Category: Personal

By chance I saw the incident live. It was the first BBL game I have watched this year.

My first reaction was to judge that his bat was down and that he was not run out. No further consideration entered my head.

It’s not clear to me why the commentators turned so quickly to the question of whether there might be some issue relating to obstructing the field. That possibility was not on my radar. Had they heard something on one of the player mics? As soon as I realised what they were discussing, it occurred to me that there must be some special regulation in BBL relating to running between the wickets and not impeding the thrower. (Bear in mind that there had just previously been discussion with Wade about taking off his right glove to expedite throwing in the last few overs of the game.)

When one of the commentators quoted what was obviously the standard cricket rulebook, my amazement turned to outrage as I realised that consideration was being given to the batsman’s dismissal for obstructing the field – ie that it was not some special BBL provision. I was always taught and encouraged to try to get between the thrower and the stumps when running between the wickets. I coached my sons and the teams in which they played to that end. (Ha ha: “to that end”.)

So, as far as I was concerned the matter should not have been considered. My sympathies were entirely with the batsman and giving the batsman the benefit of the doubt should have been enough.

However, once it was quite apparent that concern for ‘what is and is not cricket’ had been bypassed and one had to begin a forensic examination of what had occurred, it was apparent why the third umpire decided against the batsman. As the commentators said, it was clear from his ducking and evasive demeanour (body language) that he realised instantly that he was in line with the thrower. This is tantamount to protecting his wicket.

Also, a point not made in commentary, by veering slightly left from the line he had originally been on he was in fact extending very slightly the distance he had to run (he was not on the shortest distance between two points). In the batsman’s defence, however, knowing that the thrower was behind and to his right, the natural thing for safety’s sake would be to veer to the left.

Another issue that immediately arose was whether an appeal had been made in relation to the matter of obstructing the field. Wade’s response on mic was genuine and appropriate: that he wasn’t sure what he was appealing for; just that he had been excited! In any case, members of the fielding side would normally have to be exonerated because one does not have to specify what one is appealing for when one appeals. Many times a slow bowler has appealed when there has been either bat-pad (for caught) and pad-bat (for LBW) and the umpire has to adjudicate on both.

However the fielding captain’s role was rather besmirched in the unconvincing and rather wet interview George Bailey gave on the matter after the game.

So in my view this is another illustration of where the law is an ass. The question shouldn’t have arisen; it was ‘not cricket’. But having been asked to adjudicate, it is hard to find fault with the third umpire.

In an otherwise unprepossessing paddock near Yass in New South Wales, Lawrence Trevanion is doing beautiful and technically fascinating things with daffodils.

Where the beauty is concerned you don’t have to take my word for it. Have a look at his website at www.trevaniondaffodils.com.au/

Although too modest to mention it himself, Lawrence has an international reputation as a daffodil breeder. He has twice been a guest speaker at meetings of the American Daffodil Society.

Lawrence’s international reputation is associated with Narcissus bulbocodium, the petticoat or hoop-petticoat daffodil.

Currently his renown is growing due to his work on breeding with the green N. viridiflorus. He reports that “the very fertile N. viriquilla shows that the intersectional jonquilla hybrids are compatible with the intersectional viridiflorus hybrids”.

He is acknowledged in the American Daffodil Society’s Daffseek database as a pioneer breeder with N. elegans, a native of countries in the western Mediterranean. It has an orange corona and is sweetly scented. It grows in ‘bunches’ rather than as a solitary flower, and the leaves and flowers appear at the same time.

The paddock in which Lawrence undertakes what seems to be a labour of love is thickly grassed in a good year, with scattered eucalyptus trees and scrubby groundcover. It has the appearance of an unkempt sheep paddock, with kangaroo trails testament to their presence and their practised peregrinations. There is a small dam, full nearly to the brim when we visit him in late September.

Among the apparent normal grazing order is evidence of Lawrence’s detailed scientific – especially botanical – mind, applied over thousands of hours with patience, understanding and humility to the propagation of daffodils.

He works at the micro – and almost say microscopic – level, using tweezers to effect fertilisation between two selected cultivars.

People have been working at daffodil (or narcissus) hybridisation for well over a hundred years. There are over 30,000 named hybrids in the official register. But, like so much else in the natural world, it’s not a simple matter. The more one digs, the more complex it seems to be.

"It is generally acknowledged that the genus Narcissus presents great taxonomic problems, and there have been numerous attempts at its classification. Some authors have taken a very wide view of the concept of each species (e.g., Webb, 1980), resulting in as few as 26 recognised species, while some (e.g., Fernandes 1969b) have taken a very narrow view which results in the recognition of a great many species (upwards of 60), often involving a complex hierarchy of infraspecific taxa."

"Most of the groups – most frequently referred to as sections – are fairly obvious, for example the Trumpet daffodils, the Tazettas, the Pheasant's eyes, the Hoop Petticoats, the Jonquils, and so on, and these are the basic divisions in the genus recognised here."

"An additional complication to the taxonomy is posed by hybridisation. Most species of Narcissus will hybridise but, significantly, there is great variation in the fertility of the offspring, depending upon the degree of relationship between the parents. - - There has been a great deal of hybridisation in this very popular, garden-worthy genus, resulting in thousands of hybrid cultivars and selections (Kington, 1998), and doubtless this will continue. Although much of this work has been concerned with sophisticated selection for flower form and colour (e.g., pink and red coronas and apricot-coloured perianth segments), there are probably still some interesting lines of research that could be pursued using the many wild species. Taking just one possibility as an example, the autumn-flowering species (Narcissus serotinus, N. elegans and the green-flowered N. viridiflorus) could perhaps be utilised in the production of a race of larger-flowered autumnal narcissi, thus extending the overall flowering season of the garden forms by several months. With the great diversity of characters exhibited by the species and their numerous variants, there are great possibilities in this natural gene pool. However, some of the species are under threat in the wild, and many more will become so with increasing urban and tourist-based development."

[From the chapter by Brian Mathew, in Narcissus and Daffodil - The genus Narcissus, edited by Gordon R. Hanks, Horticulture Research International, Kirton, UK, Taylor & Francis e-library, 2005.]

On our visit Lawrence talks about his work with patience and good-humour, answering our questions with a chuckle, making it clear that more detail can be provided if we’re game.

If only one had listened more carefully at school or followed up on the biology lessons when it came time for genetics. If only one had a chart of the taxonomic hierarchy for Narcissus.

The story of how Lawrence became interested in the breeding and cultivation of daffodils is rich in emotion and deserving of poetry (or a good feature film) rather than mere prose.

As a youth walking through the bush near Bombala he was struck by finding daffodils which had been planted by early settlers a century or more before, the sole remnants of long gone bush houses and gardens. The apparently fragile yellow forms were still prospering where palings, brick footings, out-houses and other human-induced infrastructure had disappeared from view as a town became a village, a village a memory.

It’s as if daffodil bulbs and seed are possessed of more of the resilience needed to mark for future generations the places in which their forebears lived, loved and planted than those generations themselves.

He started collecting and exhibiting daffodils in Western Australia in the 90s. He moved to southern NSW as a scientist who, to use his own expression, “has spent a lifetime trying to avoid a career”.

Facebook confirms that Lawrence is known chiefly as a breeder of miniatures, particularly hoop petticoats. Another admiring visitor to Lawrence’s Elysian Field has posted:

"Row after row of standards, including doubles and splits, greeted us. An extraordinary collection of triandrus and jonquilla/fernandesii hybrids also took my eye, in yellows, whites, pinks, and combinations of each of them, including reverse bicolours."

"As a former high school teacher in maths and science with a particular interest in biology, Lawrence was the 'full bottle' on the latest theories of genetic inheritance, breeding strategies and what-to-cross-with-what. The apparent fertility of triploids was due to their producing diploid gametes, he said. He aimed to produce small or miniature offspring which were both tetraploid and interfertile. Looking up from his contemplation of the seedling beds, into the distance, he complained about the local cockatoos and kangaroos."They're pests", he said. "The cockatoos pick the flowers and throw them on the ground, and the roos jump on them.""

Our initial connection with Lawrence and Jane was through the Woden Valley Youth Choir. Jane was for several years President of the WVYC Committee, with Lawrence the ever-present supporter, backroom assistant and (I seem to recall) photographer for special occasions. Since their daughter left the choir our relationship has become yellower, more daffodil. And what a delight that is.

I look forward to visiting the daffodils again next year. Lawrence – with Jane’s support – will describe the seasonal variation to which his variegated flock has been subject. He will crop us a bunch. He will answer the bigger and simple questions with patience, all over again; because I will have forgotten, and he will again seed his explanations with as much science as I can accommodate.

Dear Scott

So you want to clearly understand about split infinitives? And I gather that your concern is to more confidently avoid them in written reports you prepare?

My first piece of advice is to always rely on Fowler.

I don’t suppose I will ever be cast away on a desert island. But if I was, and if I could take just one book with me, it would be a Fowler.

We Fowler-philes – I know of at least one other – tend to think of it in those eponymous terms. In fact the book’s title is A Dictionary of Modern English Usage.

HW Fowler was an extraordinary man whose character and work are pleasingly brought to life in The Warden of English by Jenny McMorris. Fowler lived from 1858 to 1933. After twenty years as a secondary school teacher, in 1904 he started work for the Oxford Univ. Press. He was a physical fitness buff who for many years went for a daily run and an ocean swim. He married at 50 and at the age of 56, when war broke out, he wangled his way into the army and demanded to be sent to the front.

The main sources for McMorrris’ biography included the letters Fowler sent to his wife while he was in France during the war. Another was the collection of letters to and from the Oxford Univ. Press during his thirty years of work with it.

Modern English Usage (MEU) is fascinating about the niceties of English and endlessly amusing  – including on the subject of split infinitives.

"The English speaking world may be divided into (1) those who neither know nor care what a split infinitive is; (2) those who do not know, but care very much; (3) those who know & condemn; (4) those who know & approve; & (5) those who know & distinguish."

Potential readers of Fowler – who I hope will now include you, Scott – should be aware that one of the reviewers of McMorris’ biography warns that “anyone tempted to dip into MEU itself should be warned that the stamp of Fowler’s heart and mind is faint indeed in the heavily revised 1996 third edition, though it is clear in the 1965 second edition, which remains in print.”

Myself, I have access to “the stamp of Fowler’s heart and mind” through a copy of the first edition, initially published in 1926, and at least one of the second, the 1965 edition. (They can often be found at garage sales and in second hand book stores and should at all costs be preserved and given as gifts to members of the emoji generation.)

My second piece of advice is not to unnecessarily worry about the phenomenon. People split infinitives all the time and, sensibly enough, most listeners and readers are concerned with meaning, not syntax.  Recently I was at the doctor’s to get a repeat prescription. Concerned about how urgent it might be, and referring to a particular medicine, the practice manager said to me: “Have you ran out?” Her meaning was perfectly clear.

To know what a split infinitive is, one first needs to be able to identify an infinitive.

You will remember that verbs are ‘action’ or ‘doing’ or ‘occurrence’ words. Words like run, but also think and smile and reconsider and gamble and recognise. Some verbs are finite, others non-finite; some regular, others irregular; some transitive, others intransitive. But these are different stories; let’s pass over them for now.

All verbs have an infinitive part – which is (in modern parlance!) the ‘money word’ preceded by to. So the infinitives of the verbs just listed are to run, to think, to smile etc.

A split infinitive comes about when, in using the infinitive of a verb, one or more words is placed between the to and the action word. Thus: to regularly run, to immediately think and to charmingly smile are all split infinitives. In all three of these cases the offending word is an adverb, meaning that the phrase remains coherent despite the split infinitive.

If you don’t spot a split infinitive then almost by definition it didn’t do any harm – as long as the author’s intended meaning was conveyed.

If you did spot a split infinitive – as in the first three times the word to is used above in this piece – then there are two questions to ask:

does the splitting of the infinitive damage the meaning or lead to any ambiguity; and

does it result in an inelegant sentence structure, or rhythm, or sound?

It’s often the case that work by an author to undo a split infinitive in a drafted piece results in a sentence that is more elegant, perhaps has more gravitas and style than the one first drafted.

For instance it might have been better for me to have begun this piece as follows:

So you want clearly to understand about split infinitives?

And I gather that your concern is to be more confident at avoiding them in written reports you prepare?

My first piece of advice is this: Always rely on Fowler.

In each of these three cases the split infinitive has been fixed in a different manner: in the first, by reversing the order of the clearly and the to; in the second, by changing some words and the word order; and in the third by recasting the sentence to incorporate a colon.

So spotting the split infinitives in a first draft can be the stimulus or trigger for an author to consider alternative ways of casting the same information. Further consideration of a written draft is a positive thing. Good writing takes time and an author always has the option to consciously retain a split infinitive if doing so creates no stylistic or comprehension problems.

Beautiful weed

Around my favourite walk to the top of Red Hill and back, I used to have two favourite trees.

One is an elm growing not far from home, reached when the walk is nearly completed. I think of it as ‘Pella’s tree’ and touch it reverently each time I pass. It’s a three-minute walk from the house and was the sanctuary to which Pella retreated when she had fallen out with a parent or sibling and needed some individual sulk time.

It was not until very recently that anyone else knew of the tree and its salving purpose. Pella reports that, notwithstanding the frequency with which she may have sought its low-slung branches and its safe cleavages, no-one ever noticed that she had absented herself from the house. So after a modest amount of time being ignored, uncalled for and unmissed, she would find her way back home and resume normal activities.

The other special tree was first of the two, both in the extent of its favouritism and in the chronology of its being reached. (Only once did I go round the route of the walk in the reverse direction, with the whole world seeming to be topsy-turvy as a result.)

It became a favourite in August 2016. I had retired in June and took to walking the route that month, sometimes in near-dark and always in the cold. Spring and warmer weather seemed miles away. Suddenly, some time in early August, that particular tree provided a burst of bright yellow wattle popped into view and provided much-needed confidence that the winter would end.

This otherwise modest tree was the first to blossom; it therefore was invested with a particular dignity and significance. It was soon followed by cohorts of others that became lit up with the proud, bright yellow confirmation that better days had arrived.

The normal cycle ensued. With the inexorable march of time the yellow battalions were browned off, seed pods took the place of blossom and the eye adjusted for the new bright colours of Autumn.

But every time I arrived at and passed that tree, I remarked its special status. It had been the first on the whole hillside to burst into flower.

On a cold, wet day just last week I found a break in the weather and went outside and around.

That special tree had been chopped down.

The cut was close to the ground: a neat, pale, sloping cut made with some force and expertise. The whole of the tree’s body, which had stood a little taller than me, lay close at hand, the blossoms prematurely browning and wasted.

Its crime? It was Acacia baileyana.

Hanging on the fence near where I leave the bush track is a small notice:

Why do Red Hill regenerators cut wattle trees?

There are two main species of wattle growing on Red Hill – Cootamundra wattle (Acacia baileyana) and silver wattle (Acacia dealbata).

Acacia baileyana is a small tree from 3 to 10 metres high. It is one of those species which retain the fern-like, bipinnate foliage throughout their lives (in most other species, the bipinnate foliage is replaced by flattened stems called phyllodes). The pinnae (the divisions of the pinnate leaves) are up to 30 mm long and silvery-grey in colour. The plant has smooth, greyish brown bark. The bright yellow flower clusters are globular in shape and are produced in the leaf axils in late winter to spring. 

Regenerators only cut Cootamundra wattle as it is not local to this region and is a Class 4 pest in the ACT.

Why is Cootamundra wattle a pest?

Fast-growing

Seed has a high survival rate (soil stored seed remains viable for many decades and germinates prolifically after fire)

Excludes light and forms a dense layer of leaf and pod remains on the soil surface. This eliminates many indigenous species, but allows many exotic grasses to flourish

Hybridises with a number of other Acacia species, including silver wattle and black wattle

So remember: beauty can be in the eye of the ecologist.

Notes:

Acacia baileyana is a small tree from 3 to 10 metres high. It is one of those species which retain the fern-like, bipinnate foliage throughout their lives (in most other species, the bipinnate foliage is replaced by flattened stems called phyllodes). The pinnae (the divisions of the pinnate leaves) are up to 30 mm long and silvery-grey in colour. The plant has smooth, greyish brown bark. The bright yellow flower clusters are globular in shape and are produced in the leaf axils in late winter to spring. (Australian Native Plants Society)

Acacia dealbata is a large shrub or medium-sized tree to about 30 metres high. It is one of those species which retain the fern-like, bipinnate foliage throughout their lives. The pinnae are up to 55 mm long and usually bluish-grey in colour. The plant has smooth, greyish green to dark grey bark which becomes fissured with age. The pale to bright yellow flower clusters are globular in shape and are produced terminally or in the leaf axils in late winter to mid-spring. (Australian Native Plants Society)

[1] I am not confident that, without the signpost, the source will be recognised.

After 46 years in Australia, many of them in Orange, NSW, Bev Glover has this week returned home to New Zealand. Bev became a close friend to Alpha and myself and we wish her all the best on the next stage of her journey.

Beverley's off to New Zealand 
Returning once more to her home;
We'll miss her in so many ways, as you know,
And in this we are not on our own.

The keyboards in Orange will want her fine touch 
- Both the ones that are owned and the hired.
For the Male Voice team - that's most of you here
- Another key staffer's re-choired.


She's danced on the ivories since she was eight 
She can finger just all of the keys
And though you don't know it, she played cello too -
- Just a keyboard between both her knees.

She came to Australia forty-six years ago
For a while she needed to roam;
In Sydney, Port Stephens and then Central West
With Lesley she made a warm home.

She served in her towns for political reps
In the community and in the pews
Les always behind her to get them the papers
- In those days there wasn't 'Fake News'.

Her church and her music are precious to Bev
And in Orange from nineteen-eight-nine
The Rowland Gregory Orpheus Singers
Took much of their after-work time.


Bev was accompanist, Les in the choir,
Together a close double act.
Her favourite key was always G Flat
For in that mode it's mostly All Blacks.

Apart from her partner there's one other man
For whom Bev has always been true
In tune with each other, from bar to bar,
And Leon, you know that it's you.

Alpha met Bev at the Sydney Town Hall
- The memory both of them chat-on
      The men tried to speed up But Bev remained geed-up
      She said "It's like cricket: When you're at the wicket
      Keep your eyes on your leader She'll declare when she needs-ta;
In the meantime please all watch her baton."

Alpha and Bev became very firm friends
Similar women with similar ends -
Though Sasha and Toby, you all will agree
Were closer companions than Alpha could be!

Alpha has written in elegant prose
Of the Beverley Glover that each of us knows.
She has energy, patience, she's keen to do more
In musical matters she knows the full score.

Her large congregation of this is apprised:
On Sundays she'll keep her church well organ-ised.
Her laugh is infectious, she's full of kind tricks
And only in silence when watching Netflix.

We will share her on Facebook, we will see her on Skype,
And her legacy's plain, she is one of a type.
Let us pick up her mantle, let us go where she's led
Our thanks not piano but forte instead!
For Bev's contributions will always inspire
After thirty-odd years with the Male Voice Choir.

12 May 2017

 

This is the third part of the collection of pieces that were in the back pockets of my trousers at June 2016. Part One includes an introduction and explanation. As in the first two parts, some contextual background has been added in this third part to help explain the purpose for which each piece was written or selected.

Index 
Part One
               Introduction
 LiT 1         A country childhood
 LiT 2         11th Conference recommendations
 LiT 3         Duke Tritton, Gary Shearston
 LiT 4         A doggerel of a life
 LiT 5         Do not go gentle, Dylan Thomas
 LiT 6         Each guest at our table
 
Part Two
 LiT 7         For Tony Wade
 LiT 8         Funeral blues, W. H. Auden
 LiT 9         Heart of our Universe
 LiT 10        The Mad Monk and The Ranga
 LiT 11        Christmas Party 2012
 LiT 12        from Macbeth, William Shakespeare
 
Part Three - this post
 LiT 13         None of us is innocent
 LiT 14         from Richard II, William Shakespeare
 LiT 15         Two little boys
 LiT 16         "Some chicken; some neck", Winston Churchill
 LiT 17         We've had enough of fluoro vests
 LiT 18         What's in a name? 

Lines in the Trouser 13

None of us is innocent

Context: I prepared this for the staff Christmas party of 2014 but for some reason I didn’t use it. Let me provide background on some of the party guests. One Vision is the wonderful AV company that the NRHA has consistently worked with at its meetings and conferences. Head of One Vision is Frank Meany. Lesley had just had her second child, Georgia, and Millie was just a couple of weeks away from having her third, a boy, and had been temporarily replaced by Alejandra Cares Henriquez. Audrey was away expecting her first child. (The number of staff who were pregnant meant that their other female colleagues began to regard the water in the cooler with some suspicion.) Helen’s husband, Gary, plays the trumpet. Janine used to chair our staff meetings. We were expecting to meet Sue’s husband, Mark, for the first time but as it happened neither of them came because of a fire emergency near their home. So we never did see Mark dancing on the table.

None of us is innocent

None of us is innocent of being slightly strange
And neither are we as we were – for all of us have changed.
But I’m determined, hook or crook, to be a shining light
If it’s my time and I’ve no rhyme it wouldn’t feel quite right.

There’s some of us think just the same, see life with but One Vision,
Forgot to put them on the list but made a late decision.
Frank’s not here but in his place we’re pleased we have a few
-Takes three of them to make one Frank: it’s Lisa, Peter, Huw.

It’s nice to see that Lesley’s back – and looking very well
It seems to suit her, motherhood, as all of us can tell
Instead of half a thousand students, rural sons and daughters
She’s giving lifelong scholarships to Dominic and Georgia.

Wendy’s partied once today – she’s had lunch with her mum
We’re very glad she’s fit us in – delighted she could come
The demographic here tonight is younger than the other
But Wendy still sounds loud and strong from talking with her mother.

Millie’s here with Chris as well (he sadly has a cold)
With Mel and Hannah – plus the boy who’s minus two weeks old
We wish her well and know for us she soulfully will pine
Until she’s harnessed up again by chance or In Design.

Anne-marie is new on staff – I hope this isn’t rude? –
Her name is like a heated bath for gently heating food
Except she has one letter less, I guess we should agree
It makes a lot of difference: a B or not a B.

Millie’s left, well just for now, it isn’t quite the same
And there’s no way that she can say her locum’s proper name
I’ll try my best to pass the test and see what Ale says
Try this for size: it does comprise: Alejandra Cares Henriquez.

Audrey left us with regret to have her lovely daughter
She looks so sweet – and Annie too – much trimmer than she oughter
To keep her here I say quite clear we could have tried no harder
But we’re not cross with Aud or Ross, sweet Annie’s doting farder.

The trumpet in our Helen’s home is voluntary rested
She’s not enough exhalant puff – her caffeine has been tested
She’s puffed so well on other things, been wise and strong and neat
I’ll miss her big, my right hand man, and wish her calm retreat.

Janine’s our Chair, avoid her stare, for she is power crazy
Get in her way she’s apt to say “I’ll tramp you like a daisy”
She’s nearly due long service too, but will not as a right,
(Long service just a little odd for one so short and slight?)

How nice at last to meet Sue’s Mark: his reputation grows
Apparently if he’s here long he’ll take off all his clothes
We’ll keep his glass filled to the top as well as we are able
‘Til comes the chance to Facebook him when dancing on the table.

Lexie’s code for times gone by, with Geri, Audrey, Pen
From day to day we often say “Do you remember when – ?”
But as I said when I began: it wasn’t just a joke
When it comes down in bush and town: there’s nowt more strange than folk.

Lines in the Trouser 14

from Richard II – William Shakespeare

Context: I simply love this speech. (It’s the second piece of which there were two copies trousered away.) The emotional roller coaster of the situation is beautifully expressed. Richard has returned from Ireland to find that many of his former allies and supporters have shipped over to Bolingbroke. (Henry of Bolingbroke became Henry IV, King of England and Lord of Ireland from 1399 to 1413.) Richard sarcastically supposes that even his closest supporters, Bushy, Bagot and Green, might have gone over to Bolingbroke: “I warrant they have made peace with Bolingbroke.” On hearing Scroop say “Peace have they made with him indeed, my lord”, Richard curses them wildly for their apparent villainy, calling them all sorts of names. Scroop corrects the record, asking his King to “uncurse their souls” since “their peace is made With heads, and not with hands.” Richard is mortified at having had no trust in his close friends and turns upon himself. When Aumerle tries once more to cheer him up: “Where is the duke my father with his power?” it is all too late and Richard begins mournfully to deconstruct his status as a King and to focus on the reality that a King is nothing more than a normal human being with the temporary trappings of power and authority. At the very end of this wonderfully-constructed speech, so full of poignant self-pity and realisation, is that fantastically apposite pun: “subjected thus”.

from Richard II

SCENE II. The coast of Wales. A castle in view.

KING RICHARD II
Barkloughly castle call they this at hand?
DUKE OF AUMERLE
Yea, my lord. How brooks your grace the air,
After your late tossing on the breaking seas?
KING RICHARD II
Needs must I like it well: I weep for joy
To stand upon my kingdom once again.
Dear earth, I do salute thee with my hand,
Though rebels wound thee with their horses’ hoofs:
As a long-parted mother with her child
Plays fondly with her tears and smiles in meeting,
So, weeping, smiling, greet I thee, my earth,
And do thee favours with my royal hands.
Feed not thy sovereign’s foe, my gentle earth,
Nor with thy sweets comfort his ravenous sense;
But let thy spiders, that suck up thy venom,
And heavy-gaited toads lie in their way,
Doing annoyance to the treacherous feet
Which with usurping steps do trample thee:
Yield stinging nettles to mine enemies;
And when they from thy bosom pluck a flower,
Guard it, I pray thee, with a lurking adder
Whose double tongue may with a mortal touch
Throw death upon thy sovereign’s enemies.
Mock not my senseless conjuration, lords:
This earth shall have a feeling and these stones
Prove armed soldiers, ere her native king
Shall falter under foul rebellion’s arms.
BISHOP OF CARLISLE
Fear not, my lord: that Power that made you king
Hath power to keep you king in spite of all.
The means that heaven yields must be embraced,
And not neglected; else, if heaven would,
And we will not, heaven’s offer we refuse,
The proffer’d means of succor and redress.
DUKE OF AUMERLE
He means, my lord, that we are too remiss;
Whilst Bolingbroke, through our security,
Grows strong and great in substance and in power.
KING RICHARD II
Discomfortable cousin! know’st thou not
That when the searching eye of heaven is hid,
Behind the globe, that lights the lower world,
Then thieves and robbers range abroad unseen
In murders and in outrage, boldly here;
But when from under this terrestrial ball
He fires the proud tops of the eastern pines
And darts his light through every guilty hole,
Then murders, treasons and detested sins,
The cloak of night being pluck’d from off their backs,
Stand bare and naked, trembling at themselves?
So when this thief, this traitor, Bolingbroke,
Who all this while hath revell’d in the night
Whilst we were wandering with the antipodes,
Shall see us rising in our throne, the east,
His treasons will sit blushing in his face,
Not able to endure the sight of day,
But self-affrighted tremble at his sin.
Not all the water in the rough rude sea
Can wash the balm off from an anointed king;
The breath of worldly men cannot depose
The deputy elected by the Lord:
For every man that Bolingbroke hath press’d
To lift shrewd steel against our golden crown,
God for his Richard hath in heavenly pay
A glorious angel: then, if angels fight,
Weak men must fall, for heaven still guards the right.
Enter EARL OF SALISBURY
Welcome, my lord how far off lies your power?
EARL OF SALISBURY
Nor near nor farther off, my gracious lord,
Than this weak arm: discomfort guides my tongue
And bids me speak of nothing but despair.
One day too late, I fear me, noble lord,
Hath clouded all thy happy days on earth:
O, call back yesterday, bid time return,
And thou shalt have twelve thousand fighting men!
To-day, to-day, unhappy day, too late,
O’erthrows thy joys, friends, fortune and thy state:
For all the Welshmen, hearing thou wert dead.
Are gone to Bolingbroke, dispersed and fled.
DUKE OF AUMERLE
Comfort, my liege; why looks your grace so pale?
KING RICHARD II
But now the blood of twenty thousand men
Did triumph in my face, and they are fled;
And, till so much blood thither come again,
Have I not reason to look pale and dead?
All souls that will be safe fly from my side,
For time hath set a blot upon my pride.
DUKE OF AUMERLE
Comfort, my liege; remember who you are.
KING RICHARD II
DUKE OF AUMERLE
I had forgot myself; am I not king?
Awake, thou coward majesty! thou sleepest.
Is not the king’s name twenty thousand names?
Arm, arm, my name! a puny subject strikes
At thy great glory. Look not to the ground,
Ye favourites of a king: are we not high?
High be our thoughts: I know my uncle York
Hath power enough to serve our turn. But who comes here?
Enter SIR STEPHEN SCROOP
SIR STEPHEN SCROOP
More health and happiness betide my liege
Than can my care-tuned tongue deliver him!
KING RICHARD II
Mine ear is open and my heart prepared;
The worst is worldly loss thou canst unfold.
Say, is my kingdom lost? why, ’twas my care
And what loss is it to be rid of care?
Strives Bolingbroke to be as great as we?
Greater he shall not be; if he serve God,
We’ll serve Him too and be his fellow so:
Revolt our subjects? that we cannot mend;
They break their faith to God as well as us:
Cry woe, destruction, ruin and decay:
The worst is death, and death will have his day.
SIR STEPHEN SCROOP
Glad am I that your highness is so arm’d
To bear the tidings of calamity.
Like an unseasonable stormy day,
Which makes the silver rivers drown their shores,
As if the world were all dissolved to tears,
So high above his limits swells the rage
Of Bolingbroke, covering your fearful land
With hard bright steel and hearts harder than steel.
White-beards have arm’d their thin and hairless scalps
Against thy majesty; boys, with women’s voices,
Strive to speak big and clap their female joints
In stiff unwieldy arms against thy crown:
The very beadsmen learn to bend their bows
Of double-fatal yew against thy state;
Yea, distaff-women manage rusty bills
Against thy seat: both young and old rebel,
And all goes worse than I have power to tell.
KING RICHARD II
Too well, too well thou tell’st a tale so ill.
Where is the Earl of Wiltshire? where is Bagot?
What is become of Bushy? where is Green?

That they have let the dangerous enemy
Measure our confines with such peaceful steps?
If we prevail, their heads shall pay for it:
I warrant they have made peace with Bolingbroke.
SIR STEPHEN SCROOP
Peace have they made with him indeed, my lord.
KING RICHARD II
O villains, vipers, damn’d without redemption!
Dogs, easily won to fawn on any man!
Snakes, in my heart-blood warm’d, that sting my heart!
Three Judases, each one thrice worse than Judas!
Would they make peace? terrible hell make war
Upon their spotted souls for this offence!
SIR STEPHEN SCROOP
Sweet love, I see, changing his property,
Turns to the sourest and most deadly hate:
Again uncurse their souls; their peace is made
With heads, and not with hands; those whom you curse
Have felt the worst of death’s destroying wound
And lie full low, graved in the hollow ground.
DUKE OF AUMERLE
Is Bushy, Green, and the Earl of Wiltshire dead?
SIR STEPHEN SCROOP
Ay, all of them at Bristol lost their heads.
DUKE OF AUMERLE
Where is the duke my father with his power?

KING RICHARD II
No matter where; of comfort no man speak:
Let’s talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs;
Make dust our paper and with rainy eyes
Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth.
Let’s choose executors and talk of wills:
And yet not so, for what can we bequeath
Save our deposed bodies to the ground?
Our lands, our lives and all are Bolingbroke’s,
And nothing can we call our own but death
And that small model of the barren earth
Which serves as paste and cover to our bones.
For God’s sake, let us sit upon the ground
And tell sad stories of the death of kings;
How some have been deposed; some slain in war,
Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed;
Some poison’d by their wives: some sleeping kill’d;
All murder’d: for within the hollow crown
That rounds the mortal temples of a king
Keeps Death his court and there the antic sits,
Scoffing his state and grinning at his pomp,
Allowing him a breath, a little scene,
To monarchize, be fear’d and kill with looks,
Infusing him with self and vain conceit
As if this flesh which walls about our life
Were brass impregnable, and humor’d thus
Comes at the last and with a little pin
Bores through his castle wall, and farewell king!
Cover your heads and mock not flesh and blood
With solemn reverence: throw away respect,
Tradition, form and ceremonious duty,
For you have but mistook me all this while:
I live with bread like you, feel want,
Taste grief, need friends: subjected thus,
How can you say to me, I am a king?

Lines in the Trouser 15

Two little boys[1]

Context: In the last twenty five years Australian Federal politics have seen several successful partnerships which have ultimately ‘ended in tears’. First there was Hawke-Keating, then Rudd-Gillard and more recently Abbott-Turnbull. It is sometimes forgotten that the situation involving Prime Minister John Howard and Treasurer Peter Costello might have gone the same way, but for one reason or another Costello’s challenge never eventuated. As with Bob Hawke, there was said to be some sort of commitment from Howard to hand over peacefully and seamlessly to his Treasurer at an agreed time (reportedly December 2006 – see the piece by Michelle Grattan at http://bit.ly/2sMUpUr). However the deal – if there was one – was never consummated and Peter Costello never challenged. Howard went on as PM to lose the Election of November 2007 and his own seat of Bennelong. Costello confounded expectations by not seeking Liberal Party leadership in Opposition, with that position going to Brendan Nelson and then Malcolm Turnbull. Costello resigned from Parliament in October 2009. Peter Costello’s brother Tim has been a leading advocate for social justice and Australia’s overseas aid program. The song “Two Little Boys” was written by American composer Theodore F Morse and lyricist Edward Madden in 1902 and was made popular by Harry Lauder. Ted Egan sang it to Rolf Harris in Arnhem Land in 1969 – and again over the phone! – and it was No. 1 on the singles chart for six weeks from December 1969. (As Administrator of the Northern Territory Ted Egan gave a Keynote Address at the 8th National Rural Health Conference, held in Alice Springs in 2005.) Apparently it was one of Margaret Thatcher’s favourite songs. Despite that, Hartlepool United fans have sung the song on the terraces since the 1980s. Unfortunately the song has recently done little for the team’s performances: at the end of the 2016-17 season they were relegated from League Division Two to the National League. I suppose I wrote this version some time during 2006.

Two little boys
Two little boys made plenty of noise
Each took a different course
Normally they tried their differences to hide
Travellers both of course.

One little chap then had a mishap
Couldn’t break his leader’s head
Wept for the job but ceased to sob
When his older brother said:

“For the sake of the Lord stop crying
There’s no room in The Lodge for two
Piss off Pete and quit your whining
John-will-do what John will do.

When you stand down you’ll be forgotten
Just as sure as the night time falls
And then we will all remember
Which one of us had the balls.”

Some months passed, Rudd came at last
(A world vision in his sights).
Not very old and a sight to behold:
A backbencher’s name up in lights.

The same little chap, just one more mishap
A half-Nelson grip on his head
Wept for the job but ceased to sob
When his older brother said:

“For the sake of the Lord stop crying
The Party wants you now it’s true
Brendan’s scores are not impressive
And Malcolm says he’ll wait for you.”

“But can’t you see Tim I’m all a-tremble
It’s boards now for me (so it looks):
But thanks to the Party and the media
This should help sell all the books.”

Lines in the Trouser 16

“Some chicken! Some neck” – Winston Churchill

Context: The rhythm of the phrase is surely what makes it so strong and memorable. It’s all in the timing.

Some chicken! Some neck.
The contribution of Canada to the imperial war effort in troops, in ships, in aircraft, in food, and in finance has been magnificent ——- “Hitler and his Nazi gang have sown the wind: let them reap the whirlwind.”

“- – – -When I warned them (the French) that Britain would fight on alone whatever they did, their generals told the Prime Minister and his divided Cabinet, ‘in three weeks England will have her neck wrung like a chicken. Some chicken! Some neck.'”
(Speech to Canadian Parliament, 1942)

Lines in the trouser 17

We’ve had enough of fluoro vests

Context: The Federal Election held on 7 September 2013 was fought out between Kevin Rudd and Tony Abbott. It came after three tumultuous years in which there was a hung parliament, highly partisan parliamentary politics, and leadership struggles within the Labor Party. These last saw the demise of Australia’s first female Prime Minister, Julia Gillard. The public was already demonstrating a ‘pox on both your houses’ attitude to politics and to the leaders of the two major blocs. Towards the end of the campaign the 12th Australian Palliative Care Conference was held in Canberra. Yvonne Luxford was then CEO of Palliative Care Australia (PCA) and the following piece was initially titled ‘For Yvonne – 4 September 2013’. I don’t recall whether Yvonne or PCA was ever actually delivered of the piece or whether it remained in My Back Pocket. Several of the piece’s political sentiments remain appropriate today (June 2017), with the public’s alienation from the main political parties having grown apace.

We’ve had enough of fluoro vests

We’ve had enough of fluoro vests and cooking shows and malls
The prospect of the next ‘debate’ quite frankly just appals.
We want to feel some leadership, some vision – real ideas –
Then we’ll grant a ‘mandate’ to some grouping with few fears.

What care for disability? What funding for our schools?
What promises for dental health? for broadband what new rules?
What place for those without a home who venture to our land?
On taxing times for climate what is ultimately planned?

To Close the Gap’s a target for which we all must thirst
So life can be as long and fair for those who were here first.
To deal with death and dying with somewhat less regret
So care at end of life will be fond business for us yet!

The richest land in all the world, unhurt by GFC
Should share its bounty evenly; that is our earnest plea.
We crave someone of whom we’re proud (in this our nation lags)[2]
A leader fit between the ears – not just between the flags.

Lines in the Trouser 18

What’s in a name?

Context: When writing about Australia’s health sector one frequently has to choose between the terms ‘preventive health’ and ‘preventative health’ – although of course the choice is a straw man, a red herring or a bit of both! Because of course the labelling of policies and programs which prevent illness as being in the field of ‘preventive health’ is extremely daft. It seems that I wrote this piece some time between November 2009 and August 2010. Much of Alan Bennett’s writing and performance falls within my ‘favourites’ category so it is appropriate to have something in this piece of doggerel for which to acknowledge him explicitly. Note: I have amended this piece since its original creation, mainly for happier scansion.

What’s in a name?
When it comes to paper toileting there seem to be two bunches:
One group likes to fold, it’s said, the other merely scrunches.
(I know just what you’re thinking – some of you, if not all:
When we turn to the toilet for humour then the writing for sure’s on the wall.)[3]

So which group are you in? What do you aver?
Is it ‘preventative’ health or ‘preventive’? Which do you prefer?
Or perhaps you’re so smart, see words as an art
And say ‘prophylactic health’ – how inventive!

The difference of course is an extra ‘a-t’;
Just one syllable, two letters more.
So how do you usually say the word? Is the ‘tive’ third or fourth?
Does it only have three feet, or four?

No matter: the word is misleading
It really is very deranged.
The prevention of health is not what we’re after,
That really would be very strange.

So let’s all agree then, instead of the choice
Between preventative health and the shorter
We’ll coin the new term ‘preventing poor health’
And hope experts agree – ‘cos aorta.

[1] With apologies to Theodore Morse and Edward Madden – and the supporters of Hartlepool United.

[2] given political events overseas in 2016-17 perhaps this is no longer a fair reflection of Australia’s position

[3] this wordplay is stolen from Alan Bennett.

This is the second part of the collection of pieces from the back pockets of my trousers at June 2016. Part One (http://www.aggravations.org/#!blog) includes an introduction and explanation. As in that first part, some contextual background has been added to help explain the purpose for which each piece was written or selected.

Index 
Part One
               Introduction
 LiT 1         A country childhood
 LiT 2         11th Conference recommendations
 LiT 3         Duke Tritton, Gary Shearston
 LiT 4         A doggerel of a life
 LiT 5         Do not go gentle, Dylan Thomas
 LiT 6         Each guest at our table
 
Part Two - this post
 LiT 7         For Tony Wade
 LiT 8         Funeral blues, W. H. Auden
 LiT 9         Heart of our Universe
 LiT 10        The Mad Monk and The Ranga
 LiT 11        Christmas Party 2012
 LiT 12        from Macbeth, William Shakespeare
 
Part Three
 LiT 13         None of us is innocent
 LiT 14         from Richard II, William Shakespeare
 LiT 15         Two little boys
 LiT 16         "Some chicken; some neck", Winston Churchill
 LiT 17         We've had enough of fluoro vests
 LiT 18         What's in a name? 

Lines in the Trouser 7

For Tony Wade

Context: Tony Wade was a close friend from vets’ hockey. He was a warm and unflappable person with the sort of charisma, bonhomie and leadership abilities that made him a natural captain of the ACT cohort of which I was a part for the inter-state carnivals. He was a strong player in mid-field and given his robustness it seemed unlikely that he would be the first of our group to be struck down. He contracted acute myeloid leukaemia. Tony’s wife, Helen, asked me to write a piece for his funeral service, held on 2 June 2015.

Most of the regular members of our group are mentioned, including Dougie Dawson, long-time administrator. With Gerin Hingee in our group we were expected to play our matches using a ‘system’ that few bar Gerin himself could get to grips with; and Judy Baillie was for several years our very supportive and forgiving Team Manager. Boydie (John Boyd) was the ACT teams’ strapper who pre-deceased Tony. In the ACT competitions Tony was always a United player; Checks and Central are two of the other local clubs.

For Tony Wade

Right-Oh!
Gather round and quieten down and listen up you lot.
Dougie’s called this meeting to see who we have got
For the over 95s this year in Hobart – or is it Perth?
Though we can’t run – or bend – or see – we’ll play for all we’re worth.

Paul from Coffs will be in goal, with Des and Ken at the back
That’s a lot of defensive experience – though a little pace they lack.
Paul from Scone is in the halves, with Garth and all his hair,
And Brucie R, and Finn and Scruff – there’s lots of choice right there.

We’ll have two Morries up the front, with Kingo, China, Don –
And in case we win a short corner will discuss that later on.
We’ve flexibility enough which I know you really love
For Gerin can play all over the place – and very often does.

And Bruce will be among us too – he has no truck with fools –
He reckons he alone among us understands the rules.
There’s Johnny F and let’s be clear: our numbers are quite handy,
With Peter M., and Bobby, Alan (‘Chappie’) and young Andy.

Our womenfolk will be with us to help us night and daily
With Margie, Julie, Lynne and Miff – and Mrs Judy Baillie.

But who will be our centre half, our captain, heart and soul?
Who will bind us all together, make the parts one whole?
Tony Wade’s the man we need, our cheerful, loyal friend
The sort of man one works for – on whom one can depend.

He’ll puff around, just slightly pink; he’ll put them to the test
He’ll never stop until it’s done; our fairest and our best.
He’ll mingle then and chuckle, grin – one of his most endearing tricks
And make a speech, and drink a drink – yes even with the Vics!

A disembodied voice appeared – we all looked right around
But still no mortal source was seen and neither could be found.
We listened then in disbelief, no-one even stirred
As from a far-off distance, this is what we heard:

“I’m making up a team, to play for the ACT
Not just over 95 but for all Eternity.
I’ve got the strapper, he’s the best: he’s Boydie as you know,
He’s worked on me – so Heav’nly bumps will never make me slow.

I had to have a leader, with heart and soul in the game
Tony was your common choice so first to him I came.
He didn’t volunteer to lead – so modest till the end
So I had to call on AML* – a trusted s’lector friend.
He did his work on Tony in less than half a year
So now he’s here to lead my team, though others shed a tear.

I’d like if I could to have Don on the wing – either right or left –
Been calling him for ages but perhaps he’s slightly deaf?
And as soon as Gerin gets up here we’ll switch to play his style
So if you want the standard game, let-him stay with you a while.

So now I’ll build with confidence a team to make you proud
I’ll build it on the One I have – the stand-out from your crowd.
Of course I’m hurt for Helen’s grief – they always were United –
I’ve Checked the Central registry and know their troth was plighted.

Forgive me then, if that you can, for the choice that I have made
And remember him so fondly, your best and fairest, Tony Wade.”

*acute myeloid leukaemia.

Tony is seated, second from Left

Lines in the Trouser 8

Funeral blues – W. H. Auden

Context: An early version of Funeral Blues, with five stanzas, was published in 1936, and in its final form in The Year’s Poetry (London, 1938). The 1936 version was a satiric poem of mourning for a political leader, written for the verse play The Ascent of F6 by Auden and Christopher Isherwood. The 1938 version was written to be sung by the soprano Hedli Anderson in a setting by Benjamin Britten. It is now the English contribution to the statue commemorating the Heysel Stadium disaster, where a retaining wall collapsed, resulting in 39 deaths on 29 May 1985, when Liverpool played Juventus in the European Cup Final. The poem featured in Four Wedddings and a Funeral (1994)

         – and in the musical February House, produced Off-Broadway in 2012, a large portion of the poem is sung by Auden himself. I find it very moving.

Funeral blues

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

Lines in the Trouser 9

Heart of our Universe

Context: I can’t remember the occasion for which this piece was written but its general purpose is clear: to act as an antidote to the popular habit among people in all other parts of Australia of putting down our capital city. The strongest objection is taken by Canberra residents to the personalisation of the city as the place that brings increased taxes and bodgie government, as in: ‘Canberra hikes fuel prices’ or ‘Canberra fails on education reform’. Like so many others, my family would rather describe Canberra as a well-kept secret, given its many civic, creative and human assets, its lovely climate, autumn leaves and bike paths.

Heart of our Universe

Settled for a hundred years, where pastures used to grow,
With windy days in springtime: just see the blossoms blow!
Cold nights through the winter, with clear blue skies by day
And nights well-made for sleeping: why would we go away?

Settled on Monaro between Snowy Range and coast
It’s names like Adaminaby that locals love the most
And coloured trees in Autumn cast each year their rusty spell
In places like Dalgety – just west Nimmitabel.

The Snowy River National Park smiles next to ACT
The Murrumbidgee river flows from here to distant sea
Bombala is the sweetest home for many friends of mine
Like Queanbeyan and Berridale and lake-strewn Jindabyne.

We’re chided by our cousins, for Parliament sits here
Not every Hill is Capital, and ours we hold close dear
While others then will put us down, for taxes are a curse
We’ll sing three cheers for Canberra: Heart of our Universe!

Lines in the Trouser 10

The Mad Monk and The Ranga

Context: The Federal Election held on Saturday 21 August 2010 resulted in both Labor and the Coalition winning 72 seats in the 150-seat House of Representatives. Three Independents – Tony Windsor, Rob Oakeshott and Bob Katter – had to decide which of the major parties they would throw their weight behind. The Leader of the ALP was Julia Gillard – a redhead – and the Leader of the Liberal/National Coalition was Tony Abbott. The piece was written for CouncilFest 2010 (3 August).

The Mad Monk and the Ranga

The voters have decided, they’re going to vent their anger
They don’t trust either side: the Mad Monk or the Ranga.

Someone leaked from Cabinet – that really was a clanger
For a week or two advantage went to-the-Mad-Monk not the Ranga.

People felt quite wilted – like some lettuce in a sanga
They wanted other choices, not just a Mad Monk or a Ranga.

They’ll try to move me forward, but not in my old banger
There’s no real action, just all talk from the Mad Monk and the Ranga

While we get slim in country towns, the city folk get fatter:
Hurrah for the House of Windsor and that lovely Mr Katter.

Lines in the Trouser 11

Christmas Party 2012

Context: I liked to have a specially-written piece for the staff Christmas Party to sum up the year’s teamwork and to help invest the occasion with a sense of fun. (One can’t expect colleagues to perform one of their own party pieces if you aren’t willing to do your own!) When it came to 2012 either the muse had left me or the time had passed and I had nothing prepared right up until the last minute. Creation of the piece took the time between when everyone else had left the office and I arrived at the party late. As the piece explains, my contribution was filled out by the singing of The Rare Ould Times (one of my favourites) in honour of Audrey’s mum and dad who were out from Ireland for Christmas, and by an unrehearsed spoons duet with Millie.

Christmas Party 2012

I feel quite bare without a rhyme, especially at this season
The muse was gone this several week – I’m not sure what the reason.
So here I am at 2.15 still far from Ginninderra
It seems not right, can’t get in flight; feet still on firma terra.

The year has flown, you all must own, and what a one it was
We found ourselves so busy: why? well mainly just because.
My special thanks to all of you, I say with utmost ardour
For working with more accuracy, and faster too – and harder.

I’m not quite empty-handed – that would really be quite wrong
Without a poem’s bad enough but never without song.
If short of words a wordsmith is, you’ll think how sad that is
But though I have no poetry, instead I have a quiz.

“If music be the food of love: Play on” (so it was said)
If I can’t rhyme I’ll do my best with singing then instead.
One song I’ll try for Audrey’s folks: I hope they like the choice
It’s Rare Ould Times: please wish me luck: for I have little voice.

Make way for music! With no rhyme, let dancers take the floor
And I hope that later doggerel days return to me once more.
Now when I say it’s music time – not mainly is it tunes
But me and Mrs Clery both, full-on with duelling spoons.

Lines in the Trouser 12

from Macbeth – William Shakespeare

Act 2, SCENE IV. Outside Macbeth’s castle.

Context: I cannot recall why I apparently needed this extract on my person, but it was among the Lines in the Trouser and so must be included in this official record. The Old Man’s blessing at the end is memorable – and apt for the unlikely and troubled times on which today’s world seems to have stumbled.

from Macbeth:

Enter ROSS and an old Man

Old Man
Threescore and ten I can remember well:
Within the volume of which time I have seen
Hours dreadful and things strange; but this sore night
Hath trifled former knowings.
ROSS
Ah, good father,
Thou seest, the heavens, as troubled with man’s act,
Threaten his bloody stage: by the clock, ’tis day,
And yet dark night strangles the travelling lamp:
Is’t night’s predominance, or the day’s shame,
That darkness does the face of earth entomb,
When living light should kiss it
Old Man
‘Tis unnatural,
Even like the deed that’s done. On Tuesday last,
A falcon, towering in her pride of place,
Was by a mousing owl hawk’d at and kill’d.
ROSS
And Duncan’s horses–a thing most strange and certain–
Beauteous and swift, the minions of their race,
Turn’d wild in nature, broke their stalls, flung out,
Contending ‘gainst obedience, as they would make
War with mankind.
Old Man
‘Tis said they eat each other.
ROSS
They did so, to the amazement of mine eyes
That look’d upon’t. Here comes the good Macduff.
Enter MACDUFF
How goes the world, sir, now?
MACDUFF
Why, see you not?
ROSS
Is’t known who did this more than bloody deed?
MACDUFF
Those that Macbeth hath slain.
ROSS
Alas, the day!
What good could they pretend?
MACDUFF
They were subborn’d:
Malcolm and Donalbain, the king’s two sons,
Are stol’n away and fled; which puts upon them
Suspicion of the deed.
ROSS
‘Gainst nature still!
Thriftless ambition, that wilt ravin up
Thine own life’s means! Then ’tis most like
The sovereignty will fall upon Macbeth.
MACDUFF
He is already named, and gone to Scone
To be invested.
ROSS
Where is Duncan’s body?
MACDUFF
Carried to Colmekill,
The sacred storehouse of his predecessors,
And guardian of their bones.
ROSS
Will you to Scone?
MACDUFF
No, cousin, I’ll to Fife.
ROSS
Well, I will thither.
MACDUFF
Well, may you see things well done there: adieu!
Lest our old robes sit easier than our new!
ROSS
Farewell, father.
Old Man
God’s benison go with you; and with those
That would make good of bad, and friends of foes!
Exeunt