the word had got around<br />That the dolt, with some regrets, will get away...<br /><br />Yeah, I know it's bad to mangle Banjo, and that counts as pretty bad mangling even by the lowest standards.<br /><br />It does signify, however, that this columnist is about to quit Tasnarnia for the even less balmy climes of Canberra.<br /><br />The pertinent question has already been posed: will The Hobart Chronicles have to change its name? Well duh, that would be <em>yes</em>. After all, in 2 weeks it won't be chronicling Hobart at all, will it?<br /><br />What I want from YOU is your witty, pertinent suggestion for what this thing should be renamed. I've had visions of terrible alternatives like "A Dip In Lake Curly-Gherkin", or boring ideas like "Notes From The Grassy Knoll". <br /><br />Please help. You must be more imaginative than this.Miss Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06625127146984448283noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21572321.post-7573963019326521242008-04-27T07:06:00.000-07:002008-11-15T02:17:01.369-08:00The Hobart Chronicles XXXVI: Beautiful People<blockquote><span style="font-weight:bold;">Beautiful people<br />They haven't really much to say<br />- Australian Crawl, <span style="font-style:italic;">Beautiful People</span>, 1980</blockquote><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><blockquote>What a performance<br />What a cheap tent show<br />- Australian Crawl, <span style="font-style:italic;">The Boys Light Up</span>, 1980</span></blockquote></span><br />There is something both satisfying and disturbing about having a set of inner - and irrational - prejudices confirmed as true.<br /><br />I've decamped from Slobart temporarily, to make a flying visit to the Gold Coast for a friend's wedding* (and to try to forget that on Tuesday I have six outdoor broadcasts. As you can see, that bit didn't work.)<br /><br />Anyway, it's been roughly a decade since I was last at the Gold Coast, and really I don't remember a lot about that trip except that the place seemed to be as hideous as any black-clad Melbournite might expect. (And I ended up having to ditch the 5-star accommodation for a hospital - but that's another story).<br /><br />An infinitely more tolerant and enlightened individual these days (ahem) I truly hoped I might appreciate the place from a whole new perspective this weekend.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBfjxXZ7tHjdJAPxsfOuZCUA8Q2M4cEFgyOI0L9evolEIaGhmteKYAx1jhWVpQ0txF6hkmzYovbGUGaL2ZNB4peFZXyKlevd4Q7GLZ8S55pMh1TEG91oVsmN2enON_jz1vsaSoWQ/s1600-h/gold+sandals.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBfjxXZ7tHjdJAPxsfOuZCUA8Q2M4cEFgyOI0L9evolEIaGhmteKYAx1jhWVpQ0txF6hkmzYovbGUGaL2ZNB4peFZXyKlevd4Q7GLZ8S55pMh1TEG91oVsmN2enON_jz1vsaSoWQ/s200/gold+sandals.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5194538176957578626" /></a>Here's what I saw within half an hour of arriving: no less than THREE people wearing white shorts and gold sandals. Uh huh. It's the new white-shoe brigade.<br /><br />And really, you just can't get away from that stuff. It's as though the place attracts the in-yer-face crowd of all ages like a Narre Warren piss-up attracts hooded bogans. In fact, I think it's the same crowd up here, on holiday. Tattoos, bad hair with <span style="font-style:italic;">product</span>, tattoos, stupid sunglasses and more tattoos. LagerlargerlargerSHOUTING. It's bound to provoke a range of reactions in right-thinking people; in me, disgust is quickly followed by a desire to dispense a good smack in the head. Shame it's illegal. Adding to the clamour is the drone of construction, as perfectly serviceable establishments are razed and replaced by multi-story horrors, all the better to feed off the annual Schoolies debacle I suppose. I passed at least four active construction sites within a block of Cavill Ave, so it's on for young and old. <br /><br />Perhaps my least favourite moment this afternoon was seeing a large, black, <span style="font-style:italic;">stretch </span>HumVee. I had no idea such abominations existed, and I had to do a double-take to ensure I hadn't imagined it, which of course is exactly what the damned thing is designed to do. No doubt the insufferable occupants thought I was ogling them with envy. I could kick myself.<br /><br />How did it happen? The place has every redeeming natural feature: golden sand, warm sea, a climate to die for - mild temperatures, a bright sunrise, endless sunshine and beautiful sunsets. <br /><br />So I wandered down to the beach for a short while this afternoon to try to find some of that Gold Coast magic. I sat upon an unoccupied spot on the sand, pulled out the weekend magazine and read for a little while. Mind cleared, I looked up and gazed into the middle distance. There before me stretched a glittering vista: a wide variety of adults and children playing happily in the waves, the sails of dozens of para-surfers weaving in a colourful dance overhead. Close by, a family of overseas tourists forgot their uncomfortable formal clothing and splashed in the shallows, collecting seashells in a bucket. A determined surfer struggled in the sloppy waves, and a girl nearby read a book while a veiled matriarch lifted her modest long skirts to wash the sand from her feet. It was enough to make the hardest heart sing.<br /><br />Then suddenly I felt a little chilled. Why did it all go dim? I looked around, and sure enough, the hotel towers were casting their inevitable pall, throwing the entire beach into shadow. It was just half-past three.<br /><br /><br />* yes, I know Gold Coasters, but it really was a quick visit, no time for pleasantries, so don't email me any abuse, okay? Next time we'll catch up, I promise.Miss Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06625127146984448283noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21572321.post-91914597666104887202008-04-07T04:30:00.000-07:002008-11-15T02:17:01.646-08:00The Hobart Chronicles XXXV: Run Through The Jungle<strong><blockquote>Whoa, thought it was a nightmare,<br />Lo, it's all so true,<br />They told me, "Don't go walkin' slow<br />'Cause Devil's on the loose."<br />- Creedence Clearwater Revival, <em>Run Through The Jungle</em>, 1970</blockquote></strong><br />One of the great joys of Tasnarnia is the great outdoors. Great.<br /><br />There's been a bit of tramping about in it lately, not least this weekend just gone when for once I managed not to go to work on either Saturday or Sunday, and instead made a determined effort to go outside and play, just like our Mums always encouraged us.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx-bwpj2t8x1zAP36tmTXvsVPLusKPWAOOHMa_gVVyPPbm4QmFwBKTOepDUVDse7H2aJFWrEBouPug6HexVt5dXvw9PC0ceZlqZFHjwJ0ZniKLMXoc9wVkC6Xj3W7jXch6dR585Q/s1600-h/THC+LakeDobson+2.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx-bwpj2t8x1zAP36tmTXvsVPLusKPWAOOHMa_gVVyPPbm4QmFwBKTOepDUVDse7H2aJFWrEBouPug6HexVt5dXvw9PC0ceZlqZFHjwJ0ZniKLMXoc9wVkC6Xj3W7jXch6dR585Q/s200/THC+LakeDobson+2.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5186647148691188210" /></a>Some organised friends found out about some marvellous little cabins near Lake Dobson in the Mt Field National Park, available for short stays through National Parks. Dating back to 1932, the cottages are quaint but equiped with cracking wood fires, a must so near to the snow line. It's just rustic enough to give you the impression you've had a wild weekend.<br /><br />One shouldn't be lulled into a false sense of security by small comforts, however. We got out on Saturday morning and began what looked like a simple walk; well, the walk was simple, but the weather wasn't. The wind screamed and the clouds closed in to form mist around us; the cold became too much for the junior member of the team sitting in the backpack, so we abandoned the walk along the chain of tarns. <br /><br />Instead we began another walk down a little lower, along a more sheltered route, and to begin with it was quite pleasant. But somehow, what started out as a well-marked side track via Platypus Tarn somehow disappeared shortly after we left the tarn. Hmmm, Tasnarnian bush, on a cold day in an alpine area where there were snow patches on the ground. What's the best thing to do? Retrace our steps? There were blokes in our group, so of course there was no retracing any steps, ha ha you must be kidding. We pushed on. There were also women in the group, so maps were consulted. But since the people consulting the maps are not, if you believe Alan Pease, actually able to read them (and there was still no going back), we soon found that we weren't where we thought we were. Or indeed anywhere we could identify. There we were, in the great outdoors without a clue. Great.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggmeXnRA6UxwOEH85XMrQu7M2OQ9fgvsvkT_AHMwEySPSEMTxoP3Y5cFzFlrQDNwYt0qF5xFtPPOen9l4F5fZAqSLgFHfR_v46_Hy7r-g9tGXDPILB1cZr0MRUg9dCIIkeCWIbxA/s1600-h/THC+LakeDobson+1.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggmeXnRA6UxwOEH85XMrQu7M2OQ9fgvsvkT_AHMwEySPSEMTxoP3Y5cFzFlrQDNwYt0qF5xFtPPOen9l4F5fZAqSLgFHfR_v46_Hy7r-g9tGXDPILB1cZr0MRUg9dCIIkeCWIbxA/s200/THC+LakeDobson+1.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5186647329079814658" /></a>It's funny how all one's nice ideas are thrown aside at the first sign of adversity. All those leaflets we read about treading lightly on the delicate landscape? Pah! If there was a break in the wall of foliage <em>there</em>, we tramped <em>there </em>and bugger tiptoeing around the pretty orange moss. How quickly the thin veneers of civilisation are stripped away.<br /><br />Finally, we all capitulated to the inevitable: time to do The Right Things. That is, we got out the map again, and the compass made its first appearance; we observed the sun, the landscape, sighted north and read the topography lines. Then we pooled our collective brainpower, and made a decision. Some 500-600m in <em>that </em>direction we'd find the main track.<br /><br />Now the bush bashing got really serious. Even if we'd had a machete, there wasn't room to swing it. We walked, stumbled and flailed about 500m, and got to our goal, the top of the ridge. BC, who was in the lead, turned in the middle of a thicket and said, well, this late in the day and with no sign of a way out, we'd better fire up the portable stove and create some shelter. Caro and I looked at each other. Oh boy, this was bad shit.<br /><br />Then Ricky laughed; he couldn't stand the looks on our faces any longer. The path's just there, he said. And there it was. Bastards.<br /><br />But you know, I really enjoyed it anyway. It was funny.... later.Miss Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06625127146984448283noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21572321.post-71770128756313446242008-03-13T04:18:00.000-07:002008-11-15T02:17:02.121-08:00The Hobart Chronicles XXXIV: Planet Earth Is Blue<strong><blockquote>For here am I sitting in a tin can<br />Far above the world<br />Planet Earth is blue<br />- David Bowie, <em>Space Oddity</em>, 1969</blockquote></strong><br />I have a new crush. His name is Mike Collins.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPs1Ni29mW0cmN6w-pxriVKQJm1hx6_kjvLxQXtgj9ZCRlj67aoFzwrXtmHvqsESrmhruMf_qvg0_p2uA-KyupaRMOqJMyqY1npFoPpXrW4JjNRm4Q5T-U1XwLVGuk14L2PJj99Q/s1600-h/apollo11badge.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPs1Ni29mW0cmN6w-pxriVKQJm1hx6_kjvLxQXtgj9ZCRlj67aoFzwrXtmHvqsESrmhruMf_qvg0_p2uA-KyupaRMOqJMyqY1npFoPpXrW4JjNRm4Q5T-U1XwLVGuk14L2PJj99Q/s200/apollo11badge.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5177201042559446482" /></a>I saw him at the movies last week. He's witty! charming! and sooooo cute! He's also a bit out of my reach, being the third member of the Apollo 11 mission, and thus a retired US astronaut. Go have a look at the doco <em>In The Shadow Of The Moon</em>, if you get a chance. It's enlightening, especially if you weren't yet around to see that first landing. Collins was the bloke who stayed in the command centre, in orbit around the moon while Armstrong and Aldrin fartarsed around with flags and buggies on the surface. Those astronauats were a frighteningly able bunch - physically fit, handy and smart. Nearly 40 years later they still appear very switched on. That Mike Collins though, with those limpid brown eyes and lovely sense of humour... if only he was 30 years younger.<br /><br />Though really, I suppose the age difference isn't so much, or at least it doesn't seem so after having had yet another birthday come and go. Sigh. <br /><br />What I do seem to be achieving in my old age is a certain adventurousness in the kitchen. Perhaps you'd more accurately describe it as a gradual shedding of fear - a willingness to try new things. My inner D'ohmestic Goddess has been in full swing, with not one but now two successful batches of blackberry jam under my apron belt. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8gRDCk6Vp_3_Uvx_0Y2YdUjyAxElatgnxmAiG_Ydmz-QMl_Avkce_2V6vnAUeNw2B-3Cm86wPMVdEEwWcXY0VqtaDmaw9TAcK3a8PIVR6iWgEtj9CKiw0yN8xArdmi6Zl6qIL1g/s1600-h/blackberries1.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8gRDCk6Vp_3_Uvx_0Y2YdUjyAxElatgnxmAiG_Ydmz-QMl_Avkce_2V6vnAUeNw2B-3Cm86wPMVdEEwWcXY0VqtaDmaw9TAcK3a8PIVR6iWgEtj9CKiw0yN8xArdmi6Zl6qIL1g/s200/blackberries1.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5177196481304178066" /></a>Perhaps the secret has been in the blackberries. They grow like mad here in Tasnarnia, and while they're a feral species and a pest, they do grow large and luscious, and seem tolerated by locals. <br /><br />Not long ago I was invited to a gathering at a farming property on Bruny Island, where the blackberries grew in abundance on the fenceline. Myself and friends piled out of the car and, faced with a tsunami of ripe fruit, went straight over to the towering brambles and began stuffing our faces before we even introduced ourselves (I don't think the mob there rated us very highly for our sociability).<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-5LBl4rtt-pFQQLasMgIG3-vtLkviRb7pUYRy0QHr4QLqvfv_01UtuGozEvPxMeGsrs6IrieOYcvfNuX43u5jAiADjWTPjUpSee6-NGSs0C1SToeZu7ID0O98nKcVemU_vUH2yg/s1600-h/blackberries2.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-5LBl4rtt-pFQQLasMgIG3-vtLkviRb7pUYRy0QHr4QLqvfv_01UtuGozEvPxMeGsrs6IrieOYcvfNuX43u5jAiADjWTPjUpSee6-NGSs0C1SToeZu7ID0O98nKcVemU_vUH2yg/s200/blackberries2.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5177196485599145378" /></a>Anyway, we picked about twenty tons of berries and brought them home. Then the reality set in - what to do? None of us had any idea. Thank God for the CWA - a long time ago the Quirindi branch gave me a CWA Cookbook, and it finally came in handy, just like I knew it would one day. The blackberry jam recipe was three lines long, and I reprint it here for yourr edification:<br /><br /><strong>Blackberry Jam</strong><br /><em>Ingredients: 1lb. sugar, 1lb. blackberries, some red ones.</em><br />Put blackberries in a presering pan and crush with a bottle. Stir all the time and boil 30 minutes. Head sugar in oven and add. Boil 10 minutes. The seeds should be soft.<br /><br />I didn't have any idea what a 'preserving pan' was, but a plain old saucepan was just fine, and I like lumpy jam so I skipped the bizzo about 'crush with bottle'. There is a moment when you look at that horrific mount of sugar and wonder if it's all a good idea. But the recipe worked a treat. <br /><br />So this weekend we made another trip to the little farm on the island off an island off an island, and even thought it was the end of the season we scratched together enough fruit for a few more jars. Sweet victory.Miss Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06625127146984448283noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21572321.post-71449952485877972402008-02-21T04:13:00.000-08:002008-11-15T02:17:02.581-08:00The Hobart Chronicles XXXIII: In The Navy<strong><blockquote>Oh my goodness<br />What am I going to do in a submarine?<br />- Village People, <em>In The Navy</em>, 1979</blockquote></strong><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8BrWJ4PcErXRfpQXthDTObAQDE001I7j3upUYE2jO6D5dlNsNbZqPnRu8pYRtZXLov_d8vspA7ULZmFr_WUL6zFd22noBeU6FWuF2PFpddTnqTLWEfabjOdn7J9mPm3oyi0vEMQ/s1600-h/r222586_877819.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8BrWJ4PcErXRfpQXthDTObAQDE001I7j3upUYE2jO6D5dlNsNbZqPnRu8pYRtZXLov_d8vspA7ULZmFr_WUL6zFd22noBeU6FWuF2PFpddTnqTLWEfabjOdn7J9mPm3oyi0vEMQ/s200/r222586_877819.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5169412962324274498" /></a>Did you have any idea that the first of the Royal Australian Navy's Collins Class submarine fleet, HMAS Collins, was named after a Tasnarnian?<br /><br />Well, there you go.<br /><br />According to the vessel's Commander, Matt Buckley, Admiral Collins was the first Australian born chief of our Navy. He (Collins, not Buckley) was a decorated World War II hero and was actually born in Deloraine in northern Tasnaria. In fact, three of the six subs are named after Tasnarnians. <br /><br />I'm not really quite sure what that signifies. Except that in my line of business, you can learn a whole lot of nothing-very-important in an hour. It's very rare that I pull rank and use my position to satisfy personal curiosity, but during Navy Week when HMAS Collins and the frigate HMAS Parramatta steamed into Slobart I broke my own rules and had a junior colleague get us on board to do a story. After all, how often does one get a squiz at the guts of one of our nation's... [border defenders? warships? expensive US castoffs?? fill in your own pejorative of choice].<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDqlq8kmw-IXvGa8KjJB8gUfkWbcaQiIFqCA7I9vkZ0ZCcArl6OkroJTNsNKoEKTtjF6vcpX68y2ye6fCT-nuSEgDghxN99aSUGCFLQQLli_9Z8_qC_HTVADWyUldbcJhO7_pzaA/s1600-h/r222583_877804.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDqlq8kmw-IXvGa8KjJB8gUfkWbcaQiIFqCA7I9vkZ0ZCcArl6OkroJTNsNKoEKTtjF6vcpX68y2ye6fCT-nuSEgDghxN99aSUGCFLQQLli_9Z8_qC_HTVADWyUldbcJhO7_pzaA/s200/r222583_877804.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5169412966619241810" /></a>Of the two, the sub was certainly the most interesting for me. I can't talk about much of what I saw as it's classified (this is no joke - I can't talk about what or how many if any weapons I saw, for example, and they reviewed my happy snaps and actually made me delete a few before disembarking). But I did get to play with the periscope, taking aim on the main landing deck of HMAS Parramatta, and inspect the three sets of V18 diesel engines. No wonder the damned things are reputed to make a heap of noise, unless they switch to the electric engines which are silent. The sleeping cabins are beyond description. From what I could see, they lever six fully grown sailors and their belongings into a cubicle the size of a kombi van's interior, with nothing but a little blue curtain each for privacy. All belongings, that is, except for a lot of sets of golf clubs which materialised as various sailors emerged from HMAS Collins to take shore leave. For all I know, they were stowed in spare corners of the weapons bay.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_Syp-qQjZvMxD9RLeszKH5V6bIL9XKHMSy7mW46quCZGUlzWMBz0wGkOU7EkmyxokWhI90m5Je5YlXft2m_bvzHajW7cOV48NSHn3Okcpb3Y_lCOLTGM7LPrcJCPsIwC3SOatpA/s1600-h/taps.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_Syp-qQjZvMxD9RLeszKH5V6bIL9XKHMSy7mW46quCZGUlzWMBz0wGkOU7EkmyxokWhI90m5Je5YlXft2m_bvzHajW7cOV48NSHn3Okcpb3Y_lCOLTGM7LPrcJCPsIwC3SOatpA/s200/taps.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5171504860505529698" /></a>HMAS Parramatta's landing pad (it carries helicopters) was the scene of cocktails at dusk, which I attended courtesy of an invitation issued to my boss. I mean, cocktails amongst men in spiffy uniforms? How could I refuse to do my professional duty? Actually, it was a civilised affair (so to speak), the highlights of which were the food and wine (copious and good) and the officers, who were gratifyingly good conversationalists. Their PR skills must be honed by many such soirees in many ports, though if they were bored they were also well-mannered enough not to show it.<br /><br />It was a chill Slobart [summer] wind racing across the deck after sundown that finally chased us off the frigate and back to our homes, while the boys and girls in white went about their business.Miss Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06625127146984448283noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21572321.post-16261764778995138512008-02-14T16:36:00.000-08:002008-02-14T16:49:42.789-08:00The Hobart Chronicles XXXXII: From Little Things<blockquote><strong>Blackfella, whitefella<br />Doesn't matter what your colour<br />As long as you're a true fella<br />- Warumpi Band, 1987<br /><br />From little things<br />Big things grow<br />- Kev Carmody, Paul Kelly, 1991<br /><br />Stand up, stand up and be counted<br />- Warumpi Band, 1987</strong></blockquote><br />Sorry. What a great word.<br /><br />But, if anything moved me more than hearing Rudd's Sorry speech to the Stolen Generations in Federal Parliament on Wednesday, it was the moving Welcome to Country to open Parliament on Tuesday.<br /><br />The first step on the road forward.Miss Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06625127146984448283noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21572321.post-22554469525497490292008-02-04T01:54:00.000-08:002008-11-15T02:17:02.688-08:00The Hobart Chronicles XXXXI: Days Go By<blockquote><strong>Days go by<br />I can feel 'em flying<br />Like a hand out the window in the wind <br />- Keith Urban, <em>Days Go By</em>, 2004<br /><br />Time and its command <br />Soon enough it comes<br />And settles in its place<br />A shadow in my face<br />Puts pressure in my day<br />- Powderfinger, <em>These Days</em>, 2000</strong></blockquote><br />Apologies for the Urban reference, but he is touring to Slobart soon, supporting John Fogerty and Ray Davies. A lineup for old farts and baby boomers, but brightened by rumoured appearance by the reformed Weddos. The reference is apropos of it being February already. You know, days can pass without you noticing. I lose whole weeks that way. It's been like this since I got back to Slobart - back into the same well-worn groove. Meh. But the weekend just gone was quite interesting.<br /><br />The <a href="http://www.theatreroyal.com.au/history.html">Theatre Royal</a> is one of the jewels of Slobart culture. It's Australia's oldest working theatre, dating back to 1837. It's just had a refit, including new seating and climate control. Early on Saturday morning a small number of the old seats went on sale.<br /><br />Carolyn - a friend from work - and I just had to have a piece of history. The seats are about 70 years old, and survived a fire in 1984 that did quite a bit of damage to the theatre. Like you'd expect, they're uncomfortably small and lumpy. But furbished with red velvet, and the cast-iron frames painted a trashy old-gold, they're verrrrry sexy. We've both seen performances in the Theatre Royal, so what a fab thing, to rescue a seat or several and give them a new home.<br /><br />We figured we might need to get there earlier than 9am when the doors opened. But who gets up at sparrowsfart on a Saturday? Bleary-eyed but armed with newspapers and bolstered the promise of special-delivery coffee and breakfast to come, we got to the warehouse at a leisurely 8am to join the line.<br /><br />And there actually was a line. Slobartians aren't used to having to queue for anything, so there were only about a dozen hard-core types. A young bloke who'd driven several hours from Launceston; two elegant, perfumed elderly sisters who'd been there since 5am; an old fellow armed with a pillow, a transistor and his pork pie hat. And us, with unbrushed hair and sunglasses.<br /><br />It was a convivial little gathering. I dragged out a recorder for work, of course. The sisters talked about attending the Theatre for more than 50 years, remembering comedians and ventriloquists touring when they were just little girls. The bloke from Launceston talked about his mother reading a poem on the Theatre Royal stage for a school eisteddfod. A short while later, a fellow came out of the warehouse to hand out numbered tickets for the sale, and everyone lined up more or less in the order they arrived. No pushing, no fuss. "Please, you were here before me - take a ticket first." We came away with tickets 17 and 18 of about 50.<br /><br />We also received the rules of engagement: Seats available as singles or in sets of two or three; $10 per seat, and one lot only per ticket; when your number is called, come forward to pay and select; no sales before 9am. We sat back to contemplate the choices, begin the Saturday papers, and wait.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtFWxVxy8VNjAD8eRcr8au_eUCbIwCFrHSQbO7i3PWwimuuCn0sUwW4ZPUqJlpTmbA5VUtTFIcQ5oiVXlUvKCOhuRBep-BKfZxONNoGOXFq9fOD2IdDeq11GIe3ffoax_qArxoTw/s1600-h/chair+2.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtFWxVxy8VNjAD8eRcr8au_eUCbIwCFrHSQbO7i3PWwimuuCn0sUwW4ZPUqJlpTmbA5VUtTFIcQ5oiVXlUvKCOhuRBep-BKfZxONNoGOXFq9fOD2IdDeq11GIe3ffoax_qArxoTw/s200/chair+2.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5163369377235332210" /></a>A few latecomers whinged, of course, especially when they realised it was a ticketed sale and they had missed out; but most people were happy. As the hour approached, there was a countdown; when the Launceston bloke emerged dragging the first chairs, a bank of three, the little crowd cheered. The sisters, confronted with the rickety cast-iron lumps, opted for one chair each. We each got a bank of two, and my friend's husband got another bank of two, so in total we came away with six. <br /><br />What are we going to do with them? Dunno. Doesn't matter. They'll find a place somewhere, eventually. In the meantime, they need a little TLC. There's some screws missing from the back of one of mine; all of them need to be bolted to a fixed base to stop them coming apart. And a good dusting is in order... though I might leave the genuine theatre-goer's chewing gum stuck to mine. Sort of adds to the authenticity.Miss Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06625127146984448283noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21572321.post-91657480492620690192008-01-04T09:17:00.000-08:002008-11-15T02:17:03.011-08:00The Hobart Chronicles XXXX: Happy Birthday, TC Helen<strong><blockquote>"Ah, the wind and the rain."<br />- Weddings Parties Anything, 1989<br /><br />"Happy Birthday Helen."<br />- Things of Stone & Wood, 1992</blockquote></strong><br />Look what happens when you talk about the weather. You get more of it.<br /><br />Right now, I was supposed to be on a flight to Melbourne scheduled to leave Darwin two hours ago.<br /><br />Instead I'm at work, where I've been for the past 18 hours.<br /><br />When I woke up this morning, the tropical low was still tracking west away from Darwin. After 0900 Central Standard Time it turned east, headed back out into Joseph Bonaparte Gulf, and picked up speed. Cyclone Helen was born.<br /><br />Helen was only was only a few hours old and just a little category 1 but growing fast. She howled for attention, and got it; by mid afternoon she grew to a category 2 and everyone started paying attention. <br /><br />So here we are at the Corporation (where the building is rated for category 5), toiling away. No hotel room to go to, and anyway, who knows what the 7th floor in a hotel is rated for? <br /><br />It's nearly 6am now, and the damned thing should have blown herself out hours ago. Against expectations, she huffed and puffed for longer than expected, bringing down palm trees and mahogany branches all over the city. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIVgK0UCM-yElCk8fAsPhH3jxY0zZqNZ6v5t_l5OB1eDFWgRQ8nU4BXlUUP-v5-NV2SBtmH1kBLNNMa_7VNPlNuRmwZu8TRe_l6jEBqh4P1vKJ5KaU__Vx_8GVTJ78TN9UssHFvQ/s1600-h/palms1.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIVgK0UCM-yElCk8fAsPhH3jxY0zZqNZ6v5t_l5OB1eDFWgRQ8nU4BXlUUP-v5-NV2SBtmH1kBLNNMa_7VNPlNuRmwZu8TRe_l6jEBqh4P1vKJ5KaU__Vx_8GVTJ78TN9UssHFvQ/s200/palms1.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151745624219504818" /></a>Here's the palms that are now blocking the accessway to the Corporation car park:<br /><br />They mean that we can't get work vehicles in or out.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu7aURY3rdM-g7PZbbt3hqeH6eXv13gnxGqd5qonKwhtYHLxJk5oe0Dq4zxKTHTUpN8RTnb_RKkneUxLeEPC18_mbDAb3mEnXRb7d9bA6XzQXt0D42kiY6jNsWmoJud0li6lER8A/s1600-h/TREE1.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu7aURY3rdM-g7PZbbt3hqeH6eXv13gnxGqd5qonKwhtYHLxJk5oe0Dq4zxKTHTUpN8RTnb_RKkneUxLeEPC18_mbDAb3mEnXRb7d9bA6XzQXt0D42kiY6jNsWmoJud0li6lER8A/s200/TREE1.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151745881917542594" /></a>And here's a couple of trees, still in belated festive mode, down in Cavenaugh St in the CBD:<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0t4dbG7xjJJgS_ky8VDfBDiw57uC8Glr23fuXPrxk5htZalqk5-dmZlS12Lo1Rwd8z4DmBwKQJZNk3DEiK4so2sam76sdSfIkcLlxoPCeH5ImkmLGWVoLfFNu0ulUkjDOJP3-LQ/s1600-h/TREE2.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0t4dbG7xjJJgS_ky8VDfBDiw57uC8Glr23fuXPrxk5htZalqk5-dmZlS12Lo1Rwd8z4DmBwKQJZNk3DEiK4so2sam76sdSfIkcLlxoPCeH5ImkmLGWVoLfFNu0ulUkjDOJP3-LQ/s200/TREE2.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151746062306169042" /></a>Helen was just a little cyclone by local standards, although a tricky one. But I think she's on her way out now. I've now officially survived my first cyclone.Miss Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06625127146984448283noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21572321.post-35070157709210813422008-01-01T06:25:00.000-08:002008-11-15T02:17:03.623-08:00The Hobart Chronicles XXXIX: Water is wide<blockquote><strong>"Because the water is wide<br />And I cannot get over<br />Neither have I<br />The wings to fly."<br /><br />- <em>traditional</em></strong></blockquote><br />What a lot of water. It’s been falling from the skies in continuous sheets every afternoon and evening. This is my first experience of a tropical monsoonal low, and I’m fascinated.<br /><br />I’ve been thinking a lot about water and the Top End these last few days. Duhwin, like Slobart, is an active port city centred around a sizeable harbour. It’s an interesting point of comparison, which I decided to explore a little.<br /><br />On Sunday I took the ferry to Mandorah. This takes you across the Darwin Harbour, where the water is so very different to that of the estuarine Derwent River. Darwin Harbour is a bright jade green, and like jade is opaque. There’s apparently a fair bit of sediment swirling around down there, clouding the water. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj987ir9ztA_5c_hd0ToWpCUe6Nlfvci1nEgWomq4htSqRXkQqsqau1NdIA_nqyyGC7aJuYYzCVEr2krGa0OuKZlxCtYcMreT1U7LTxutSm7t8jq8CPVN2xC0EGO-G87FBrVTw6TQ/s1600-h/ferry1.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj987ir9ztA_5c_hd0ToWpCUe6Nlfvci1nEgWomq4htSqRXkQqsqau1NdIA_nqyyGC7aJuYYzCVEr2krGa0OuKZlxCtYcMreT1U7LTxutSm7t8jq8CPVN2xC0EGO-G87FBrVTw6TQ/s200/ferry1.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5150516932860366946" /></a>The ferry trip was recommended by a number of locals, who consider it to be a quintessential Duhwin experience. Mandorah is a considerable distance from the city, taking about an hour and a half by car; it's a mere 15 minutes across the water. While pleasant, it’s debatable as to whether the trip is worth it, as at the other end there is only the Mandorah Pub to visit. Listed on various tourist brochures and blogs as a quaint, typical “Top End Experience”, it’s scheduled for demolition shortly into the new year and now I can see why. I was expecting an oasis surrounded by miles of tropical scrub: a charming combination of ceiling fans and louvred windows, with perhaps some cane furniture and a Long Island Iced Tea option. What I actually found was, as Sister K put it upon her return to work on Monday, the sort of place you hose out at the end of the night. The clientele were also what you might expect for this sort of establishment. I ordered an obligatory beer and didn’t stay for the “famous” barra & chips – it didn’t look like a sanitary dining option. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisXatqj0sXCSGu77JHjc8jraR5uVbJ_5aYdaae-cnbnncu8XMJUjC5x9osxAsh8OSll0ReAu42d1HWVyUUWe8iC38sFw-Sge6Nqze21Govp5L_84b-ezJcsVSuqSDABv-Wu-Cq6A/s1600-h/beach1.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisXatqj0sXCSGu77JHjc8jraR5uVbJ_5aYdaae-cnbnncu8XMJUjC5x9osxAsh8OSll0ReAu42d1HWVyUUWe8iC38sFw-Sge6Nqze21Govp5L_84b-ezJcsVSuqSDABv-Wu-Cq6A/s200/beach1.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5150517207738273906" /></a>The pier and beach were more interesting. The 200m of beach from pier to pub was a wonder of red and yellow sandstone, and the coral and shell detritus showed an interesting reef sat offshore under the murky jade water. Several of the shells I picked up housed tiny hermit crabs; it was the first time I’ve ever seen hermit crabs in their natural habitat and I was captivated. I spent so long looking at them, I was also sunburnt. There were several shiny, bloated cane toads on the boat ramp, evidently dispatched by the locals. There's no doubt their march west has reached the top end. Disturbing. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvLYzrtyWqA-kgHMol0FFCsTzlJYIS9uO-87YrFshFQcEGZ5zpfmk6gug6myBBoIh_EhuimMOsBTT3NaoKQkvDqdbAUyGNZmihPgwjWRyZAud9BLRo78ZaElmvobFlnn6fyn9gnw/s1600-h/pier1.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvLYzrtyWqA-kgHMol0FFCsTzlJYIS9uO-87YrFshFQcEGZ5zpfmk6gug6myBBoIh_EhuimMOsBTT3NaoKQkvDqdbAUyGNZmihPgwjWRyZAud9BLRo78ZaElmvobFlnn6fyn9gnw/s200/pier1.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5150517375241998466" /></a>The pier itself is built to deal with a wild variance of tides – when we docked, more than 10 metres of the structure was exposed. You climb several stories to reach the pier and walk to shore. The lower levels are completely encrusted with a tiny variety of oyster, and it’s a popular fishing spot. I saw a school of garfish circling in the shallows.<br /><br />My walk from the pier to the pub was the first time I’ve set foot onto a beach in the Top End, and I was the only one who did – everyone else took the concrete path. In Slobart, people don’t go to the few beaches much (except to walk the dog) because it’s often cold and windy, and the Derwent can carry pretty unpleasant e-coli levels at times. In Duhwin, people similarly avoid the many beaches, even when waking the dog, but rather because of crocodiles and box jellyfish. I took what some of the more paranoid locals would consider a calculated risk on that 200m of sand. <br /><br />Last night I began New Years Eve at a low-key party populated entirely by Corporation folk and their attachments out in the burbs; it was civilised and pleasant company. However, I had to be back at work to deliver a damned weather warning at 11pm. Sister K hitched a lift back into town with me, and after duty was seen to we went looking for a good vantage point to see the midnight fireworks. Alas, the docks area was inexplicably blocked off; we counted down with the Coodabeens in transit, and about 3 minutes into 2008 we were having the first beer of the year at the Ski Club overlooking the beach. Surf was up, with ‘waves’ of about 30cm. That’s unusual here.<br />"Look," I said. "Waves!"<br />"Mmm," said Sister K. "Must be monsoon."<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiZSdqFozY_SRDAWp6YZKqyWS9mDDVm5323z_7L2ImbmjYHgCqEQO1GjV_iCBgnnUzrl33ghBSmU_8It8-ifRLfk_x0Y8i3CrU0i8RE8lBTKGefM9R9mijuhomo1aqEGQsNCd1LA/s1600-h/beach2.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiZSdqFozY_SRDAWp6YZKqyWS9mDDVm5323z_7L2ImbmjYHgCqEQO1GjV_iCBgnnUzrl33ghBSmU_8It8-ifRLfk_x0Y8i3CrU0i8RE8lBTKGefM9R9mijuhomo1aqEGQsNCd1LA/s400/beach2.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5150518092501536930" /></a><br />Happy New Year.Miss Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06625127146984448283noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21572321.post-91701043979463902802007-12-20T02:52:00.000-08:002008-11-15T02:17:04.266-08:00The Hobart Chronicles XXXVIII: Summer in the northernmost city<strong><blockquote>"Hot town, summer in the city,<br />Back of my neck getting dirty and gritty...<br /><br />All around people looking half dead<br />Walking on the sidewalk, hotter than a matchhead"<br /><br />- The Lovin' Spoonful, 1966</blockquote></strong><br />You know, I dared not write for a long time lest I jinx the dentist and land him in hospital again. So I kept my mouth shut, and <em>voila</em>! [think <em>Iron Chef</em> now...] The Great Dental Reconstruction Odyssey is OVAH! The choppers are settling in and I can now grin like an idiot again.<br /><br />It's a good thing I can open my mouth again without shame or embarassment, because I'm temporarily at work in the Northern Terror-tory where it's the start of the wet, and both perspiration and aspiration are constant bodily activities. They may not be very ladylike, but there's no getting away from it.<br /><br />It's also the start of the Top End's monsoon and cyclone season, which strikes terror into my miserable southern frame; the less said about these, the better. (ref. jinx). Walk out of an airconditioned environment and your sunglasses fog up. There are gekkos on the walls at night.<br /><br />Duh-win is a ghost town right now. Everyone has cleared out to spend Christmas in some other part of the country - it seems very few people here are genuine 'locals'. The unspoken subtext also seems to be if disaster strikes there's not much to be done about it anyway so better to be elsewhere with a glass in your hand.<br /><br />So unlike Slobart, which had sped up considerably in the pre-Christmas rush, you could shoot a rifle down the Duh-win mall at lunchtime and not hit a stray dog. <br /><br />This means you can meander the streets and take a good look at small details that might otherwise slip by unnoticed. Like some of the interesting business signs. <br /><br />Consider, now, that the following are associated with commercial businesses, the aim of which is to extract your hard-earned dollars to turn a profit. What do they say about the locals?<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicV3nrOwqomzGAo0IWuWjSi0LIFu83DDaxlj0xoNQ26PxqnHi0IYarh8XuUkgXLpF0TMU8WHoexIYnD3fS33sFbozKVnP2sso8hB5jWbiAfaS5gqEGxFFHVYyj8qpzecJhZfBUtQ/s1600-h/Portly+crop.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicV3nrOwqomzGAo0IWuWjSi0LIFu83DDaxlj0xoNQ26PxqnHi0IYarh8XuUkgXLpF0TMU8WHoexIYnD3fS33sFbozKVnP2sso8hB5jWbiAfaS5gqEGxFFHVYyj8qpzecJhZfBUtQ/s200/Portly+crop.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5146225818150031346" /></a>I like this one. It doesn't leave you in any doubt.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO2Zjke2H70lMVlsW3hyphenhyphenkftnnn4JG3OKT1upGQ5tn0SdA9NoJ6-orIDL-0gioPz_0uWbeJQGa8qjvndcGKsU69NodlxtKoEdW1Euai6zcNkOfLYPzqgWr0o7tYjPEIPCajrUp-gA/s1600-h/Helmet+crop.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO2Zjke2H70lMVlsW3hyphenhyphenkftnnn4JG3OKT1upGQ5tn0SdA9NoJ6-orIDL-0gioPz_0uWbeJQGa8qjvndcGKsU69NodlxtKoEdW1Euai6zcNkOfLYPzqgWr0o7tYjPEIPCajrUp-gA/s200/Helmet+crop.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5146227140999958578" /></a>Would you have your hair cut here? <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgncimgq3LJp965BXFUv_3WqVvcVOmfnIjh9w5t4DBf04on0i1IeoZLpDa31goMZwFmytaPUSu5N_SI0Ekv7KQtPogS8ggYj9-6o76gBGPnWo8NnHTxKl2t1O3Dq3-QL0WuS9QYZQ/s1600-h/Infidelity+crop.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgncimgq3LJp965BXFUv_3WqVvcVOmfnIjh9w5t4DBf04on0i1IeoZLpDa31goMZwFmytaPUSu5N_SI0Ekv7KQtPogS8ggYj9-6o76gBGPnWo8NnHTxKl2t1O3Dq3-QL0WuS9QYZQ/s200/Infidelity+crop.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5146226200402120722" /></a>This sign, believe it or not, is for a frock shop. Stocked with daggy frocks. There's also a limited stock of (daggy) men's attire available.<br /><br />All I can gather from this brief sample is that people in Duh-win are not overly concerned with their appearance. Or, judging by the last example, concerned only to the extent that they may get a root out of it. (Looks like you don't have to try too hard, if those clothes at Infidelity are anything to go by.)<br /><br />However, maybe this makes the locals happy. Indeed, the few who haven't cleared out ahead of possible weather-related devastation do seem in a pretty good mood. They say "g'day", and smile in the street. Shopkeepers stop for a chat and cafe owners recognise you for a regular after only 3 days.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLeVNrYoFK_IexU_atTygYZxMi6P7hxIH4ZUlmIb0QJqzKgKDT8jW97SlYtqbKP0WcoE4gXsCN_1Y1oU-gYX1j1gmJh5ntG6hZTIUwznHVAn25uPWZtSnHNkcmV0bpbbzc8xX6-Q/s1600-h/Happy+crop.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLeVNrYoFK_IexU_atTygYZxMi6P7hxIH4ZUlmIb0QJqzKgKDT8jW97SlYtqbKP0WcoE4gXsCN_1Y1oU-gYX1j1gmJh5ntG6hZTIUwznHVAn25uPWZtSnHNkcmV0bpbbzc8xX6-Q/s200/Happy+crop.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5146226367905845282" /></a>Even my hotel housekeeper is in a good mood. <br /><br />Or maybe I am just a tidy guest and she is pleased about this.Miss Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06625127146984448283noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21572321.post-36864148768041556512007-11-26T18:26:00.000-08:002008-11-15T02:17:04.345-08:00The Hobart Chronicles XXXVII: Tables Turning<strong><blockquote>"I was born in a lucky country"<br />- Paul Kelly, <em>Little Kings</em>, 1998</blockquote><br /><blockquote>"Finally the tables are starting to turn"<br />- Tracy Chapman, <em>Talkin' Bout a Revolution</em>, 1988</blockquote></strong><br />Spoke too soon about the dental work. Dentist is now in hospital. Hopefully for him, and for me, he gets well soon.<br /><br />On Saturday I was bolt upright quite early, and tripped off to vote well before the clock reached double figures. <br /><br />This is the first time I've voted in Tasnarnia, and I had to choose a booth. Luckily on Friday Breakfast listeners called in to compare what optional extras their respective booths had to offer, so I chose a local school which spruiked a fundraising cake and plant stall.<br /><br />Voting! How exciting! My heart swelled as I stood in the cardboard cubicle and filled in all the numbers, including below the line (a much shorter affair here than in NSW). <br /><br />What a privilege we have to actually make a choice. We whinge for a whole three years, and at the end of it we get to have our say. In fact, we can head out to vote thinking of candidates and cake stalls rather than whether we'll be threatened at the polling booths or dodging bullets on the way home; we can whinge year after year out loud on the street or on talkback radio, and not worry about jail or whether a member of our family won't come home tonight. As my Mum used to lecture me, for all the faults Australians have (and there are many) we do truly have political freedom. It may sound pretty weird, but I was overflowing with love for that political freedom on that fine sunny Slobart Saturday morning. I haven't been so excited in ages.<br /><br />And on Saturday night as a few of us gathered in the shoebox on the hill and fired up multitudinous media for a little 'political party' (dress code: op shop tie) and we watched seats from Bass to Bennelong come down to the wire, I thought all over again about how much every person's vote counts. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUOVyhg6ql3L8WKGAgHlBwXrEGqudQuXeHAhJBbnyiRwCMW4NECfhAakxboJ5Nl6J29ZE9NLzCYBMamC_FPswpkR8iSmYIkMHWXgwjmZyJ5YTRSbwnWtg3Q6MZasjbTE1OSoUFpw/s1600-h/concession+sml.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUOVyhg6ql3L8WKGAgHlBwXrEGqudQuXeHAhJBbnyiRwCMW4NECfhAakxboJ5Nl6J29ZE9NLzCYBMamC_FPswpkR8iSmYIkMHWXgwjmZyJ5YTRSbwnWtg3Q6MZasjbTE1OSoUFpw/s200/concession+sml.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5137648697316149538" /></a>Every person's vote counts: I thought it as we tried to figure out why the numbers on the ABC TV graphic didn't match those on the ABC website. I thought it as they cheered in the tally room, as Kerry O'Brien snapped he wished they'd <em>shut UP!, </em>and we cheered in the loungeroom of my shoebox. I thought it as we cheered on the phone to various long-distance friends at their various parties (on the menu at Grandmaster B's: porkbarrel ribs...). I thought it as one talented guest at the shoebox grabbed the guitar and began playing a Tracy Chapman anthem. I thought it as we opened our ??th bottle of wine at approximately 2am (though things were getting a bit fuzzy by then).<br /><br />Oh the humanity, with first the concession and then the victory speech. (Oh the humanity when I surveyed the dishes the next morning. Why didn't I just order pizza?) <br /><br />But sore heads, housework and all, it was an honour and a privilege to wield a pencil for democracy. And for once, I got my way.<br /><br /><br /><blockquote><strong>"I'm still wasting my time<br />Trying to give it to you<br />Still I try, to hold on for better days"<br />- Farryl Purkiss, <em>Better Days</em>, 2007</strong></blockquote>Miss Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06625127146984448283noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21572321.post-89864308804837486872007-11-14T22:12:00.000-08:002007-11-15T13:41:25.199-08:00The Hobart Chronicles XXXVI: Are we there yet?<blockquote><strong>"No time to think about what to tell them<br />No time to think about what she's done"<br />- Talking Heads, <em>And She Was</em>, 1985</strong></blockquote><br />The Great Dental Reconstruction Odyssey is nearly over!<br /><br />Yep, the dentist is ecstatic with the movement achieved in my remaining front teeth – they are now officially straight.<br /><br />My latest visit to the dentist this week consisted of him taking moulds, measuring for the bridgework, and prepping the teeth for crowns. This last took FOUR doses of anaesthetic to complete, which surprised even the dentist (who by now should surely have seen everything). The fourth dose, of a more robust painkilling variety, made my face so unresponsive that for several hours my upper lip was completely slack and when I laughed it didn’t move at all – the upshot being that I looked like I had been punched in the face (or perhaps got at by Angelina Jolie’s collagen supplier).<br /><br />I can’t wait ‘til it’s done. Two weeks, and counting. And do remind me when I’m whingeing later on about the cost, that the Odyssey would have been completely out of reach if I didn’t have health insurance (health insurance? Maybe I’m more grown up than previously thought!) My dear Slurry Hills friend <a href="http://jamesobrien.id.au/">James</a> wonders if for healthy people it’s worth getting <a href="http://jamesobrien.id.au/2007/10/30/get-healthy/">health insurance</a>, apart from the tax benefits. Well, if you’re paying for it James, use it – don’t wait until you’re on your deathbed!Miss Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06625127146984448283noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21572321.post-23108185685017229612007-11-07T00:57:00.001-08:002007-11-07T14:37:57.042-08:00The Hobart Chronicles XXXV: We was wild then...<blockquote><span style="font-weight:bold;">"Take me back to the days of the foreign telegrams<br />And the all-night rock and rollin'<br />Hey 'Chelle, we was wild then."<br />- Michelle Shocked, <span style="font-style:italic;">Anchorage</span>, 1988</blockquote><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><blockquote>"And the longer I stand here the more that I know<br />That the oncoming night cannot hurt me."<br />- Mick Thomas, <span style="font-style:italic;">Halfway Up The Hill</span>, 2006</span></blockquote></span><br />My, how we're all growing up.<br /><br />All my friends are just about adults now. It seems like only yesterday we were tooling around in endless tertiary education, working to travel, taking dead end jobs that seemed like fun, and definitely not putting anything away for the future.<br /><br />So what happened? Somewhere along the way, we've all got older, and in some cases wiser. In the past few weeks, different friends have achieved the following different grown-up milestones:<br /><br />* bought a fridge - NEW! not second hand. (This whitegood joins a new washing machine and a new laptop, also acquired brand spankers);<br /><br />* put a deposit on a house and shouldered a <span style="font-style:italic;">mortgage</span>;<br /><br />* used the phrase "Young people today..." in conversation while drinking a glass of expensive red wine; <br /><br />* had a baby (there's been a few of these in the past 2 weeks... New Year babies?)<br /><br />* received a parent's cancer diagnosis and is making hurried plans to return to Australia;<br /><br />* separated from a spouse.<br /><br />This last one made me very sad. I realised I have come to watch my friends with a species of joyous envy as they make their way over life's little hurdles and move ever forward - if they get there, then there's hope yet. I enjoyed that wedding immensely. How sad I feel for my friend, who has made the best decision she can and is doing her best to keep her chin up. <br /><br />Surrounded by such high life-achievers, I'm not sure how it is that I'm so far, well, behind. I started looking at my own achievements of the past 12 months, and with some shame I share them with you: <br /><br />Yet another ex-boyfriend; living in a shoebox with rising rent; I've started learning to play the guitar; and I'm having my teeth straightened. Last weekend, I sat around in my loungeroom with 2 visitors and we played music until 3.30am. I mean, <span style="font-style:italic;">really</span>. What the hell did I do in my teens and 20s??? (although in fairness, this last was the same eveing the phrase "Young people today..." was uttered over the very nice wine. Though not by me. But maybe it'll rub off.)<br /><br />In fact, I am so socially underdeveloped I can hardly balance two forms of digital communication at once. I apologise about the recently static Chronicles; my infatuation with the evil Facebook has cooled and I'm back now. <br /><br />What a strange phenomenon that Facebook is. There we were, all rubbishing MySpace, and suddenly we're all worshipping at the Facebook shrine: poking each other, competing to sign up friends and buying each other fish. You'll be pleased to know I have at least one friend who considers himself too old for Facebook, and he's in his 40s. Now <em>that's</em> grown-up.<br /><br />Facebook reminds me a bit of the B&S circuit, a lovely social set I learned about when living in the country. On the B&S circuit, kids in utes drive thousands of kilometres every weekend to dress up and get pissed with exactly the same kids they got pissed with last weekend a thousand kilometres away. In cyberspace, the same people who email and blog now Facebook each other (when we're not SMSing, or something else). Weird, huh.<br /><br />Maybe some of us - the best of us - still have some growing up to do.Miss Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06625127146984448283noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21572321.post-85314150480637667052007-09-26T03:40:00.000-07:002008-11-15T02:17:04.711-08:00The Hobart Chronicles XXXVI: Recoiling from the fire<span style="font-weight:bold;"><blockquote>"Through the dust and ashes<br />While the building crashes"<br />Peter Gabriel, <span style="font-style:italic;">Walk Through The Fire</span>, 1984</blockquote><br /><blockquote>"Reach for the night which recoils from the fire."<br />MC 900ft Jesus, <span style="font-style:italic;">The City Sleeps</span>, 1992</blockquote></span><br />This is the SMS that arrived on my phone on Sunday:<br /><br />"So why did you leave your kettle at Myer?"<br /><br />Hahahaha. Thanks, Cole Man. Or should that be Coal Man? <br /><br />The Myer Fire on Saturday night took everyone by surprise. I say night, because although it started at about 3 in the afternoon, even the firies thought it was under control until after 6pm. <br /><br />I was having a pleasant Saturday afternoon. That is, woke from a little afternoon kip on the couch, felt hungry, and took about half an hour to decide to go out foraging. I got up, looked out the loungeroom window and thought, "What's that enormous column of smoke coming from town?"<br /><br />In town, a small group of curious onlookers stood behind police tape half a block away oohing and ahhing and taking pictures on their mobile phones of the billowing smoke. Myer's interior upper stories were evidently alight but no-one seemed very concerned. Firies and police milled around. After about 15 minutes one of them cranked up a hose and sprayed some water. Not much else appeared to be happening. <br /><br />No doubt it was like ducks on a pond - all serenity on the surface, furious paddling below. I couldn't raise anyone of any use on the phone to find out what was going on, so after watching for another 15 minutes, I went shopping. I was hungry, after all. Typically, it got interesting <span style="font-style:italic;">after </span>I left.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQyJIwv_Lu7JxFCzBeixZfWsP_MgRcljCdqB1vL3qJgqSsOs1MabtMNhP5UFuDY_kjigrHodsxsW-r3MOgucd3i98ClS8gf8zc3_F82GYxw5hUFTLybxZKHNk_1sMNP8HGTcVwUg/s1600-h/r185951_692599.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQyJIwv_Lu7JxFCzBeixZfWsP_MgRcljCdqB1vL3qJgqSsOs1MabtMNhP5UFuDY_kjigrHodsxsW-r3MOgucd3i98ClS8gf8zc3_F82GYxw5hUFTLybxZKHNk_1sMNP8HGTcVwUg/s200/r185951_692599.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5114649011942908626" /></a>I was in the queue paying for groceries when a colleague rang and asked casually, "What the fuck's going on?" The smoke I saw earlier had become a full-blown inferno. As dusk fell, she and her family could see the flames and embers at home several kilometres away. There was only the semi-finals on the radio. She doesn't have a telly.<br /><br />So I packed my organic chook, vegies and cat food into the boot and went to work. Just another Saturday night at the pickle factory.<br /><br />In retrospect it's a bloody miracle the whole CBD didn't burn down. I had the good judgement to roster myself on for live crosses on Monday morning, when the façade was being demolished. The rest of the building had clearly already collapsed into the basement.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk5fIxcXjZi9l8HxydcQZXm1M7aOwAwNIbCJHMLmV6iTt9lihGaaHPTWd4j5CDXq0SNgAuDbBvNE29nd9vRY4u0iezfZS8tAxZaJk7wFhMObl8tU-hUOqTC-gJFeXWIpVBOfbKTQ/s1600-h/r186170_693628.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk5fIxcXjZi9l8HxydcQZXm1M7aOwAwNIbCJHMLmV6iTt9lihGaaHPTWd4j5CDXq0SNgAuDbBvNE29nd9vRY4u0iezfZS8tAxZaJk7wFhMObl8tU-hUOqTC-gJFeXWIpVBOfbKTQ/s200/r186170_693628.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5114649243871142626" /></a>I stood with the firies at the barrier and watched a giant excavator, brontosaurus- like, reach up to bite pieces out of the façade and drop the masonry to the street. The crash made lovely background fx, but I was less sure about the clouds of dust. Why was everyone inside the barrier, mere metres away, dressed in full biohazard suits including air masks? Sure enough, the firies were concerned about asbestos. Mmmm, time to move away.<br /><br />And the irony? Just a day earlier, the international Bushfire CRC Annual Conference, staged just a few blocks away, had concluded. 900 men in uniform, and most of them missed all the action.Miss Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06625127146984448283noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21572321.post-55427821369703357132007-09-15T00:34:00.000-07:002007-09-15T03:25:26.133-07:00The Hobart Chronicles XXXV: Psycho<span style="font-weight:bold;"><blockquote>"O sinners, let's go down<br />Down in the river to pray."<br />- traditional / Alison Krauss, 2000</blockquote><blockquote>"You think I'm psycho, don't you mama."<br />- Beasts of Bourbon, 1990</blockquote></span><br />Well, as far as I am concerned, the Terrortory consists mainly of four things in addition to 30+ temperatures. These are: a lot of pretty waterholes (both cold and hot), and a good proportion of beer, mosquitoes, and ants. I swam in a quite a number of the first, drank my share of the second, and was amply rewarded with encounters with the third and fourth.<br /><br />When asked, I generally claim I am allergic to nothing. As far as I am aware, this is close enough to true as I have never undergone any formal allergy testing; however, I have for some time <span style="font-style:italic;">suspected </span>I might be allergic to two things.<br /><br />I was alerted to the first back in Tamworse when during a fit of gardening I was bitten by a green ant and my right calf swelled up so much and got so hard I couldn't wear jeans for several days, and later a nurse friend said I should have gone to hospital before the bite put me there. You can understand why I haven't been too keen to investigate this potential allergy by repeating the experiment. <br /><br />To my great joy, the Terrortory experience has spontaneously allowed me to confirm that I am indeed allergic to ant bites. Sister K will be relieved to know that the two large bites on my thigh, while still a livid purple-black, are no longer feverishly hot and are starting to go down.<br /><br />And the other allergy? Sunscreen. Yep. Just what you want in the land of perpetual sunshine. After two days of application my exposed parts erupted in a spectacular case of eczema. This forced me to lay off the sunscreen while visiting all these waterholes, so my spotty pebbly skin also picked up a mild case of sunburn. Sister K has recommended a sunscreen without the titanium and zinc ingredients, which I think may be the problem. Any suggestion you, dear Chronicle reader, may have will also be most welcome.<br /><br />But enough about me... for a moment.<br /><br />Is what we hear about the Terrortory, that it's a wild haven for misfits and suspect loners on the run from society, spouse or the law, actually true? After this week, I am sad to say I can't clear this up for you. I can only tell you what we saw and heard.<br /><br />All this bucolic activity - waterholes, camping, meeting up with SK's housemates and them meeting up with friends, was disturbed one night at the Hot Springs campground on the Daly River. Sister K and I, arriving first, had ventured into the artesian-fed stream (singing, disturbingly, 'Down To The River To Pray') and found the water hot and fine. Then the rest of the Shepherd St contingent landed and the five of us, having managed a quite respectable campfire, were relaxing with Coopers and Tasnarnian pinot. A bunch of 30-somethings, we were easily the youngest and loudest people at the site - i.e., not very on either count. How's the serenity?, we remarked.<br /><br />But at some indeterminate late hour, we heard the unmistakable rumble of doof-doof approaching. This materialised into no less than five 4WDs, which proceeded to do some circle-work around the site until in a cloud of dust they settled next to a campervan inhabited by a pair of old-timers and disgorged a seething mass of drunken youths. The youths proceeded to make merry at astonishing volume; the wooden platform I had set my sleeping bag on vibrated with the doof. And it's fair to say their demeanour was less merry, more anarchic with an aggressive undertone. <br /><br />So when housemate Pete decided he'd had enough and was going to go and tell the kids to turn it down, we were all understandably concerned for his safety. I mean, hospitals were a long way away, and no-one had packed any triangle bandages. However, he was determined, and as it turned out managed to deliver his admonition without getting his head punched in. They turned it down - marginally.<br /><br />During the patchy night's sleep I recall rolling over and in that half-conscious sleep state heard a loud conversation over the doof regarding violent pornographic activity - followed by the sounds of violent pornographic activity. Horrible. I rolled over and dived for blessed unconsciousness.<br /><br />The next morning, our little contingent was up with the sun, and thus the first down to the river to loll about in the steaming spring water. After about an hour, two girls from the doof camp joined us. One was a hefty girl with filthy surfer-dreads and an enormous fresh scrape down one thigh; she was carrying a stubby of Toohey's Dry. The other was a tiny, mousey thing unremarkable except that she was carrying a can of Bundy and Coke. They were friendly enough - Dry girl said "G'day" and toasted us with her stubby before taking a swig. <br /><br />But later we wondered, were we ever that bad? Sure we were loud, but were we so obnoxious (with such bad music)? Sure we drank, but did we ever drink before 7am (unless we were still up from the night before)? Who knows. As for the pornographic activity, let's not go there; I know I didn't get up to <span style="font-style:italic;">that</span>.<br /><br />What was gratifying when we returned to camp to dry off was to see the old-timers next to the doof brigade were up. They had their radio on, tuned to some AM talk station, full-bore.<br /><br />The other weird moment happened as SK and I were driving to the Daly River site. Coming in the other direction was a pretty ragged-looking 4WD, all red dust and scrapes and flapping canvas. The driver flashed his lights furiously. We slowed down a little and began looking for cattle across the road or something similar. Nothing. He passed us - and no nod or finger lifted-acknowledgement, only the sunset reflecting ominously off his aviator sunglasses. SK and I looked at each other. Should we stop? Not on your nelly! That bloke looked like a backpacker serial killer! We drove far and fast before we had a giggle about our nerves. A nervous giggle.Miss Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06625127146984448283noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21572321.post-20497573554011632162007-09-03T23:58:00.000-07:002007-09-15T03:21:58.654-07:00The Hobart Chronicles XXXIV: Concrete Flamingos in the Terrortory<blockquote><strong>"And I sank like a concrete flamingo<br />In these desperate hours."<br />- Ed Kuepper, <em>Horse Under Water</em>, 1990</strong></blockquote><br />I have arrived in the Terrortory - woo hoooooo! and while Sister Kate does a little last-minute work I thought I'd scribble a mini-Chronicle. <br /><br />The jet lag has involved only half an hour, but a whopping 24 degrees Celsius. Actually, make that 31 degrees if you count the fact that when I walked into the driving wind across the Slobart tarmac to the Shitstar plane at about 0610 it was drizzling and about 3 degrees. I have shed more layers than a cicada in summer and having got to the last one now realise that last layer is still too much clothing. Sigh.<br /><br />Is there nothing like an airport (complete with air travel) to throw together unlikely and ill-suited people. I am surprised there has not been more colloquial discussion, or indeed formal study, about the opportunities for air rage.<br /><br />I could regale you with a list of sad, bitter observations about the subject (in fact I started but thought better and scratched it out). The grumpy old woman in me says I will never travel again unless it's a charter flight. With Moet.<br /><br />There was one moment though when the ridiculous was if not sublime then truly entertaining. <br /><br />The four galahs travelling together - you know the type: middle-aged, big hair, faux heritage jewellery, best described as aspirational 'ladies who lunch' - were conspicuous as they left the Darwin terminal. The gold-tone highlights on their animal-print luggage nearly blinding in the sun, and their shrieks of "No, REEEEALLLLY??" and "Oh NOOOOWWWWWW!!!" tearing holes in the atmosphere, they dragged trolleys made slow by gargantuan suitcases towards the taxi-less taxi-rank. After some minutes standing in the sun, adjusting their enormous sunglasses with orange-polished fingers, the collective big hair was beginning to wilt. They were sinking like concrete flamingos.<br /><br />Finally a taxi arrived, and the middle-aged European driver got out. He stared at the four galahs, and the galahs (like the abyss) stared back at him. They indicated their travelling gear.<br /><br />"Can you take us and these?" they asked.<br /><br />"Ladies," he sighed, "I am a taxi. You need a removalist."Miss Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06625127146984448283noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21572321.post-56823790310294130752007-08-21T23:43:00.000-07:002007-08-22T23:31:45.142-07:00The Hobart Chronicles XXXIII: [Nearly] Burning Down The House<blockquote><strong>"Get you a copper kettle<br />Get you a copper coil"<br />- Bob Dylan, 1970</blockquote><br /><blockquote>"Three hun-dred six-ty five de-grees<br />Burning down the house"<br />- Talking Heads, 1983</strong></blockquote><br />D’ohmestic Queen (TM). That’s me. While cooking on Sunday, I needed a dash of water to keep the food moist. So as usual I grabbed the kettle which sits nearby and helped myself. No problem.<br /><br />Well, <em>yes </em>problem. I put the kettle down on the stove. The stove element happened to be on. The kettle is – or was – electric. You can imagine what happened next.<br /><br />The error became apparent to me only when I noticed the curry smelt rather synthetic. I turned to see white wisps of evaporating plastic disappearing up the range hood. When I grabbed the kettle and turned it upside down (water cascading everywhere) the plastic had a distinct swirl matching the electric element burned right into its arse end. <em>Kaput</em>. <br /><br />One colleague thought it terrifically amusing. After hearing I’d burnt the kettle, he’d joked that it wasn’t wise to put electric kettles on the stove to boil, ha ha – only to find out that was pretty much what I’d done. How mortifying to realise you are actually as stupid as someone else’s stupid joke.<br /><br />But when I put the kettle out in the rubbish last night, I felt sad. That kettle has served me for 9 years. I remember buying it with a gift voucher from my then employer as a sort of ‘bonus’ – a generous gesture for a not-for-profit organisation, and welcome considering the pittance I was earning. It wasn’t very pretty – no-nonsense white plastic – but it was tough. It held 2 litres. It filled innumerable cups of tea, topped up percolated coffee, and restored hot water bottles to life, whenever it was asked and without complaint. It was the first electric kettle I ever owned.<br /><br />Is it wrong to feel affection for inanimate objects? I was so upset when my old Honda, the Low Flying Lady, broke (or <em>was broken </em>– another story for another time) that I told my then listening audience all about it. Struck with sympathy, they rang in with offers of parts and replacement engines; one even sent me a fax of condolence. (I sold the LFL to a listening farmer for a song who gave it a heart transplant; it’s now living out retirement as a paddock basher near Gunnedah.)<br /><br />Old glasses, favourite mugs, comfy clothes, familiar furniture – they all come to the end of their useful lives and that’s normal. But I still feel a little twinge of grief when they have to go. <br /><br />The only plausible reason I have is, never having known or achieved a truly profligate lifestyle, I tend to keep things for a long time. They begin to grow on me. <br /><br />This was especially true during those halcyon uni years, where every piece of furniture was hard won through relentless scrounging, or lovingly passed from one share-housing hand to another. (I once got a cat this way. In fact, I twice got a cat this way.) Posters were carefully peeled from pub walls when the bouncer wasn’t looking and ferried home under jackets. Glasses were carefully peeled from pub tables and ferried home stashed in backpacks. <br /><br />Even now, of all the furniture I currently own, only two things were bought new (three if you count the washing machine). Everything else is second hand, recycled, reconstructed or donated. My wardrobe is a bit more evenly distributed, and thankfully these days the kitchen is definitely more new stuff than old, not a bad policy when dealing with food.<br /><br />Speaking of new in the kitchen, I tired very quickly of making tea in the microwave, so I've bought a new kettle. It was hideously expensive, for a kettle! But as I may be stuck with it for a decade or so, I decided to have one I enjoy. It’s not copper, but stainless steel, and the green glass lid floats up when the catch is released. It makes a pleasing little ding when it’s boiled. And in memory of its predecessor the old clunker, it’s also a Breville. <br /><br />Vale, Fair Kettle. You’ll be missed.Miss Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06625127146984448283noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21572321.post-16661673852450796122007-08-10T04:53:00.000-07:002007-08-12T23:04:40.279-07:00The Hobart Chronicles XXXII: A Tale They Won't Believe<blockquote><strong>Lean on bar, hands in the pockets,<br />Drain those glasses down like rockets.<br />Weddos, <em>Roaring Days</em>, 1988</blockquote><br /><blockquote>Son, don't be dense! You know it's an offence<br />And you must expect a summons in the morning<br />Weddos, <em>Summons In The Morning</em>, 1988</blockquote><br /><blockquote>It’s a tale they won’t believe,<br />When I get down to Hobart town<br />Weddos, <em>A Tale They Won’t Believe</em>, 1989</strong></blockquote><br />Thus far, have I given you the impression that Slobart is a pleasant, charming and mostly harmless little hamlet?<br /><br />Let me tell you about South Arm.<br /><br />Specifically, the Foreshore Tavern at Lauderdale, on the South Arm.<br /><br />The background to this anecdote is that, courtesy of former housemate WMDamian, I became a Weddings Parties Anything tragic back in the early 90s; one day Weddos will have to reform and do some Christmas gigs when I am in Melbum to enjoy them, but until then I follow the fortunes of Mick Thomas and whatever musical incarnation he is currently in. <br /><br />Well, Mick Thomas & The Go Set’s tour finally brought them to town – two gigs at the southern end of Tasnarnia, one in the north. The first of these was last night, in the outer Slobart suburb of Lauderdale. Lauderdale is located on what’s known as South Arm – it’s a sort of geographical daggy end to the eastern shore, where the proportion of bush scrub is still balanced against fibro houses and beach shacks. At least, I think it’s like that in daylight.<br /><br />Last night, the incessant rain had caused minor flooding and the South Arm road was in fact closed when the high tide covered the asphalt for several hours. Perhaps it would have been better if it had remained covered. As it was, the road was passable if slippery, so that my new colleague Carolyn and I, at a loose end on a Thursday night, managed to navigate the Volvo out there. <br /><br />‘Out there’ really isn’t fair, as it’s only about 30 minutes from my place in town, and about 15 minutes from Carolyn’s temporary house-sit in Bellerive. However, physical distances are, well, <em>concentrated </em>in Tasnarnia – mere meters on the map may translate to a yawning chasm in breeding and manners.<br /><br />I should have paid attention when Carolyn pointed out the feral utes we parked next to, but years in Tamworse have inured me to the sight of CAT mudflaps, Bundy stickers and oversized tyres. I strode confidently into the Foreshore Tavern’s bistro entrance, where the loud noises turned out to be a ‘private party’ being thrown by Heart FM, a Macquarie station which “plays the best music from the 60’s to now” (according to their website). The PA’s volume made the jocks incomprehensible, but from what I could see the listeners appeared to be playing bingo. We backed out of there in a hurry, to look for the front bar.<br /><br />The front bar turned out to be remotely located; although an aerial survey would show it to be in the room next to the bistro, the only way to get from the one to the other was to go outside and walk around the building via the carpark, in the driving rain. Hmmm. <br /><br />Early beers and a counter dinner of fish ‘n’ chips were a tame, if somewhat soggy, affair. With the lights on the décor could be described as Shabby Chic Feral Rooty Hill RSL. One of the pool tables was Out Of Order; the other was missing a ball, the cue ball, the triangle and the cues, none of which stopped us from cobbling together a game. I said hello to Mick Thomas at the bar, causing me the simultaneous shame and thrill which is the bane of the embarrassed tragic.<br /><br />Later, it got dark, and out came the nocturnal wildlife. About three quarters of them must have been of the order <em>Lepidoptera</em>, as despite the downpour they flocked to the light in the outside smoking area. In fact, they seemed to have happily paid their $10 door charge for the privilege of huddling together in this cold, wet corral where you couldn’t hear the band. The few people interested in the music were treated to regular arctic blasts from the door as one or another of this tribe ventured from the smoking area to the bar, and back again. <br /><br />During the No Nos, a Hobart-based support act who played an excellent set of energetic death-rockabilly, the dance floor was populated by exactly two inebriated and unsteady ferret types, one precariously balancing a coke and something in his left hand and a beer in his right. Flannel and workboots whirled mesmerically.<br /><br />But the peacocks, or perhaps galahs, of the night were the young women. Carolyn and I received some valuable fashion insights from their attire, which was clearly their Friday night best. The current uniform seems to require long boots, leggings or skinny jeans, and long jumpers. Muffintop was flaunted, not disguised. One young thing, wearing a long grey-striped jumper over her leggings, made slow, deliberately theatrical dance moves, reminiscent of Madonna in her Vogue era of a decade ago. <em>Strike a pose. Vogue. Move to the music.</em> Her grace was impaired only slightly by the enormous handbag swinging like a wrecking ball from her arm.<br /><br />My personal favourite was a bovine young lass who accessorised her tight pink jumper with a thin white belt – strapped directly under her boobs. It gave the concept of ‘empire line’ a whole new twist. Unfortunately any vigorous dance move meant the belt slipped to her waist, necessitating a pause in dancing to hoick it back up around her ribs. One of her most vigorous dance moves involved dropping to the dance floor in a kind of squat. When she avoided overbalancing (which wasn’t often), her tight jeans slipped so far down she treated observers to at least six inches of plumber’s grin. Dancer’s crack. Scrag’s crack? It was confusing.<br /><br />During the set break the open fire in the centre of the room went out and the mood in the bar moved up a notch. When Mick Thomas hopped up on the stage with his acoustic guitar, the crowd were ready for music – and got an ear-splitting hum of feedback. The sound bloke at the mixing desk, beastly careless, had cranked all his knobs up to eleven and hopped outside for a ciggie. There were no bodies in the first five metres before the stage to absorb the hum. The first three songs, Weddos classics including <em>A Tale They Won’t Believe </em>and the cover of <em>Racist Friend</em>, inflicted auditory damage. Mick scowled at the stream of patrons heading out to join the sound bloke in the cancer corral. The appearance of Squeezebox Wally added harmonies and about another 30dB of feedback. When the mandolin player from the Go Set joined the line up, it didn’t do any damage – because the sound bloke hadn’t bothered to turn on his pickup and he emitted no noise whatsoever. <br /> <br />The mood was turning as ugly as the music. One cultural giant at the rear of the milieu shouted, “Wha’s yer name? Who the fug areya?” Mick paused and fixed him with a stony glare. “I’m your worst fucking nightmare, mate. I’m gonna play folk music all night.”<br /><br />Twenty five minutes was all Mick and Wally could stand and they abandoned the stage. Somewhere close to our left there was a loud crack and the acrid smell of gunpowder. Someone had set off some sort of firecracker. I think it was a firecracker. The Go Set were setting up but Carolyn and I decided that prudence was the better part of valour and before someone came to erect a chickenwire barrier across the stage in preparation for <em>Rawhide </em>we fled the Foreshore Tavern.<br /><br />Perhaps tonight’s gig will be better. It’s at the Brisbane Hotel. In Hobart. Yes, I don’t understand either.Miss Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06625127146984448283noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21572321.post-20500005770740062092007-08-07T21:01:00.000-07:002008-11-15T02:17:05.534-08:00The Hobart Chronicles XXXI: A New Dawn<blockquote><strong>“I sent a message out into the dark”<br />- Ben Lee, 2005</blockquote><br /><blockquote>“Sun in the sky, you know how I feel”<br />- Nina Simone, <em>Feeling Good</em>, 1965</strong></blockquote><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDixawKYLaJ3jV6t6fL2SmyQ5tADYiponcNmwiBraYjMMyGdqT9HJ1C0f5mAE8pHJZ1yz2Ez0jJkIX6T5mwPm44Sg0qs8KqecQn-lKQHZ_tduSr0A_aopawfuP3ura1xghU6UqBQ/s1600-h/MtW_BP1.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDixawKYLaJ3jV6t6fL2SmyQ5tADYiponcNmwiBraYjMMyGdqT9HJ1C0f5mAE8pHJZ1yz2Ez0jJkIX6T5mwPm44Sg0qs8KqecQn-lKQHZ_tduSr0A_aopawfuP3ura1xghU6UqBQ/s200/MtW_BP1.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5096177892320283698" /></a>Let there be light! As the seasons turn, so does the Tasnarnian Mood. The days grow longer, and people’s outlooks seem to lighten in parallel. They smile at strangers in the street; shopkeepers have a bit of a joke. Even the drones at the pickle factory, a pretty grim bunch by long habit, are displaying a new light-heartedness. <br /><br />Does sunlight really matter? 'Ken Oath it does! In Tasnarnia, it’s not the cold (not excessive, especially when properly attired) or the rain (Slobart is the second-driest capital behind bAdelaide) that makes the winters so interminable; it’s the short, short days. <br /><br />By the last weeks of July, the ordinary 9-to-5 wage slave rises in darkness, travels to work through a grey dawn at 8.30am, and at about 5.10pm someone flicks off the big light switch in the sky so you travel home in the darkness. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2qsPprAQtyi9Oiceu71Nz_RYgrVO8cXxbkZzR-0_HG2bMHEevPHDg5AMbiDYaOBYr6NxITYyvfG7PSIb-wexuMvvlIsUh-G6ceYLLxnvbsZlb9-Pj6b4_t8k_wl7lJ72r6nMphw/s1600-h/MtWs13.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2qsPprAQtyi9Oiceu71Nz_RYgrVO8cXxbkZzR-0_HG2bMHEevPHDg5AMbiDYaOBYr6NxITYyvfG7PSIb-wexuMvvlIsUh-G6ceYLLxnvbsZlb9-Pj6b4_t8k_wl7lJ72r6nMphw/s200/MtWs13.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5096178064118975554" /></a>Even snow on Mt Wellington, a novelty in May, has become a curse by July: as the wind whips in from the west, tearing across the mountain and into Slobart, it just worsens the windchill factor by about a million degrees.<br /><br />Of course, Tasnarnia is well above the Antarctic circle, and there are a good couple of hours of daily sunlight even in the depths of winter. It’s not exactly Finland, or Siberia. So what am I whingeing about? <br /><br />Trust me, sunlight matters. I never believed it before coming to the island, but two winters later I’ve come around to the local way of thinking. The short days and long nights drag down normally good-natured people; the local tendency towards taciturnity becomes positively sullen. And by about the third week in July, EVERYONE gets sick. With people’s resistance at a minimum, not even Glen 20 on the mic socks prevents a bad cold spreading like the plague.<br /><br />This is, of course, a hazard in my line of work. It was particularly inconvenient this winter. No sooner do I get several teeth ripped out and a plate installed, giving me a debilitating (if entertaining) lisp, then my colleagues start dropping like flies and I have to get back behind the mic just to keep us on air. (Thank God the plate comes out for times like this). <br /><br />Then I get sick too, just as a few of them (but not enough) are struggling back to work. I sit at my desk, shivering with fever, trying desperately to launch internet streaming by the set start date. I cough so hard the plate just about shoots out of my mouth. The stuffed sinuses make me cranky. Don’t laugh at the lisp, Sunshine, I may just punch yer lights out.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit1syNsG7QNP43dG9TjEPwtNiuABpLGJiJ-RMXSufODzIl0M94mPu1C5-8_HdkkucbMIqRAMriLysCey7GnbKy6lbDURwycPcceiocaJ0PahVoNcsEzUq5Ui-iGMXwu-AANKegtw/s1600-h/Sunset+July+4+crop.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit1syNsG7QNP43dG9TjEPwtNiuABpLGJiJ-RMXSufODzIl0M94mPu1C5-8_HdkkucbMIqRAMriLysCey7GnbKy6lbDURwycPcceiocaJ0PahVoNcsEzUq5Ui-iGMXwu-AANKegtw/s200/Sunset+July+4+crop.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5096177505773227042" /></a>Some time last week, the weather pendulum began its slow swing back the other way. It’s not quite so dark at hometime. You enjoy a pretty red sunrise over breakfast. And people have been transformed! There’s a new sense of goodwill and optimism. Some faces re-learn the art of smiling. Other things are more often right than wrong – live crosses to press conferences, midyear reviews, plans for events, all seem to involve a little less belligerence and heartache. <br /><br />Even my mouth responds. Just 6 days after the brace is installed, I report faithfully back to Dr W, who informs me my teeth have already moved one whole millimetre – a full half of what he wants them to move. Remarkable. No wonder the buggers were hurting. Dr W smiles: “They’re supposed to hurt.”Miss Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06625127146984448283noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21572321.post-30365137348281007052007-07-19T18:01:00.000-07:002007-07-19T18:30:40.959-07:00The Hobart Chronicles XXX: Pleasure and Pain<blockquote><strong>"Sooner or later I'll find my place<br />Find my body better fix my face"<br />- The Divinyls, <em>Pleasure and Pain</em>, 1985</strong></blockquote><br />Well, thish ish going to be a short note. That'sh becaush I have a shpeech impediment, ash you can shee.<br /><br />About 90 minutesh ago I had the shpack filler putty shcraped off my teeth - <em>fantastico!</em> - and had the orthodontic devicsh fitted. <br /><br />The devicsh is a plate, deshigned to push my (remaining) front teeth back into placsh. It should take a couple of monthsh. After that, the final csheramic capsh & bridgework will be done and then, <em>finito</em>. <br /><br />Have you ever had an orthodontic plate? I remember them from unfortunate shchoolmates, and even back then they looked unpleashant. <br /><br />As I shtood in the dentisht's shurgery thish morning, I eyed off the plate with trepedation. The wire hooksh and ringsh protruded shuggeshtively from the transhlucshent fluoro plashtic mould. It drew the eye like a torture devicsh - ugly yet fashcinating, I couldn't look away. <br /><br />The following shesshion in the chair wash, while not exshactly a party, a shmall matter compared to shitting up and facshing the world with the damned thing in. Oncshe I got the dry-retching under control, I realished that I was almosht unable to form coherent shpeech. Having shpent my entire adult life in a professhion where the primary indishpenshible shkill ish talking, thish ish like being mocked by fate.<br /><br />There'sh been no shortage of mocking from my colleaguesh thish morning alsho. Reconshtructive dental work ish one thing you can't hide from other people. I have tried to be a shport about it, but I did demand 6 monthsh' good behaviour from the pershon who ashked me to recshite the "She sells sea shells..." tongue twishter. Ha ha, very funny.<br /><br />Shuffishe to shay (I won't shay THAT trite phrashe again while I've got thish plate in!) I will have to shpend the weekend re-learning how to shpeak, eshpecshially the shibilant shoundsh. <br /><br />Inshtead perhapsh I should work on my Sean Connory impresshion:<br />"Shaken, not shtirred."Miss Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06625127146984448283noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21572321.post-79477267172038091302007-07-11T23:06:00.000-07:002007-07-12T14:52:56.828-07:00The Hobart Chronicles XXIX: Let me see those pearlies<blockquote><strong>“Give me a smile, let me see those pearlies.”<br />- Faith No More, 1989<br /><br />“Smile, tho’ your heart is aching”<br />- Charlie Chaplin, 1934 / Turner/Parsons, 1954</strong></blockquote><br />(I had a post I prepared earlier, but seem to have misplaced it, so sorry, it’s back to the dentist for this one).<br /><br />Okay, so I have been absent for a short while; you must excuse me, I’ve been distracted. And no, there hasn’t been a lot of smiling, at least since Tuesday afternoon.<br /><br />From one hole to four, and we are not talking golf here. All four teeth earmarked for demise have now been removed, as per the Great Dental Reconstruction Odyssey. The third and fourth went on Tuesday. They were incisors, what I believe are called the upper left and right laterals – for non-dental enthusiasts, they’re the ones next to your two big front teeth, the ones Dracula chowed down with. <br /><br />On the suggestion of a friend I decided to keep these two extracted teeth (who knows, the Tooth Fairy might make a reprisal?). Yow, talk about icebergs – there’s a lot more tooth under the gum than over it. It was a bit horrible to think about the size of the holes in my head, but at least it explained the remarkable bruises that have formed on the gum. I did think about posting a picture of them (teeth AND bruises) but as dear readers of the <em>Chronicles </em>are such an exclusive bunch I don’t want to lose any of you. <br /><br />Given that the Odyssey is in large part driven by vanity, seeing yourself with two big gaping holes is quite confronting. No amount of self reassurance along the lines of, it will all be for the best, stops the creeping horrors. When I went in for the followup yesterday, the dental assistant joked, “You can say you’re from Gagebrook now!” (Gagebrook: Slobart suburb from beyond the Flannel Curtain. A place where the children set fire to the buses and and there was a siege the other month with two residents sitting on their roof throwing stones and other missiles at police. For comparison, see Punchbowl, Redfern, Sunshine, Moe – you get the idea.)<br /><br />Yesterday I had the pleasure of having the gaps filled with a type of specialist dental putty. Dr W constructed two falsies which he has glued in place by cementing them to the two front teeth – sort of like the way you might spacfill a hole in the wall. The sensation of gunk smeared across my front four teeth is most unpleasant – rather like smearing chewing gum over them and then not being able to get it off. I can’t bite anything tougher than a sandwich, and in any case the spacfilled creations have no cutting edge. When I speak, I sound like a cross between Alan Searle and Liz Smiley, which is attracting some pretty strange looks from colleagues.<br /><br />ARRRRGGGHH!! I just want to rip them off! But if I can just stand them until next Thursday, they’ll be replaced by a short-term orthodontic device… more to come on this thread, I promise. Or is that a threat?Miss Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06625127146984448283noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21572321.post-54110225066405203232007-06-06T22:34:00.000-07:002007-06-07T01:38:27.745-07:00The Hobart Chronicles XXVIII: Pearly White<strong><blockquote>"Oh, the shark, babe, has such teeth, dear<br />And it shows them pearly white."<br />- Bobby Darin, <em>Mack The Knife</em>, 1959</blockquote><br /><blockquote>"Excuse me, a doormat’s good honest work<br />Only the bored and the wicked rich don’t know that."<br />- Kristin Hersh, <em>Not Like You</em>, 1998</blockquote></strong><br />Apologies for the relative lack of movement on the <em>Chronicles</em>; after the flurry of virtual activity in Sin City, the return to Slobart necessitated a return to more time-demanding work. Besides, I haven’t had much to write, and so writing nothing rather than blathering on is a type of discipline. That’s my excuse, anyway.<br /><br />Now, here’s something worth telling you.* [*if you’re not fond of medical procedures, better move on now to paragraph 7] <br /><br />As of 4.30 this afternoon, there’s (yet another) hole in my life… this one specifically in my lower jaw. It announces that I’ve finally taken the first step on the Great Dental Reconstruction Odyssey. In short, my jaws have always been too small for my teeth, and over the years as they have jostled for space like tectonic land plates, the teeth have become more and more crooked, leading to all sorts of problems. Not being cashed up in my 20s, and then not particularly keen to attempt major dental work in Tamworse where a consulting orthodontist flew in every few weeks, I’ve put off seeking a permanent fix. <br /><br />Also I confess that although tolerant of all kinds of stomach-turning health issues (viz. injections, pap smears), I suffer a primal fear of dentists. If I review all the dental experiences in my life, I can testify to having been consistently treated by unsympathetic sadists too stingy with the anaesthetic who have clearly enjoyed torturing me in the chair and then charging me ruinously for the privilege. I swear I once heard one whisper, “Is it safe?” before starting a drill. So just the minty smell of fluoride solution puts me on edge; the distant mosquito whine of a drill behind a closed door, and it’s all I can do not to run screaming from the blue-uniformed lady at the reception desk.<br /><br />Thus you can imagine my horror when the dentist Dr W showed me the casts of my teeth and explained, using the plaster model, that the bottom teeth were so numerous and big that they had actually deformed the shape of my lower jaw. Mmmm, buckled. Dr W said nothing at all about my upper teeth, but as that cast looked like the false teeth used by the serial killer in the Hannibal Lecter flick <em>Red Dragon</em> (I swear, for once this is <em>not </em>an exaggeration) there was little need to add to this impressive visual evidence. <br /><br />The plan is: 4 teeth out (2 upper, 2 lower), a small bridge for the upper jaw, a plate to shift some of the remaining upper teeth into a better position, and some ceramic veneers, with an ETA of about 6 months. Short of removing 4 (different) teeth and then enduring three years of braces, or simply having the whole lot ripped out and starting again, this seems the best plan. The downside is the sacrificial slaughter of several years of hard-won savings; the upside is that health insurance should take some of the sting out. And, as Dr W pointed out, for every dollar you spend over $1500 a year on medical procedures the federal government gives you twenty cents back, so I stand to recoup close to a gorilla. This was news to me, but as Dr W kindly explained, young and otherwise healthy folk don’t tend to learn this until we get much older and our bits start breaking down. There’s your and my taxes at work – helping the old, the infirm, and me. <br /><br />So today, to begin, Dr W repaired an old filling and then ripped out the first tooth. The filling was actually worse, accompanied as it was by the whining drill. For the extraction, he cranked my gob open, levered the tooth back and forth for about 30 seconds until I thought my jaw would crack, and then the next thing I knew he was packing my mouth with cotton wadding. Out in less than two minutes, and thanks to a heroic amount of anaesthetic I am only feeling the bruising now, some four hours later. I suspect I shall be feeling it for some hours to come. But at least the job’s underway.<br /><br />[*7] Winter has finally set in during the past seven days. Slobartians enjoyed a very long and pleasant indian summer, but we are paying for it now. All the more reason to enjoy indoor activities, including the theatre (both dental and stage varieties).<br /><br />At the weekend I took in <em>Macbeth</em>, staged by the Bell Shakespeare Company at Slobart’s little gem, the Theatre Royal. Each year Bell tours a production to Tasnarnia, and this year he brought us the Scottish play. There’s no doubt the Bard’s old words have much life in them yet, but they have become so familiar you want to shout out those iconic lines in unison with the witches or mad Lady Macbeth. If we lived in a world created by <a href="http://www.jasperfforde.com/">Jasper Fforde</a> (of the excellent <a href="http://www.thursdaynext.com/index2.html">Thursday Next</a> novels – silly and clever at once) Shakespeare would be an interactive event. Something to aim for, maybe.<br /><br />Speaking of aiming for things, I have a long overdue obligation to answer a tag from <a href="http://redsultana.com/me/">Cellobella</a>, the <a href="http://redsultana.com/">Red Sultana</a> who recently commanded the tagged to <a href="http://redsultana.com/2007/05/15/goal-tag/">Name Your Goals</a>. Well ’Bella, I assume you meant 'life goals' or something similar, but here’s some goals for this week. Since I can barely plan beyond this evening, forecasting for the week should be seen for the achievement it is. <br />1. Mop the floor (...okay, I’ll try harder than this! But it does need doing!)<br />2. Get out and see more: more films, theatre, exhibitions, walking and hiking<br />3. Work on my pot-making skills (more on this another time)<br />4. Learn to have a quiet heart<br />5. Finish the Great Dental Reconstruction Odyssey without crying (in front of Dr W at least)<br /><br />And I tag... well, as I think I explained last time, I don't know very many bloggers, and very few of them probably pop by here regularly. So I invite all readers who may NOT be bloggers to <a href="https://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=21572321&postID=5411022506640520323">write a reply</a>. Grin - and bear it.Miss Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06625127146984448283noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21572321.post-79317183116859666432007-05-09T23:17:00.001-07:002007-05-09T23:26:35.065-07:00The Hobart Chronicles XXVII: Ask Me Why<blockquote><strong>“These are the contents of my head”<br />- Eurhythmics, <em>Don’t Ask Me Why</em>, 1989</blockquote><br /><blockquote>“If all our days are numbered<br />Then why do I keep counting?”<br />- The Killers, 2006</blockquote><br /><blockquote>“Why does my soul feel so bad?”<br />- Moby, 1999</strong></blockquote><br />Sin City, day 22 minus 2<br />Overcast, 21 degrees, humidity 81%<br /><br />What a week. Newcastle, then a headcold. The glamour of acting in a flash job in a foreign metropolis – hah.<br /><br />When you grow up you realise that some of the simple things we did as kids were actually pretty good. Why did we put these childish things behind us? <br /><br />I haven’t played tag (we used to call it ‘chasie’) since about Grade 4. Everyone else got taller, putting me at a distinct physical disadvantage, and then it became <em>passe </em>in schoolground fashion.<br /><br />As part of my ‘geek revolution’ (ie. Post-Sydney-Bloggers-Meetup) I have discovered a grown-up-geek version of tag, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Blog_tag">blog-tagging</a>, by the most direct manner – I was tagged by John at <a href="http://www.theinterchangedesk.com/">The Interchange Desk</a>. The tag-task was to explain <a href="http://www.theinterchangedesk.com/2007/05/01/why-i-blog/">Why I Blog</a>. <br /><br />Why do we do anything? Good question.<br /><br />Here are five essentially random reasons why I started, and why I plug away at it with enthusiasm if not great artistry or regularity:<br /><br />• I moved to Tasnarnia to start a new job in a new state and city with no friends and few contacts. I very much wanted to keep in touch with old friends. At the time the BM suggested starting a blog to post updates which any friend could access, and gave me a DIY link, and that’s how The Hobart Chronicles got started;<br /><br />• I had forgotten the discipline of writing; my current line of work does not focus on writing so much as speaking. Blogging reminds me not just to write (stream-of-consciousness stuff is frowned upon as wankery by some of my old mates – funny, that) but to take the kernel of an idea and craft little stories around it. So I blog for practice;<br /><br />• To write, I have to observe. Sometimes, even participate. In life, that is. Believe it or not, blogging is an incentive to dabble in real life occasionally so as to actually have something to blog about;<br /><br />• One day I may like to start a more serious blog, on a serious subject, as a serious professional branching-out. Ahem. Better get into practice now;<br /><br />• And finally I do it because I have an ego. Don’t we all? A person needs an ego to get out of bed every morning, to maintain friendships and relationships, to apply for jobs, to buy new clothes – and to blog. Ego, in moderation, is a healthy part of our psyche. Having relinquished my former ego-feeder, front-line broadcasting, I now blog to keep feeding that ego.<br /><br />There. In the spirit of tagging, I tag <a href="http://redsultana.com/">Red Sultana</a>. I don’t know too many other bloggers yet, but she knows heaps and hopefully will bung this tag onto a few more folk.<br /><br />Tag/chasie got me thinking about other things I’ve rediscovered. If that sounds like a trip straight to second childhood, well – let’s just leave that thought hanging. Here’s a few things:<br /><br />• Der-fred. That expression surfaced from my festering grey matter and popped straight out of my mouth at meeting this morning. One of my colleagues got really excited about it (“I haven’t heard that for aaaaages!”). <br /><br />• Foo. Someone at work recently did a Foo over a partition, and now everyone seems to be doing, or drawing, Foo.<br /><br />• Mud pies. Late last year I signed up for an adult ed course in ceramics (Old Ladyhood, heeeeere I come!) and realised that when you stop beating around the bush ceramics is less about making mugs and more about playing mud pies.<br /><br />There’s lots more that have slipped my atrophied mind just now – will add them when they resurface.Miss Andreahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06625127146984448283noreply@blogger.com0