Reminiscence – Gordon Gregory's blog

repurpose/ˌriːˈpəːpəs/

verb

adapt for use in a different purpose.

I could not conceive of letting it go to the tip or even to the recycling shed.

Our children have a special relationship with The Family Bed.

Our French polisher friend agreed that it was very good piece – English oak, probably over a hundred years old – with elegant carving at the centre of head- and tail-board.

But there is little demand for such items. It was too big for the modern market and style; the springs sagging helplessly (the mattress stiffened with large sheets of plywood underneath). And it was too high for many, especially young ‘uns.

I thought I’d lost it. But thanks to our friend Bill, it was repurposed in time for Christmas 2023.

My special thanks to Bill for the vision, ingenuity and industry – and to anyone else at the men’s shed in Hughes who helped him. For it certainly makes a lekker [lek-uh] two-person seat.

John Kerin – a personal reflection

Working on the Ministerial staff of John Kerin was a privilege. He rarely gave orders to his staffers. Instead, he annotated Ministerial documents, uttered brief comments and requests, and made known his preferences for next-stage documents through what he heard and said in the thousands of meetings he held.

The Departments for which he was responsible, whether Primary Industries, Primary Industries and Energy, the Treasury, Transport and Communications or Trade and Overseas Development, all served him well. Their officers knew him; they grew to like him. They soon learned to trust him and to respect his working ways. Departmental officers were very rarely kept waiting for the return of Ministerial documents from his office: he liked to get through the paperwork.

Part of the duty of his Ministerial staffers was to sustain and augment this mutual respect between Minister and public service. The staffer’s capacity to hide behind the Minister’s wishes was treated with respect when dealing with departmental staff.

John Kerin undertook an enormous amount of official travel, mainly in Australia but also overseas as required. He had an encyclopaedic knowledge of places, people and industries in regional and remote areas. In his travels he was always willing to do the work necessary for success, always cheerful. And he took those rural insights to the metropolitan places to which he went.

He was a living bridge between the people of rural industries and ‘members of the Board’.

As a member of his staff, one’s hope was to ensure that he was informed of all relevant information needed to make a decision in the national interest. He was pleased to be an economist and proud to have become Australia’s number one in that profession. But he had no pleasure in knowing that so many members of the profession he joined had blind faith in small government and market forces.

For John Kerin the national interest was something real – almost tangible – albeit complex in terms of the factors determining what it looked like. When faced with hard decisions the national interest was in the room, openly discussed, which meant seeing through the self-interest of powerful people and vested interests.

He did not trust privatisation, deregulation and the outsourcing of public services. He was always opposed to the trickle-down thesis, including the notion of the trickle-down benefits of tax cuts.

By staying on his staff for over seven years I was able to provide him with some continuity. This was especially useful towards the end when the Ministerial road became bumpier. A Minister with a new portfolio has plenty to worry about without the challenge of finding suitable staff.

When working with him almost everyone with whom I came into contact had more technical nous than me, more intellectual capacity, and more commercial experience.

But they did not have the Ministerial confidence and trust given to a loyal retainer.

I think I was able to provide what John Kerin needed on the personal (and personable) front – as a friend who was always around but did not interfere nor expect too much. I helped to satisfy his need for friendship and civility in his workplace. And it helped that there was a shared sense of empathy and fairness for those affected by decisions made.

The high-level technical support required by a Minister in economics, production, commerce, management and governance could be provided by others who would come and go.

In a well-functioning Minister’s office there also needs to be someone with sufficient patience to deal with people who will not go away: those bearing gifts, the eccentric and the confused. I was that person who, by dealing in a kindly fashion with such ‘enthusiasts’, could help maintain the good reputation of the Minister.

Just once in my seven years with him John gave me a very direct order. We were in the Russian Far East talking about trade relationships. Kerin was being welcomed by means of a rollicking dinner which, if I recall correctly, featured vodka and dancing of a traditional late-night-folk variety.

Towards the end of the evening some of the local staff sang a Russian song in Kerin’s honour. He and June were momentarily panicked: how could we possibly reciprocate and maintain our delegation’s good face? He ordered me to sing Travelling down the Castlereagh – which I did.

Like everything else one did with John Kerin, it was professionally appropriate for its time and place but it was also fun. Given his absolute detestation of war, drinking and dancing in the Russian Far East would now seem both unlikely and inappropriate. But as a self-confessed humanist by nature, John Kerin would, I’m sure, ask us to distinguish between the Russian people on the one hand and their leaders on the other.

Rest in peace John.

An alternative phonetic alphabet

Novello N1 A pee Relief Brick Goodness’ sake A pee Nerve Brick Lope Oranges A pee Goodness’ sake Two N1 Novello Ralston!

A – Gardner

B – Mutton

C – Highlanders

Seaforth Highlanders, a line infantry
regiment of the British Army.

D – bulldozer

E – Brick

F – Vescence

G – Staff

H – N1

I – Novello

J – Oranges

K -Teria

L – Leather

M – Sis

N – Lope

O – a Pee

P – Relief

Q – Tickets

R – Mo

S – Ralston

T – Two

U – Nerve

V – La France

W – Quits

X – Mation

“*exformation*: those unsaid, sometimes taboo
and very large areas of knowledge that exist
but are not present in fact”
(Tor Nørretranders, The User Illusion, 1998).

Y – Goodness’ sake

Z – Elli

Season’s greetings from 35 years ago

Some of my time is still spent tidying papers in what is called The Shack here at home in the ACT. For whatever reason I find it impossible to throw away papers I have collected and stored, some for many years. A timely find, given the arrival of the 2021 New Year, is a handwritten document headed The Season’s Greetings, dating from early 1986. It is reprinted here without amendment (or apology).

The Season’s Greetings

We had a bag of pears today from Mrs Cole. Packham’s I believe. Pears with a few blemishes; odd sizes; in a plain plastic carry-bag. And I realised how far away from our everyday lives were fruit trees: the days at Kentucky when we were surrounded by orchards, and at Beardy Street where we had a nectarine right at the picture window; those things have changed.

Our address is no longer Beardy Street for those who are uncertain. We now have traffic of almost metropolitan proportions at our front windows and, at the back, one tree. Were it not for the pears we would hardly know it’s autumn; the tree is an evergreen (Laurel?).

Mrs Cole is a symbol of our new life: a much-needed new friend of the older generation, a potential babysitter, a neighbour, a Canberra dweller. So she has to take on the roles previously played by Ella, Pearl, Reg and Daisy, and Eileen. The home-based one of the couple is of course the one in greatest need of a Mrs Cole; the other has workmates and non-family distractions. The need for these is substantial: Parri is it that frightful age – big enough to reach, not old enough to teach – cute to look at briefly, sticky to hold. Tadryn, according to Alpha, is in a phase of pleasant disposition; characteristically, nude. Pella and Tauri seem to me to have swapped dispositions, she now fractious, rude, disobedient, he quite a reasonable pleasure to be with. And he’s as brown as a berry too, and already has the sort of shoulders I’ve been trying to develop for 40 years.

I was trying for three months to swim two lengths underwater. The week after I finally did it, one of Tauri’s friends did three lengths without any trouble. He wets his bed at night though.

Canberra is the most expensive city in Australia: food and housing, mainly. We were paying $125 per week for renting a 4 bedroom place for the first three months; hated the agents – especially the agents! – hated the house, hated the garden: dark and soggy. Our mortgage on this place is the same weekly rate. The pool, the spiritual centre of the house for the duration of the warm weather, is at the very back and properly secluded. (I do, Alpha doesn’t.)

Tauri and Pella attend Hughes Primary School, located some 150 yards down from our house. There are shops there too: garage, chemist, supermarket, fish shop, bottle shop. Buses go past our front door,- several in an hour during rush hours! – one way to ‘the city’, the other to Woden, the shopping centre which dwarfs ‘the city’ in shops although not in office buildings, hotels/motels or civic places.

One of Canberra’s characteristics is unpeopled civic places; grey be-fountained squares, mini-Soviets, with flagstones untrodden and seats unbummed. This because it seems to be a car city, whether because of its design or its people I’m not certain. Out of your car, into your workspace; out of your car, into your home. As one would expect of a car city, the network of roads is magnificent: large roundabouts, dual carriageways and, on some, an additional fast bus lane. And traffic lights! – Oh those traffic lights.

We had the house done last week for fleas, ants, bugs, vermin et cetera; Parri is still here. As well as the vermin, the house has a number of special effects such as we haven’t had before: heaters in several rooms, exhaust fans in kitchen and shower, a second toilet and shower (en suite – off our bedroom), variable light in the living room, and fly screens.

Alpha is soon to become an Australian citizen, without having to renounce Canuck-ship. The ACT Education Authority, for which our bank manager thinks she should work, is part of the Federal public service, for which Strine Cinship is a sine qua non. Such aspects of status are no bar to home-based preschool music activities, which are due to start next week.

Editorial comment.

The piece is a reminder of the relative luxury to which we moved when we left Beardy Street in Armidale: some house heaters – and a variable light switch in the living room, which is unchanged to this day! The final paragraph is outstanding in its significance for it marks the beginning of Alpha’s Pied Piper work which became a core activity until 2020. Also significant is the fact that, as yet, there is no work with choirs mentioned. It is notable that at the time the ACT was part of the Federal jurisdiction, not an independent political entity. The swimming pool remains central to the residents’ feel for the home – perhaps Brad would enjoy reading this piece?

On the nature of giving – and the giving of Nature

As a number of people know, I have had a serious long-term relationship with cowslips (Primula veris). Some of the background to this unrequited fascination is revealed in a piece posted to my blogg (www.aggravations.org) on 24 July 2016: The tale of a cowslip, in which I reveal “my love of cowslips and a new-found admiration for civil engineering earthworks”.

Visiting the UK in 2011 we happen upon a very small clump of cowslips in a suburban gateway. I insist on photographs.

Later on during that same trip those first photos become immaterial. I cause some confusion for other drivers at a junction near Shepton Mallet (Babycham anyone?) by circumnavigating a roundabout on which grows a fine crop of cowslips guarded by a flock of concrete sheep.

Leicester? Dorset? Hampshire? No: Shepton Mallet, Somerset

When one is on a holiday, as I then was, one of the matters that can cause anxiety is remembering to take a gift for those of your family and friends who are on the nearside of a notional line separating those in the must-get-a-present set from everyone else.

When it comes to the giving of gifts it seems to me that there are two stand-out types. One – in my experience the majority – get around to the job late in their time away or on holiday and then carry it out with a sense of duty, trying to match a gift with what they believe the recipient might find amusing. As long as it fits into the carry-on bag. (Hands up those who remember the carry-on bag.)

How I wish I was in the second notable type: the Great and Thoughtful Givers. They seem to carry round a sort of mental spreadsheet, specifying each friend’s particular quirks and interests. This database is close to the top of their consciousness and regularly accessed. Set this person down in a second hand bookshop, at a garage sale or in an antique shop and they seamlessly make the connection between an object they spot and the person in their network, family or friend, for whom it would provide pleasure.

I am lucky enough to be in the network of one of the very best of the Great and Thoughtful Givers. The captain of the team.

However the particular incident recorded here was not of the antique shop variety; rather, it was Internet-assisted. Knowing of my harmless obsession as well as my birthday, this person searched the Internet for an Australian source of cowslips. Perhaps surprisingly a nursery in Queensland came up trumps. (allrareherbs.com.au)

While researching this story it has come to my attention that a Ms S. of Queanbeyan sourced a cowslip or two from Lambley’s in Ascot near Ballarat in Victoria, which seems much more likely (info@lambley.com.au).

Anyway, for my birthday I was presented with a small, green soggy mass, somewhat seaweed-like, in a minuscule plastic container, with the clump itself surrounded by what appeared to be damp blotting paper and protective layers of cardboard and string – also damp.

It was a thrill to see the plastic tag specifying the entity’s apparent botanical form:

[I’ve tried every which way to take a sharp photo. It’s small.] Attractive English wildflower. Tea from the whole plant, particularly the flowers, is sedative and pain relieving. Cool position, protected and partly shaded. Perennial; 0.3m x 0.25m.

But such was the unprepossessing nature of the item that it seemed likely that hope and trust would fail to triumph over any probability of a future life. ‘Unprepossessing’ is a gentler description than spindly and forlorn-looking.

Anyway it was set into one of my best little ceramic pots and placed gently down in first one and then another spot near the back door considered ‘highly desirable’. Time passed, as do the season’s blossoms. Such was the lack of change in the condition and countenance of the item that some days came and went without me stopping and stooping to inspect it. To all intents and purposes it was sometimes forgotten!

About a week ago, on Tuesday 6 October 2020, the miracle happened:

One should never doubt the resilience of nature and the power it has over us mere mortals, sometimes exercised in a pernicious fashion. But together with Nature we can do miracles. And humankind isn’t all bad. Some have in their own nature the capacity to think kindly of those they know and to brighten the world with little parcels of goodness.

Facebook is a friendly foreign country

Being on Facebook is like being away alone at a favourite holiday spot.

You’re very familiar and comfortable with the place; many of the other guests are people you Like. You have at least a passing familiarity with all of them. And just a few of those knocking about are by now close acquaintances with whom you’ve been sharing nodded greetings for years. And with some of that smaller number you’ve had a drink at the bar or a ramble on the mountain. Just now and then there are new people around who presumably have just discovered the well-kept secret that is your preferred bolthole. You nod a hello.

It’s a place one can still get to, despite the pandemic. No travel restrictions, no borders.

But if you go there alone, part of ‘Who You Are’ will be unknown to those of your family and friends who don’t go there. The more time you spend abroad in that friendly country, the more of you will be hidden from their comprehension.

Where one’s immediate family is concerned, if they aren’t on Facebook spending time there yourself may seem like a betrayal: one is choosing to be away from them. They will have no idea of the existence of You Abroad nor know the purpose or outcomes of your time spent there. Perhaps they are entitled to ask: “Who did you see? What did you think? What did you do?”

The force of this fanciful syndrome was brought home to me just recently. Alpha, who is risk averse, called me out for having divulged her Facebook and email addresses to the public by posting them on Facebook. This is a person who, advised by a close friend who works in cyber security, shreds separately any printed material that shows our address; and who, despite very little scientific evidence about the value of it, wipes down with a detergent solution everything that enters her kitchen. (Should you be invited to dinner, please be aware that you might be met at the door with an abundance of caution – a phrase for the times.)

Anyway, I could not for the life of me recall having transgressed in this fashion. So, like a self-obsessed archaeologist, I set about hunting through past postings on Facebook to see when and why I had committed this wrong.

It was quite frankly fascinating to skim what I have posted since I started on 1 July 2016. The first post was a long piece (hah! the pattern was set!!) about rural health in the Federal Election. [The five ‘Likes’ of that first post were from friends who are still spending time in our secret place today. You know who you are: Rachel, Viv, Anne, Denny and Steve. And thanks for the company.]

(That’s me down there – in white – at the top of Red Hill. The restaurant top left on nearer horizon.)

With the digging down I found reminders of a few special occasions and of many ordinary ones. There were everyday walks, cycle rides, and pottering in the back garden in all weathers but enjoying in particular the colours and the rude, unbridled energy of the four past Springs. I was impressed, not by any quality of the works or by insights they provide to my way of the world, but just by the evidence of how much time and energy I must have put into this Facebook anthology. I’ve been away from home a lot.

People in your network who don’t follow you will have an incomplete impression of who and what you are.

This includes members of your immediate family. There are seven in mine. One of them eschews interaction with Facebook entirely and always has done. Three are occasional users. One uses the platform but not for reading anything posted by family members. And two are avid, interested and Friendly.

So just imagine the varied volumes of evidence they must have about my meanderings! When they all gather to farewell me after the Last Post, they will have different levels of comprehension of me. Some of them should recall the brief moment when the question “How Green was Trevally?” gave the sort of insider pleasure in which one’s personal family should all share. They will have a more detailed view of walks on Red Hill and celebrations of the shortest day.

Fishy business to enjoy one’s own jokes –

Perhaps that final farewell should be in two parallel parts: one for those whose knowledge and understanding of who I was includes information and clues from my time Abroad; the other for those who knew me only from the personal interaction we had. Or those in attendance could be divided in two, as at a wedding: “Facebook friends this side madam; Busy People and technophobes to the right”.

So what did I discover about the publication of my wife’s email address? I had to trawl back to 26 January 2018 to find the offending article. It celebrated the news that Alpha had been awarded an OAM for services to music in the ACT. The post received 79 comments. It has now been edited to omit Alpha’s email and Facebook contacts.

Not long after I had finished this archaeological dig, I received an unsolicited offer to produce (for “a very reasonable price”) a hardcopy book in full colour of selected bits of my Facebook posting history. Perhaps it was coincidence or, more likely, a flag goes up when someone reaches back into their postings and some entity spies a commercial opportunity. I didn’t mind – in fact I bought one of those books a few months ago. It now sits on what used to be called the coffee table in the front room. It lies there like some secret repository of time spent guiltily overseas, away from the nest.

Perhaps I should stay home, locked up in my native country. But being abroad and alone frees the imagination, widens the view, and outreaches the horizons.

leanne@ruralhealth: the woman behind the email address

It was the end of an era last week with Leanne Coleman’s departure from the National Rural Health Alliance (NRHA) to work on the staff of Kristy McBain, MHR, the Member for Eden-Monaro.

For a quarter of a century people involved with the health and well-being of those who live in rural and remote Australia have been receiving messages from leanne@ruralhealth.org.au. Thousands upon thousands of people have been provided with information from that source about events related to improving rural health and well-being. The information has been provided in good time, with precision and, continually, with an inclusiveness based on Leanne’s polite indifference to the status or position of people who care for – or might be persuaded to care for – the well-being of those in danger of being left behind simply because of where they live.

This natural ability of Leanne to deal with all people in the same open, respectful and task-oriented fashion, irrespective of their formal status, was first observed when she worked in the office of John Kerin in Parliament House. In her time on John Kerin’s staff, Leanne served as Personal, Cabinet and Appointments Secretary.

In that last position she was required to manage the Minister’s diary; arrange travel and accommodation for him and his staff; and organise meetings. Following the Minister’s decision, it was Leanne’s job to inform people and to make all of the arrangements for a meeting to happen – or not, because there were always more requests than could be met. As Minister for Primary Industries and Energy, John Kerin undertook an immense amount of travel, both within Australia and overseas. His diary was a thing of great logistical complexity, especially as he liked to be in his electorate in south-west Sydney for the party’s branch meetings on Monday nights.

Flowers from Helen, designed by Catherine

John Kerin was one of those who attended a celebratory dinner last week to recognise the value of Leanne’s service to him and, even more so, to the people of rural Australia during her 25 years at the NRHA. By the time she joined the NRHA this young woman from Queanbeyan had become a mature and valuable asset to any organisation with administrative complexity and the aspiration to grow its effectiveness, its policy footprint and its contacts database.

It would be quite unfair to equate Leanne’s email address with the woman herself. But the reality is that many thousands of people who have never met her face-to-face have had the opportunity to contribute to better health for rural people because of Leanne’s networking abilities. And her main means of communication, since its arrival on the scene, has been email.

In her later years at the NRHA her substantive job was as Manager of Programs and Events, a position she took over from Lyn Eiszele, from whom she learned the ropes of professional conference organising. In this capacity Leanne was responsible for every aspect of the administration, promotion, budget and (in conjunction with the NRHA’s policy staff) professional content of the biennial National Rural Health Conference. This is the NRHA’s largest and most important project and Leanne has played a key role in building and maintaining the reputation of the event, both for its contribution to professional developments in rural and remote health, and for its culture. Leanne was also responsible for leadership of the Conference team of staff and volunteers.

The Conference has won awards for education and for social responsibility and through Leanne the NRHA has provided advice and support on conference and event management to other like-minded organisations.

But Leanne’s effective leadership and management of the conference and other meetings is put in the shade by her roles with the NRHA’s social media presence and content. Leanne almost single-handedly invented, grew and managed the NRHA’s Twitter, Facebook, Instagram and Youtube activities. While other members of staff were busy tending their own gardens, Leanne – recognising the potential value of the new platforms and methods to an organisation like the NRHA – just got down and did it.

Friends of the Alliance is a group of people and organisations who know the NRHA well and seek to support its work. So its members are people who will not only recognise the email address but will have had sufficient contact with the real Leanne to recognise her unique qualities and to value her friendship. They are among the lucky ones.

Our recent dinner in Canberra – appropriately socially distanced and with only a small amount of singing – was testament to the high esteem in which those who know Leanne hold her. Two past Chairpersons phoned in to thank Leanne for her service. And Warren Snowdon, on a dodgy phone link from Alice Springs, recognised that the greater challenges posed by engagement with people in remote areas and Aboriginal communities were never too much for her.

John Kerin braved the unlit external stairs at the venue to reflect on Leanne’s time well-served in his office; and the bolder or more loquacious of her NRHA colleagues, past and present, who we could fit into the COVID-restricted space, ventured various warm opinions as to her contributions, work ethic and manner. Frank built a nice slide show with photos from meetings, conferences and Christmas parties. The opportunity to contribute at the dinner was missed by many ex-colleagues who were unable to be out or could not be accommodated.

Simon, Jenny and Dave aka 60%of Skedaddle

Photography for the evening was in the hands of Janine Snowie, much loved by RAMUS scholars everywhere and by her colleagues at the NRHA.

For me the happiest tenor of the views exchanged at the dinner was that while the NRHA and rural people around the nation will miss Leanne a great deal, their loss is Eden-Monaro’s gain. The point was aptly made by Kristy McBain, Leanne’s new employer, who also phoned in her best wishes. Kristy was met with threats from around the table to pull her arms off if she fails to look after Leanne.

I’m sure she won’t fail. Together the two of them will be part of a great team.

Much to report – September 2008

Note: I have never kept a personal, narrative diary. But I have quite often written about personal matters; usually about sporting endeavour and, until now, just for the family. I have come across this ‘Match report’ and am re-producing it here mainly because, quite unexpectedly, it records the time and manner of my Parkinson’s diagnosis. The other reason for publishing it is to see if a critical mass can be found (Phoebe plus at least two others) for me to begin the practice of publishing more of my match reports to a wider audience than four children and their mother – two of whom are not the slightest bit interested in cricket or hockey anyway.

Match reports

September to November 2008

There’s something about celebrating changes in the seasons that appeals to me. Some of you may recall that in the past I have occasionally written special messages relating to work and/or play to coincide with the equinoxes and solstices.

Thus it was that on 1 September 2008, the first day of spring, I thought I would write a reflective piece for family and friends. Having recently been to both my GP and an osteopath complaining of general stiffness in the trunk and shoulders, I remember thinking on my walk that day that the piece might be about how important it is to be mobile.One sees so many people in the shopping mall or on the street with troubled gaits: knees or hips that clearly don’t work properly. My stiffness was nothing to complain about, being attributed by me to a pursuit — hockey — which almost by definition attests to one’s continued mobility. However I do remember that morning thinking how much elasticity, spring and bounce had been lost from my stride. The bigger problem on my walks, however, was still the psychological effect of even slightly heavy breathing, never mind real hyperventilation.

It was this psychological issue that took me to see my GP and friend Andrew. During that visit, almost as an afterthought, I had demonstrated to him the tremor in my right hand. Andrew’s response had been almost comic: “You’re putting that on!” On being assured that I was not, he recommended a visit to a specialist on Wednesday 3 September to rule out, as Andrew kindly put it, Parkinson’s.

The fact that he ruled it in, and the manner in which he did it, became part of our collective family lore. I didn’t even notice that he apparently dyed his hair red; but it was Alpha’s chief objection to his practice.

Alpha and I were both a bit surprised by the diagnosis – never mind the hair – and failed to ask many of the questions which subsequently occurred to us about this new situation. Some of those questions were clarified at our second visit when, with little modesty, he informed us that his research had been partly instrumental in categorising the tremors associated with Parkinson’s.

[The NRHA’s] CouncilFest started two weeks later and there must have been some hockey in between but nothing of the results is recorded in my diary or clearly in my memory. Suffice it to say that we finished about seventh out of 11 in fifth grade and were given a lifeline to a medal by being invited to play off for sixth grade. [Presumably the teams that finished 1-4 played off in 5th grade finals, with those that finished 5-8 being given an extra week’s hockey by playing off for 6th grade medals?] However it was not to be and our narrow loss was followed by the usual swearing of good faith to each other in the bar for yet another season next year.

After CouncilFest there was one free Saturday and then another before, all too soon, the cricket season began on 11 October. I am not sure if it is an omen of things to come but I will confess to having utilised Google maps to find out the precise location of Taylor Park in Queanbeyan – Leanne’s cheery hello on the phone via James that it was “the one near Macca’s” having been insufficient for me to fix it in my mind.

Once there I realised that it is the pitch where I umpired at one of the very few championship victories with which I have been associated. I was coach of Tadryn’s team and we won the final there. And just on the other side of the road is the tiny little soccer field where I also did some parenting and ball watching, on a pitch which is so miniature that it suggests the age group of the players at that time must have been less than double figures.

Leigh was at the cricket, and Pat our captain, and Josh, and the brothers Stott. And there at last was Lindsay, resplendent and immaculate as ever, and once he hove into view the cricket season had really begun. Pat won the toss and elected to bat: we only had about seven there and in any case it was very hot. We seem to have been in this position before. And, as on previous occasions, our number was boosted by somebody’s son and somebody’s nephew and somebody’s uncle and a friend of somebody’s niece.

We were playing ANU so it was clearly going to be a Gentlemen versus Players sort of affair, with ANU all cerebral, refined and studied, and Queanbeyan sixth grade more mud and muscle. I umpired for a bit. Josh flailed and failed, and Lindsay was given out lbw from the other end.

Nothing can attest more clearly to how deeply ingrained cricket is in my psyche than the fact, the real fact, that a significant portion of my nightmares over many years have been related to being caught unprepared for an innings: not having enough time to put the pads on, to find the box and place it, to tuck the trousers into the long socks, find a bat, put on the gloves. In my dream it becomes a sort of hopeless rush of unpreparedness, a losing battle against time which, nevertheless, never culminates in anything as bad as being given ‘timed out’.

I went in at five or six, nervous enough but quite prepared, and joined Leigh. He smashed the ball all over Taylor Park — 10 sixes — and made exactly 100 before being dismissed next ball. {Postscript: Paul, who was scoring, swears that one of his own singles was recorded inadvertently as Leigh’s but has agreed that it would be entirely inappropriate to divulge this to Leigh today – but perhaps some time during the end of season club dinner?} Of the 70 or 80 that Leigh and I put on, mine was a sedate 20.

We were lucky that when it came time for us to take the field a fine cloud was spread over the sky, sparing us from the worst of the early spring’s heat. We were also lucky that the ANU team, cerebral or not, proved inept and/or unlucky in the batting department. Josh was too quick, Pat too accurate and Leigh, on top of his batting, also could not be denied in the wickets department.

For a while it looked as though the exception would be one of their opening batsman, who had a whippy swing of the bat which reminded me of a good golf driver, with which he dispatched the ball a couple of times over the boundary at mid-wicket. When it came my turn to bowl I was rather hoping to bowl at the other batsman and for a while my luck held. However at the beginning of my second over the dasher was facing: but once again Lindsay and I proved that, together, we were up to the task. I pointed to the orange boundary cone at mid-wicket and invited Lindsay to station himself close to it. The first ball (can you believe that I can really remember such trivial things!) was on a good length but very wide of his leg stump. The second ball was right in the slot and he whipped it towards said cone and fielder, with the ball never rising above 5 feet from the ground. Lindsay trundled in and fell forward as if he had been pole-axed to take the catch – and for 10 days thereafter was showing off his broken hand to anybody who would look and listen. It was, he feared, “broken in several places” but made a miraculous recovery in time for the next game. At Taylor Park that day we made 166 and bowled ANU out for about 60.

The next match was special for me from the beginning, because Tadryn was in town and we were almost certainly going to be short: have we ever not been? Pella was with him and also cousin Alyssa from Regina. This of course made it a real family day so Alpha also came to a place in the Tuggeranong area whose name I forget. Mic – making his debut for the year – and Lindsay – earning a quid on Saturday morning – were both late so Pat asked me to pad up and prepare to be ‘first drop’. Tadryn was accorded even greater respect, being asked to open the batting with Nic Stott. I was very proud watching him lunge forward with exaggerated care and less proud than anxious when he tried a couple of generous drives. He always used to get out, even when set, with a generous drive, either hitting it in the air or simply not hitting it at all.

Mic arrived with Tadryn and Nic still at the crease and after some reintroductions Mic was invited by Pat to pad up and go in next. Generous and understanding as ever, Mic demurred, suggesting that if Gordon were still to go in next he might have the chance to bat with Tadryn. Which is what happened. Nic hit a lofted drive to long on where one of the few in the fielding side who seemed equipped with considerable athleticism duly took the catch.

It was a great thrill for me to be in the middle with Tadryn and to have mother, sister and cousin all in a position to observe if not entirely to understand. The bowling was only moderately tidy and Tadryn drove, carved and clipped his way to 46 before being bowled off the outside edge and possibly his pad. So then I was able to bat with Mic. Pat gave me out lbw, possibly to make way for someone whose approach to scoring was more aggressive, and it was Nic, I think, who gave Mic out in the same fashion, with the batsman wandering forward 2 or 3 yards but still not complaining about the decision. Our total was 180 odd.

Everything went right when we bowled and fielded, with all catches held and no batsman getting on top of us. The undoubted highlight of the day — possibly of the year – – I observed from cover point. The batsman hit a top edge a huge distance in the air with the ball destined to come back to earth somewhere between our wicketkeeper, our square leg and Lindsay (who else) at fine leg. Having a good view of proceedings and plenty of time, I did briefly consider calling from cover point about whose catch it should be, but being confused perhaps by the numerous possibilities, failed to say anything at all. The wicketkeeper, the square leg and Lindsay made gentle progress towards each other, gingerly eyeing the towering trajectory carved by the small red object. Lindsay then called out, with rather a sense of resigned duty more than intended triumph: “Oh I’ll have a go at it!” Tadryn, who was at mid-on and had a different view of the affair, swears that Lindsay’s feet, arms and head made distinctly differential progress towards the ball. The feet were the first to call a halt; the hands second and the head third — with the result that Lindsay toppled gently forward like a drawbridge, failing to trouble the ball’s progress – although he himself claimed to have just got a finger onto it.

The tenor and content of Lindsay’s call, not the drawbridge effect, saw Tadryn and me chuckling hopelessly for the remainder of the over, during which the ball fortunately did not come in our direction.

Everyone who bowled had impressive statistics: Mic 2 for 8, I think, and Paul 3 for 7. The end was dignified for us by the sight of Mic’s brother-in-law, Lawrence, from America, at extra cover (in a borrowed white shirt) making a brave if involuntary stop with his chest or neck.

So again we had won by 100 runs or so. It had been a real family occasion. As well as Alpha, Pella and Alyssa there was Gill, my goddaughter; Leanne, my long-term colleague; Lawrence and Mic’s sister – who was carrying not only a child but, more visibly, a small dog who looked very much like Jambo. Little or no thought had been given to matters of gait and mobility, except of course when reflecting on Lindsay’s catch.

ends

Pounds, shillings and common sense

coins

Parri has asked me to explain pounds, shillings and pence. It’s a pleasure to do so.

It’s very straightforward. Let me explain from the bottom up, in ascending order of munificence.

There are two farthings in a hayp-nie and (obviously) two haypnies in a penny. The penny is a large, confident coin, much in circulation, so tends to feature prominently in conversation, as in “A penny for your thoughts”, “In for a penny, in for a pound”, “When the penny drops”, and “Turning up (frequently and at inappropriate moments) like a bad penny”.

Mind you, the haypnie can justifiably claim to be important in reminding us of how some of the world became pink for a while on the school atlas through the travails of England’s sailing vessels, which were rarely “spoiled for the want of a haypnie’s worth of tar”. (I am inclined to believe that the reference to tar in a ship’s caulking pre-dated the tar hollered for in ‘Click go the shears’, in which the focus on ‘ship’ is replaced by ‘sheep’.)

The configuration of the penny-farthing bicycle becomes visibly clear once there is familiarity with those two staples of the currency.

Together, farthings, haypnies and pennies are ‘coppers’ – not to be confused with Dixon of Dock Green (Jack Warner) who is also.

There is no two-penny piece, except when coined in language, as in “I couldn’t give you tuppence for your old watchchain, old iron, old iron” (Lonnie Donegan).

Three pennies are of course thruppence, represented by the thruppeny bit. Just why the thruppeny bit has so different a shape and hue I don’t know. It’s almost as if it’s an interloper from across the seas, its twelve sides and strange colour promising the mystery and curiosity of far-off realms and climes.

There was also a silver thruppenny bit, scarce in my time – an anachronism with the very special added attraction of being seen only on one’s spoon amidst a piece of mum’s Christmas pud. But as the youngest of four boys, and as Parri will understand, I rarely got one – – (!!).

Two thruppeny bits make a tanner (6d) and two tanners a bob (1/-). With a tanner, a boy is rich, with his expectations in the sweet shop probably affected more by physical than financial limitations: perhaps his inability to see over the sweet shop counter.

As a cub scout I participated in ‘Bob a Job Week’ although, living on a farm, there were precious few doors to knock on so that the jobs done were probably remunerated at one shilling each by my mother – jobs which, in all probability, I ought to have been doing anyway if any sort of a son.

A two shilling piece (“two bob”) promises thrilling possibilities for a young boy – and is something of which one might boast to one’s peers. Great aunts might refer to it as a ‘florin’ but I would rather have been dead than to have used such an out-dated term.

Naturally there are twenty shillings in a quid – but never “twenty bob”. Ten bob is denominated in the first bank note of which I was aware. If you have ten bob it could be as a single orangey-brown note, ten separate shilling pieces, five two-shilling coins, or (most gratifying of all!) as four half crowns – or, less symmetrically, a combination of all of these.

You will now see that half-a-crown (the indefinite article is permissible with the singular only – “two half-crowns” not “two half-a-crowns”) is “two and six” (2/6) but never “two and sixpence”.

That’s odd because two shillings and four pence (“2/4”) is never spoken as “two and four”. I suppose that’s because two and six is denominated in a single coin, whereas two and anything else is not.

The half-crow is a coin of such heft and majesty that it requires a paragraph all its own. A boy could not pocket one without being impressed by its considerably greater thickness and weight than its cousin two bob piece – even though its value in the bank is only one-fifth greater. A half-crown is a saving or investing matter, quite over the top in the sweet shop! Together with its weight, something about its markings connotes grandness and seriousness.

A half-crown is seen now and then even by young boys. But never a crown. Never. Unless in a display cabinet in some museum after it has probably been ‘undenominated’ by the making of a hole in it and its presentation to an admiral of the fleet or a civil engineer of the Victorian period.

I have mentioned the 10 bob note – the most junior in the panoply of bank notes. Next in seniority is the pound note, followed (as a young boy I am led to understand – but not to palpably know) by £5 and £10 notes and then by who knows what possibilities above and beyond to dream about.

A pound is a quid – twenty shillings. But much of the serious masculine bidding and trading is done in guineas – including at the Fordgate clearance sale where the tyres on dysfunctional farm machinery were “on their own worth a guinea”. A guinea is 21 shillings (“21/-“) or one pound one shilling – and something one can speak of but not actually hold. There is no guinea coin or note of which a small boy in the 50s is aware.

The following glossary might help:

Denomination in farthings Shop assistant Schoolboy
farthing 1 “farthing – ma’am” farthing

haypenny 2 “haypenny – ma’am” haypnie

penny/pence (1d) 4 “penny/pence – ma’am” penny/pence

thruppence (3d) 12 ” thruppence – ma’am” thruppence

sixpence (6d) 24 “sixpence ma’am” a tanner

one shilling (1/-) 48 “one shilling” a bob (pl. ‘bob’)

two shillings (2/-) 96 ” a florin, Madam” two bob

two shillings
and sixpence or
half a crown (2/6) 120 “two and six, Madam” half a crown

ten shilling note
(no coin) 480 “ten shillings, Madam” ten bob

one pound note (£1) 960 “one pound, Madam” a quid

one guinea 1008 “a guinea, Sir” [bemused silence]

All clear, Paz? boy-puzzled-expression-31013

PS: I left the UK with the tanner in 1971. The bob remained, re-christened 5p.

“Look at the tyres!”

Aphorism. Meaning: incredulous assertion that one single part of an entity actually has a value greater than has been ascribed to the whole entity and, therefore, that the person making such a valuation must be kidding.

A household or farm clearing sale is an open invitation for everyone who’s always wondered how their neighbour lived – God Rest Their Soul – to check the reality against their prejudicial thinking on the matter.

Capt Gordon George Gregory’s clearing sale at Fordgate Farm was in 1958. Capt Gregory, his wife Flora and their four children had moved to Fordgate from Little Broughton farm, near the Taunton racecourse, in 1946. Gordon’s sightless brother Richard remained at Broughton and could regularly be seen, without reciprocation, milking his cows. On at least one occasion Uncle Dick was found tending the tiles on top of the cowshed roof, and he was said to plant out potatoes in the field in what, to people with sight, was clearly the middle of the night.

For the Gregory boys, Fordgate was a second home, enjoyed in the periods between their 12-weekly stints at Taunton School. It was the base from which Capt Gregory used to travel to the five racecourses at which the ‘system’ which governed his betting on horses apparently worked best. They were Doncaster, Newbury, Alexandra Palace (‘Ally-Pally’), Kempton Park and Goodwood.

Four of these five are relatively close to each other in the south east of England, and Capt Gregory made use of the Southern railway line, joining at Templecombe, between Sherborne and Wincanton, and on the Exeter to London (Waterloo) line.

He and some of his friends sometimes drove, and David recalls going to Goodwood races in a small Standard belonging to one of his racing friends, “who drove and overtook like a maniac”.

There was, incidentally, nothing maniacal about Capt Gregory’s wagering. His system has been referred to, and Peter remembers him as a very disciplined gambler: “sometimes he would travel miles to a racecourse but if the ‘runes’ weren’t right he would not have a single bet”.

Getting from Fordgate to Doncaster was quite a different challenge. This was in the period before motorways had been laid across large swathes of the English countryside. One can only imagine the time and energy it would have taken in his friend’s Standard or in his own Wolseley 4/44 (number plate RFC 5) to drive from Fordgate to Doncaster and, given his propensity while hurtling along to inspect the livestock in fields adjacent to the road, the number of near misses there might have been.

His nearest Mrs, Flora, would stay at home with the Aga cooker, in the large rambling house – several of its rooms unused – comfortable in the knowledge that she was in the bosom of the team of farm workers whose loyalty, by birthright, was to the farm and its proprietor.

I loved Fordgate very dearly and determined to buy it once my fortune had been made. (That hasn’t happened, but the fact that an anagram of its letters is one of my computer passwords attests to the importance of its memory! Another ongoing connection for me is the batting practice on the lawn at Fordgate, with Granny bowling to me underarm, the few remaining fruits of which are now ‘enjoyed’ by the Queanbeyan Razorbacks fifth grade team.)

There must have been many days’ preparation for the clearing sale. When it arrived every item which I had ever seen at any spot around the farm, together with many I had never seen at all, was arranged in separate piles in serried ranks like the regular droppings of some gigantic Beast of the Industrial Revolution. Each little pile was accompanied by a stick in the ground with a number which corresponded to the roneo’d listing of the day’s munificence.

The larger items, such as tractors (some of which were capable of independent motion), ploughs, discs and balers were at one end of the roneo’d sequence, with smaller piles of hand tools of known and mysterious function towards the other. I don’t recall if it was so but I imagine pride of place might have been taken by The Potato Harvester, a device of such huge scope and stature that – when laid up for the non-potato harvesting seasons – provided endless metallic channels and cubbyholes for small boys to play in.

Capt Gregory was an inveterate attender of auctions and the clearing sales of other farmers, and hopelessly incapable of keeping his hands in his pocket when in full view of an auctioneer with a difficult job to do. Thus it was that he used to come home with trailerloads of ‘things’ which were unloaded at some vacant and unsuspecting spot around the farm, there to be ignored until it was time for 1958 and the clearing sale.

I have a distinct memory of one such load arriving one day, with expectations on the part of the driver and – who knows? – perhaps on its own account (but not on Flora’s) that it might one day again amount to something of value. At first sight – and even more so at second and third – it appeared to be a load comprised of striplings of semi-rotten softwood mixed randomly and inextricably with wire and chicken netting. It was not, our father assured us, firewood as we suspected, but a useful and commodious chicken house needing only to be reassembled.

Capt Gregory’s four boys all inherited a gene which gave them a predisposition for creating one-liners which captured the essence of memorable family events (such as running out of petrol; having one of the boys fall out of the car on a bend; skiing uncontrollably; and trying to find new homes for piles of immature industrial archaeology) and then quoting it to undeserved gales of laughter by other members of the family as well as by the teller himself.

Anthony (‘Greg’ to everyone in Australia) gave few words to the sale in the detailed description he wrote of his life from birth to 1970, but nevertheless captured its essence and the one-liner that became associated with it:

It was the ex-US army Dodge that had sat in the bottom yard for 10 years, un-driven and unloved, that made the most impact. It must have been towed by a tractor to take its place in the orderly rows of sundries on offer.
“What am I offered?” came the auctioneer’s usual cry.
” Ten pounds'” came a genuine offer.
“Ten pounds!?” replied the auctioneer in disbelief. Then, striking the vehicle close to the ground with his shooting
-stick: “Look at the tyres: they’re worth more than that on their own!!”

Other family sayings of note included “They know me in the office”, (about petrol in the tank) “There’s enough for another twenty miles”, and “That ‘No Entry’ sign doesn’t mean us”. David has a clear memory of arriving at Cardiff Arms Park for a rugby match against England for which Capt Gregory had no tickets. After he went to ‘the office’ he and David found themselves high up at the end of the old stadium with a fantastic view down the pitch – ideal for appreciating Bleddyn Williams’ jink.

In his book Greg records the fact that his best friend Pete Raw was also permitted to be away from school for the clearing sale, which may have been part of his – Pete’s – inspiration to become a successful auctioneer himself.

Dusk fell over Fordgate. Many of the piles were loaded onto trucks and trailers and pondered away to new homes. And the Home Field – every field in this glorious 300 acres of Somerset had its own name – returned to normal duties.

Not sold that day were the bee hives. A bees’ nest in an elm tree just across the drive from the front lawn had been transferred to a hive, with more hives added to the collection when swarms provided the opportunity. It may be that the last vehicle to leave Fordgate Farm was RFC 5 with a trailer in tow containing the bee hives.

Nobody had thought to close the hives overnight, so when it came time to relocate them they were simply covered with hessian bags and loaded onto the trailer. Capt GG Gregory set off up the lane to North Petherton followed by a mass of bees confronted, like him and his family, with the challenge of a new home address.