Category: Personal

Introduction

Words have long been of interest to me. Their use and mis-use have given me much pleasure.

I used to have a smattering of French but, for the most part, where words and language are concerned I have been limited to English.

Throughout my life certain collections of words – speeches, poems, sayings – have for some reason appealed to me and left me wanting to remember them accurately: not just the right words, but the right words in the right order.

However I have a poor memory for such things and not been good at rote learning. Therefore, to have the true form of such pieces available to me at all times, I developed the habit of carrying, in the back pocket of my trousers, folded pieces of A4 paper on which were written some of these favourite pieces. (The habit was developed before cordless phones and Dr Google provided digital means of supporting perfect recall.)

At any given time the Lines in the Trouser might have included a little Dylan Thomas (I know the text of Under Milk Wood better than any other work, thanks to regular listening over many years to the version featuring Anthony Hopkins and Jonathan Pryce as the Narrators), some Henry Lawson and some Shakespeare. To these would be added selected quotations, thoughts or references I would jot down at meetings attended.

The folds of paper would be transferred to whichever trouser was worn on a particular day, week in week out, until so thumbed and yellowed as to be in danger of falling apart.

In my working life it sometimes fell to me to say something on a rural health policy matter, or on the occasion of a colleague’s birthday or at the staff Christmas party. My trousers therefore became the receptacle not just for fine quotations and the words of others, but also for bits of my own doggerel written for specific purposes. Every now and then there would be a complete clear-out of the pockets and the process of collection would begin again.

I must have got some comfort from knowing that I had ready access to some favourite pieces in their precise form. It is organised form which distinguishes a rabble of words from a poem or a memorable phrase in a speech.

With Lines in the Trouser I reveal what was in my back pockets in the middle of 2016 when I retired from work. There is an arbitrariness about what is included, for the pieces are those that happened to have been selected in the previous few months. I hope you will forgive the juxtaposition of some favourite bits of real poetry with my own doggerel. The juxtaposition was only spatial!

There are 18 pieces, divided randomly into three separate posts for this blogg. Part One includes pieces 1 to 6. In most cases some contextual background has been added to help you know why a particular piece was selected and, in the case of my own verses, the purpose for which each was written. Those among you who find the doggerel excruciating should be alert but not alarmed – for there is plenty more where this came from.

Lines in the Trouser – Index

 Part One (this post)
               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
 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 1

A country childhood

Context: ‘In the old days’ the NRHA produced a calendar. It was popular and of high quality, and usually contained both images and words. The 2011 calendar had Country kids as its theme and some words were needed for the back page. A country childhood was written in November or December 2010.

A country childhood

Here’s hoping that our children find the outback has delights:
Like the Southern Cross above their head on clear and dark blue nights
Or the view of unbound distances from top a craggy peak
A torrent racing dangerous that last week was a creek.

The sight and sounds of heavy gear hard grabbing at the ground
Or the sweeter voice of magpie that a city’s sounds can drown.
The seething splash of surf-whipped sea, the silver spew’s retreat
Or inland sand that’s miles from shore but close beneath their feet.

The silent sound of distance on a perfect windless day
Or the gale that strips the blossoms – blasts the tender Spring away.
The happy sound of foot on ball – and when it comes to that
The thunk of well-struck tennis ball on home-made cricket bat.

And we trust that local voices also gird these kids around
With the love not just in Nature but in family is found.
And never mind that many choose to cut the strings, depart –
For we know a country childhood always stays within the heart.

 

 

Lines in the Trouser 2

11th Conference recommendations

Context: The 11th National Rural Health Conference was held in Perth in March 2011. Nicola Roxon was Australia’s Health Minister at the time and was able to attend Conference on the last day (Wednesday 16 March) to hear the recommendations only because she had injured her foot and was therefore unable to travel to the World Health Organisation. Jan McLucas, a close friend of the NRHA’s, who was Parliamentary Secretary for Disabilities and Carers, went to WHO in Minister Roxon’s place.

This was not the only occasion on which I resorted to the use of doggerel to comment on rural and remote health policy. Note about the fourth verse: The Government had allocated money for regional cancer centres; health service managers were concerned about specialised staffing for them.

11th Conference recommendations

The Minister’s foot (if you please)
Is sore, quite unlike her knees.
She chose not to go
To the WHO
And it’s Jan who has gone overseas.

The Budget expected was tough
Announced some good rural stuff
You’re welcome today
Though this Conference must say
It still isn’t nearly enough.

The maternity services deal
Gives all of us quite a good feel
It’s not a Rolls-Royce
But should give further choice
And will lessen a problem so real.

We know the mortality graph
Shows cancer in rural’s no laugh
New capital’s great
But is it too late
To ask what we’ll use to get staff?

Though the AMA’s going to be mad
About NPs and PAs (so sad!)
We’ll continue the push
To get staff for the Bush
So our outcomes are not quite as bad.

Though the governance options are three
It’s clear what we all want to see
We are blue in the face
For a regional base
With communities consulted our plea.

These Budget provisions I’m sure
For us have a lot of allure
We trust you won’t mind
If we rurals you find
Are like Oliver: “Can we have more?”

Our people should share in the wealth
Whether at one fell swoop or by stealth
We can work hand-in-hand
Throughout this wide land
To deliver the Bush better health.

Lines in the Trouser 3

Duke Tritton – Gary Shearston

Context: The poem Duke Tritton is from the pen and the singing of Gary Shearston (1939-2013). I heard the author sing it somewhere in the 1970s. He had a lovely style both about himself and with his singing and I admired him very much. As a singer and songwriter Gary Shearston played a significant role in the folk revival of the 1960s. He spent some of his working life overseas, returned to Australia in 1989 and later became a priest in the Anglican Church. People not closely connected with Australia’s folk scene might remember Gary Shearston as the man who had a hit single with ‘I get a kick out of you’.

The story of Duke Tritton, and Gary’s admiration for him, are clear from the words of the poem. The last verse refers to Shearing in a bar, one of Tritton’s best know pieces. It describes how a shearer’s tallies become bigger after knock-off time with each beer: “And though I am a truthful man, I find when in a bar, My tallies seem to double but I never call for tar”. The song became a favourite of mine – perhaps the closest I have had to a party piece. One of my friends liked my rendition well enough to request that it be sung at his funeral. We have lost touch.

Duke Tritton

Come gather around you people and listen to my song
I want to tell you of a man, of a time that’s past and gone
Just in case you never knew him he was one of the good old kind
And I’m proud to say as I sing his song he was a friend of mine.

[Refrain] So long old-timer I’m glad that I knew you so well

Duke Tritton was a bushman, a writer and singer too
As a shearer and a drover he often humped his blue
And at timber cutting or building roads he often turned his hand
And high in the Warrumbungle Range the fences he made still stand.

When first he took to the Bush with Dutchy Fisher his mate
They did some busking in country towns a coin or two to make
On Sundays outside an Anglican church they would sing Abide with me
Then race around to the Catholic mob and hit ’em with Ave Marie.

He shore in most of the famous sheds and saw long tallies done
They called him the Duke in a boxing troupe ‘cos most of the time he won
And back in those hungry Thirties when yer tucker meant yer time
He worked as a powder monkey on the Sandy Hollow Line.

There are songs he wrote and songs he sang and stories that he told
Of every trade a man could take up in the days of old
With his blue eyes fairly blazing and gripping his ghostly blades
He taught me more than any man of how this land was made.

But now his time is over and his miles of years gone by**
If there isn’t a union where he’s gone he’s the one who’ll organise
And I’ll bet if those angels are out of tunes or their songs aren’t up to par
It won’t be long before he’ll have them Shearing in a Bar!

**alternatively: And now his time is over and he’s tramped beyond the skies

 Lines in the Trouser 4

A doggerel of a life: (If I only knew now what I didn’t know then)

Context: Presumably I wrote this for my 70th birthday party. There is a piece elsewhere in this blogg about the Beardy Street house.

A doggerel of a life

For my first ten years I was small and naive –
Feel much the same now though it’s hard to believe.
If-I-only-knew-now what I didn’t know then!
I’d be wise as I should be at threescore and ten.

At school I took Latin and science and such
Left a little bit wiser but not very much
From 10 through to 20 I took on some knowledge
And travelled to Durham to go to the college
Where the sanctuary knocker I touched
I’ll say this just twice then I’ll say it again:
‘Why-ay man I gang noo to threescore and ten’.

Between 20 and 30 I married my wife
We moved to Australia to live a new life.
We went to New England, were never alone
And the Beardy Street house was to be our dream home
While time without kids meant that pleasures were rife.
I’ll tell youse three times – so hear wot I say:
“It’s bonzer to make it to seventy eh!”

From 30 to 40 was the Babies Decade
The results of the plans when Alpha was laid that Alpha had laid
But the trouble it took has long since been repaid
By Tauri and Pella and Parri and Tad
In the care that they’ve given their mum and their dad
And the beautiful memories they’ve made.
I’ll say this more times than just threescore and ten:
‘Good luck to our children again and again’.

From 40 to 50 (we’re in Canberra somehow)
I worked for John Kerin; it was shoulder to plough
The farmers revolted, poured their wheat on the floor
Already with plenty they wanted still more
“What do we want?” the farmers all cried
“Stuffed if we know!” to themselves they replied
And “When do we want it?” was answered with “Now!”

From 50 to 60: my life’s major work:
A new Health Alliance – no effort we’ll shirk.
Our members support us to find better health
Especially for those who have less of the wealth
“What do we want?” – a reasonable ask
Equivalent health the modest first task
It’s a right or entitlement – no way a perk.
We’ll stay on our message – without getting riled
To make them more healthy: man, woman and child.

From 60 to 70: the shaky decade
(What a difference the right medication has made!)
I can’t see the ball and in hockey I’m slow
But it gives me a great deal of pleasure to know
That there still are a mixture of sports to be played.
I’ll finish off now just by saying again:
‘Good heavens I made it to threescore and ten’.
Though I mustn’t be greedy, of this I am sure:
There’s a perfect prognosis for many years more.

 Lines in the Trouser 5

Do not go gentle – Dylan Thomas

Context: This seems to me to be a poem of great emotional effect and with important meaning even though I am not certain that I comprehend what all of the meaning is. In its form it is a Villanelle: “a pastoral or lyrical poem of nineteen lines, with only two rhymes throughout, and some lines repeated”. Note: there were two copies of this (and of one other piece) in the trousers – one on each side. It must have been particularly important!

Do not go gentle

Do not go gentle into that good night,
 Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
 Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
 Because their words had forked no lightning they
 Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
 Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
 Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
 And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
 Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
 Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
 Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on that sad height,
 Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
 Do not go gentle into that good night.
 Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Lines in the Trouser 6

Each guest at our table

Context: The National Rural Health Alliance’s CouncilFest is the annual face-to-face meeting of its Council, comprised of one person from each Member Body. In 2015 it was held in Canberra in September, and included parliamentary delegations on 15 September. I sometimes wrote a piece to sum up rural and remote health issues as they stood at the time, and as a contribution to the team building, the sense of fun and the general purpose of the meeting. This was one such piece. Note: EPPIC is the Early Psychosis Prevention and Intervention Centre. The reference to a ten year difference in life expectancy for males born in Mosman compared with Bourke was from a policy document from the Royal Australian College of Physicians (RACP). Given the NRHA’s purpose, there was always the temptation to pair “equal health” with “Commonwealth”, as in the last verse here.

Each guest at our table

So here we are again, dear guest, right at the nation’s hear
And since you’ve come to join us, we know you’ll play your part.
For you, like us, must see the hurt of health that’s second best
And you, like us, think country folk deserving as the rest.

This call’s not made for exports’ sake by economic dries
No rural fundamentalist comes here to advertise;
But in the name of fairness do we say the farmer’s plight
If wanting health is wanting too a basic human right.

So why in such a country that in general has long life
Should rural folk live four years less – the husband and the wife?
What sense is there in balanced books if rural people fail
To have as many years as those who live inside the pale?

We’re not a high tax country, outgoings could increase
We live here in a wealthy place, not Ireland, Spain or Greece.
Why hitch our star so certainly to balancing the books
When all you get’s some ‘fiscal cred’ – political good looks.

Our wide brown land has served us well and saved us from the Bust
And it seems it’s more in China now and not in God we trust.
But why should the prognosis for a healthy rural home
Be poorer than for city streets where the sun has rarely shone?

In mental health please tell us why it often is the case
That services we choose to fund are from a central place?
The government’s responded and there’s now a new Commission
But Eppic challenges remain for patient and clinician.

Good health and sound wellbeing are what we crave the most
But inland folks have less of both than those who hug the coast
One’s postcode shouldn’t be a sign of waiting (what a curse)
For service from a doctor or a dentist or a nurse.

In New South Wales a rural home you maybe never chose
But having had a cancer that was lately diagnosed
Compared with those in Sydney – in most respects your peers –
You’re 35 per cent more likely to die within five years.

A white man born in Mosman, no matter what his work,
Expects a life that’s ten years more than one who’s born in Bourke.
Too many folks in most respects have health that’s frankly rude
But want for healthy teeth and gums to bite down on their food.

So welcome to our table: we will value all you bring
And from a common songbook let us all together sing;
Thanks for your understanding, right around the Commonwealth
And think upon our vision: By 2020, equal health.

From the look-out at the top of Red Hill one can see Canberra airport. As I walk along, my attention is drawn to a light plane, headlights clearly visible in the growing dusk, high in the sky above the ridge ahead of me.

Suddenly, a sense of alarm and panic: the light plane appears to be stationary, like a gull in a sea breeze, and I know enough about aeronautics to be sure that stationary is not a sustainable condition for a light plane when in the air.

My gaze is fixed. What I can see soon merges with what I can hear. The light plane appears to be making a buzzing noise.

As I progress further up towards the crest of the hill, my senses join in interpreting the phenomenon more accurately. It is not a light plane high in the sky several kilometres away. It is a drone, zipping back and forth – and some time still – just 44 metres above the ground.

I know it’s 44 metres because that is one of the pieces of information I get from my discussion with Andrew, who is operating the drone. I find out that it is a DJI Phantom 4 Pro (DJI is the brand). The Phantom 4 Pro features an automatic obstacle-avoidance system. Andrew demonstrates it. The aerial beast rushes towards the nearby trees but then pulls up in the air and hovers. It charges through the air towards us but then, suddenly shy and diffident, keeps its distance about 2 yards in front of us.

This wondrous machine is about the size of an iPad with a rotor blade on each of the four corners. It has a small amount of superstructure underneath the flat surface, which includes a camera which is broadcasting sharp images back to Andrew’s handpiece.

I am absolutely entranced. People could talk to me or write about drones until they are purple in the face and I would show scarcely any interest. But to see one zipping about so rapidly and with great dexterity above our heads is absolutely intriguing.

The battery operating the rotors gives about 25 minutes’ flying time. The specifications for this model suggest that it has a reach which extends 6 km upwards and 7 km out. But Andrew will not be able to test that capacity at this site given the regulations for the operation of drones, which rest with the Civil Aviation Safety Authority (CASA).

“Australia’s safety laws for drones, or more technically correct, remotely piloted aircraft (RPA), as defined in the Civil Aviation Safety Regulations Part 101, vary whether you are flying commercially or recreationally/for fun.

When flying for money, or any form of economic gain, you need to have an RPA operator’s certificate (ReOC), or if you’re flying an RPA weighing less than two kilograms, simply notify us.

When flying for fun and not commercially, or for any form of economic gain, then the regulations are less restrictive and allow you to fly an RPA without needing to be certified, providing you follow some simple safety rules.

Check out our information sheet on the basic rules for flying RPAs.”

The model I am watching in the sky above me is made in China. It’s less than 2 kgs.  Cost: around $2500. Larger ones can cost up to $40,000. Judging from the dexterity with which he appears to be handling the drone I surmise that Andrew has many hours’ flying experience. In fact it’s about three.

Currently there are two sets of rules, one for sub-2kg drones and another for larger ones. Andrew tells me that much in the basic rules and guidelines is common sense.

The rules for commercial sub-2kg operation dictate that they may not be flown within 5.5km of a controlled aerodrome, no closer than 30m to other persons not involved in the drone’s operation, not over populous areas, and not over emergency situations (police operations, fires etc). They may only be flown during the day, and only one drone may be flown at a time by the one operator. ‘Populous areas’ include public parks and Raiders’ games – in case there is a fault and they fall on someone’s head.

Andrew has notified CASA of his intention to operate a sub-2kg drone commercially and is considering the further certification required to obtain a a remote pilot licence (RePL) and an RPA operator’s certificate to enable him to fly larger ones. (These further steps are quite expensive and time-consuming.) The certification he already has means that some of the stricter requirements that apply to non-certified sub-2kg operators do not apply.

One final question. And the answer is no: security clearance is not required.

I couldn’t wait to get home to tell of my direct contact with new technology. For someone who still doesn’t have a cordless phone, my degree of excitement was perhaps surprising.

It’s my personal introduction to one element of the ‘automation’ that is already proving to be such a boon and such a worry to communities and economies everywhere.

Note: thanks very much to ‘Andrew’.

It is now a year since I retired from the National Rural Health Alliance. (I was going to say “since I left the Alliance” but it will be longer yet before I ‘leave’ the organisation and it ‘leaves’ me.)

Some of my friends have asked what it’s like to be retired. The short answer is that it’s wonderful. Every day is a long weekend. There are few deadlines to be met, no meetings to attend, no representative duties to acquit. Getting out of bed occasionally at six o’clock in the morning is now to go for a walk or cycle while the air is still and the trees breathless – not to trail to Sydney or Melbourne with a tie on.

I will never forget how lucky I am. To be contentedly retired one needs the fundamental assets providing quality of life. A safe home – with all that the simple word ‘home’ connotes. Adequate income. Social interaction of the kind and quantity that suits you. Continued good health. Stimulation or brain food. And the means (technology; access) needed to pursue your interests or hobbies.

I was happy at work so there are many things I miss. The repetitive rhythm of a workplace can instil a sense of security and confidence. Working in a small organisation with colleagues who share one’s commitment is personally and socially satisfying, as well as professionally valuable. A happy workplace can provide some of the benefits of ‘community’: mutual support, shared purpose, recognition and self-actualisation.

Rather to my surprise, it has become apparent to me that some of this sense of community can be provided by social media. Facebook has been a revelation. It can be built in one’s own image – crafted to meet some of the needs of different individuals for ‘community’.

Two of the things one often hears about retirement before testing it for oneself are that you’ll be busier than you used to be, and that no one at work will miss you. This last might be suggested as a rationale for not working too hard: to ensure there is an appropriate work/life balance.

The first of these is palpable nonsense. You can fill the time with a wider range of smaller matters than in your working life – but you select the smorgasbord and there are gaps between each mouthful.

As for the second, it’s impossible to know because one is no longer ‘at work’ to observe the consequences of one’s absence. If you were fortunate enough to have work which gave purpose and value, all you can ask is that it continues and that the person who filled your position feels as lucky as you did.

It is so luxurious to be free of appointments, teleconferences, deadlines and protocols to which one had to be faithful at work. You can be true to yourself. If you write a blog you can wander at will over any range of topics you like.

Being retired makes it possible to look after yourself more easily. I try to walk or cycle every day which is something many people in the workforce do, but was something for which I had insufficient discipline at that time.

I am avoiding taking on regularised weekly happenings which would give the week a schedule or structure in the way that staff meetings, monthly teleconferences and other events did at work. Having a list of future appointments in a diary has always sat heavily on my mind – been a source of tension – as if the need to prepare or be prepared for each and every one crowded out the pleasure of the current moment. One of the consequences while at work was that the great majority of my own meetings with colleagues were called and held immediately – and I was always grateful for the fact that they almost always put up cheerfully with such a regime.

I’m reading a book.[1] The potted garden is being tended; next Spring’s display should be even better than last year’s. Alpha and I have time to catch up more slowly with friends and family. We haven’t fully made the switch from watching live TV to watching everything on demand, but it’s coming.

And of course if you have a partner, retirement means there is the opportunity to spend more time together. Or you can have separate work places in the home and separate interests and networks, and meet just now and then – as before.

We’re rather in the latter camp.

[1] Neal Stephenson, The Confusion.

When Yvonne and Paul visited us from Harrogate three years ago, they took me down to Tuggeranong on the Saturday morning to introduce me to the parkrun phenomenon. That morning over 300 people of all shapes and sizes set off at eight o’clock on a 5 km run or walk along the edge of the lake and back.

I recall it as a relaxed event which, thanks to quite evident effective community organisation, accommodated a few babies in prams and dogs as well as keen-looking athletes in cutaway shorts.

Imagine my surprise, though, on picking them up from the airport two weeks ago to hear that it wasn’t the National Museum of Australia or the National Arboretum that was at the top of their to-do list in Canberra, but the parkrun at that place with far too many syllables for Yvonne and Paul to manage.

The first parkrun was held in Bushy Park, Teddington, in the UK, in October 2004. There were 13 starters and four volunteers. There are now parkrun organisations in 14 countries, including Canada, New Zealand and Russia.

There are about 200 parkrun locations in Australia, including four in the ACT.[1] Stats about the number of runners each week and other information is available on the website at www.parkrun.com.au/

Back home Paul and Yvonne are enthusiastic members of the Nidd Valley Road Runners, who support the Harrogate parkrun event. (I think they value the Nidd’s single syllable.)

All you have to do to take part in a parkrun anywhere in the world is to register online by the night before the event. Once you do that, you’ll be part of the recording system which sees everyone’s time and position published on the website within a couple of hours of its finish.

Participation is free, the only expectation being that everyone will volunteer at one of the events a few times a year.

At Tuggle-eerie-lingto-gong on that recent Saturday morning I took part without having registered, and enjoyed a well-organised and non-threatening event.

Next time I will register so that, as I walk the course, there will be absolutely no sense of being free a free loader! I have, after all, an impressive pedigree for a 5K course: I have two legs with relatively little knee and hip dysfunction, and my daughter-in-law is training for a half marathon. It’s just a nuisance that some of my other attributes seem to preclude the action of actually running.

But it will do me good to keep physically active and the parkrun movement provides another option. Perhaps I will see you there – or just compare notes with you online.

parkrun Australia’s sponsors are Medibank, Suncorp Bank and Stockland.

The link again is www.parkrun.com.au/

• [1] Paul says the four are at Girly- biff-grin, Gin-and-dare-her, Gorn-gargling and Tuggle-eerie-lington-gong.

Thursday:
away; drove to Sydney.

Friday:
returned to Canberra via Wollongong.

Saturday:
played cricket.

Sunday:
recovering from 7 (all singles).

Monday:
forgot until too late.

Tuesday:
wet.

Wednesday:
couldn’t find running shoes.

Thursday:
hot.

Friday:
very hot; best to save energy for cricket.

Saturday:
rained off; went to the pub.

What is it that makes some experiences or imaginings the stuff of one’s dreams, while so much else – of greater importance, of longer duration – seems unknown to one’s sub-conscious?

Whatever it is certainly characterised the weatherboard cottage at 307 Beardy Street in Armidale and our time in it.

It was our family home for twelve years during which the family grew, was formed.

307 Beardy Street is on the corner with Ohio Street and across the road from The Armidale Playhouse, decked out for a long time in a colour crudely likened to something sometimes found in the nappies at our place.

We left there in the middle of 1985 and for years afterwards that house featured regularly and prominently in most of the dreams that I recalled. I also used to show off by leaping from the tops of buildings and swooping elegantly and safely across the top of the town’s main streets. I haven’t been back, on the ground or in the air, for a long time now.

Twelve of our first fourteen years in Australia were spent there. All four of our children were born in Armidale, with Alpha spending her brief (and mostly restful) confinements in the birthing motel units at the hospital just two blocks away.

The house dated back, I believe, to the 1880s or 1890s, at which time it stood on its own, surrounded by small paddocks. It is a weatherboard construction with bullnose verandahs on all four sides and a steep tin roof. It was of a standard layout, with the front door at the centre of the side facing Beardy Street, and with two rooms left and right off the central passageway. The room to the left at the back had been extended by a incorporating part of the veranda as a kitchen. Three little wooden steps led down from this enlarged space to the laundry and bathroom, with the toilet built into the back verandah. The walls of the room down the steps at the back were made of flattened out four-gallon fuel drums.

The first room on the right from the front door became the bedroom for the growing number of children, with half of the space divided vertically by a large platform on which there were two bunk beds. This made good use of the 11 or 12 foot ceilings in the house, made of pressed tin.  A vertical ladder provided the kids with upwards access to their ‘bedroom’  and a fireman’s pole with a rapid way down.

Being at the western end of Beardy Street, our home was within easy walking distance of the shops, and part way between ‘down town’ (‘CBD’ doesn’t quite do it) and the University of New England campus. We were nicely embedded in the town’s social, musical and sporting scenes and I have always thought that if we had been there for another couple of years it would have been our home for life. The town was small enough to be a small town – but large enough in population and cultural aspirations to host ABC concerts.

I was back there for the inter-State veterans cricket competition just a few years ago and was surprised to see what twenty years and a sort of gentrification had done to the pubs and clubs. Dingy but functional drinking spots had morphed into glass-and-piped-music entities with restaurants on the side.

So why did that home on Beardy Street subsequently feature so strongly and so long in my dream? They were certainly happy days, with minimal family and professional responsibilities compared with later years. The first panic attack was yet to occur. Professional responsibilities seemed other people’s rather than partly my own.

Perhaps it’s significant that I used to dream of re-owning the place, escaping from the public gaze and responsibility of work in Canberra, enjoying sun through glass on winter mornings, pottering in the vegetable garden. This all sounds like ‘going back’, or opting out.

At some point towards the end of our time in Armidale our suspicions about the potential use of the space above the pressed tin ceilings and beneath the sharply-rising tin roof were confirmed. Standing with the torch in the roof cavity revealed the extraordinary volume up there. The thought of dormer windows and extra rooms gave us great excitement. Kerry Hawkins produced plans for the major refurbishment and Reg White accepted the preliminary commission to do the build.

Then I got a dream job in Canberra.

 

I found images of some of Armidale’s (better) Federation houses at https://federation-house.wikispaces.com/Armidale+Federation+Heritage

This piece is several things.

It’s a big ‘thankyou’ to Anne Cahill Lambert for sharing her holiday snaps and thoughts with those of us who have chosen to follow her on Facebook.

It is a case study in the conversion of a Luddite to an understanding and appreciation of what Facebook is and does.

And it is a demonstration of the joy and potential of vicarious pleasure.

Being informed about the holiday that Anne and Rod have enjoyed over the past 60 days has connected and touched me many times and at a number of levels. It is clear that there are degrees of vicarious pleasure – hot, warm, cool – determined by the extent to which the active  person’s observation of a particular place or event reflects or matches the experience of the other – the passive person experiencing things through another.

So, for instance, I gained some limited (or neutral) vicarious pleasure from the pictures and descriptions of my daughter’s trip to Machu Picchu. But having never been there myself, my enjoyment of what I saw through her eyes was limited – more cerebral than emotional.

Anne and Rod, on the other hand, have been to and reported on places with which I have a strong connection. Some of what they have observed and said has reminded me of things that were once dear to me and that had to be left behind as a part of becoming Australian: historic streetscapes, stone walls, green fields and castles.

When Anne was CEO of the Women’s and Children’s Hospitals Association, we shared a tenancy in a building owned by what was then the Australian Hospitals Association. Times were tough: Anne had one half of the broom cupboard, I had the other. It was a close relationship. We were both herding cats, had similar political approaches and fed off each other’s strengths and weaknesses.

Anne then contracted ‘an incurable lung disease’ – which of course she eventually beat, after a huge amount of effort, energy and determination. Her strength of purpose was always an inspiration, whether in her personal travails, as an advocate for oxygen and organ donation, or as a gun for hire on health consumer issues. On winter weekends I sometimes call in on them for a beer after my hockey at Lyneham.

We are close.

Anne just had time before she and Rod left for their holiday to impart the best bits of Retirement 101 in which she lectures, gratis, to anyone who will listen. I have tried to put her lessons into action.

Between 28 June and 24 August Anne posted to Facebook about their holiday 55 times. These posts included 473 photos, 82 of which (17.3 per cent) feature Rod. Only 6 of the 473 (1.3 per cent) include Anne herself. That’s a poor example of the gender agenda.

The earliest highlights include a photo of what Anne describes as “high tech border protection” near Helsinki: a naive and forlorn looking sign standing on a grassy rise with an arrow pointing to ‘Passport control’.
On 4 July there was a photo of both Rod and Anne, with Big Ben in the background, in which Anne is wearing a Gift of Life hat. (She never lets a chance go by!)

Another memorable shot has Mahatma Gandhi watching – with strong approval, surely – a small demonstration close to the Houses of Parliament.

Anne succeeds in embedding her record of where she and Rod are at a particular moment into notable events elsewhere, as with the picture (from a TV) of Andy Murray in the fifth set against Tsonga, “while Wales is playing Portugal in the European cup”.

Manchester’s architecture surprises her, including the impressive facades of Carlton House and the Corn Exchange, and the walkways between the Town Hall and council offices which, to me, look a little like the Bridge of Sighs! “It’s breathtaking looking at buildings that were built hundreds of years before my own city”.

From Manchester, where Alpha worked in a music specialist school just a block from the Cathedral, they go to Edinburgh, where Anne takes stunning shots of and from the castle.  Some connections: brother Peter went to university in Edinburgh; Pella and I went to The Fringe Festival; Jonathan and Katrina now live there; Parri passes through with tour groups.

The photographic record Anne takes on board the Royal Yacht Britannia is impressive, with its gorgeous sitting room. From there they went to Greyfriars Bobby at 34 Candlemaker Row, for Rod to continue “eating pies around the UK”.

In York they come across Dame Judi Dench walk. Yes: she was born near York.

Moving south they visit Bob at the Wold Gliding Club, who winters at Benalla. Anne sums up the complexities of the enclosure movement and hundreds of years of the English countryside: “I love the use of hedges to divide paddocks”.

On 16 July: “When you think an old building can’t be any better or worse than you’ve seen elsewhere, then visit Cambridge.” Connection: The uni graduations they interrupted there were only a few days later than the ones in which Scott took part. While in Cambridge Anne and Rod busy themselves “looking for Inspector Morse, DS Lewis and avoiding murder”.

Next evening they saw the Corrs in London at Kew Gardens in London. Tad and I saw the Corrs at the National Folk Festival years ago when they were just starting out.

One of the strongest coincidences is the fact that, in Paris, Anne and Rod came across Le Jardin du Luxembourg (23 July). Our family have stayed several times in a cousin’s unit just across the Boulevard Saint-Michele from the gardens. We all have fond memories of Le Jardin.

The last stage of the Tour de France hit the Champs-Elysées on Sunday 24 July. Were Anne and Rod secretly watching before they set off for Spain?

Rod features heavily in the reports and pictures from San Sebastián between 26 July and 8 August. He represents Australia in the world unicycling championships, and proves to be the 19th fastest (50+ male) in the 800 metres, with a time of  3 minutes 31.9 seconds. He also competes in the hockey and, in the wet, in the 10 km race. Number 301, Rod Lambert “comes home with a wet sail, shirt and shorts”, notes his doting supporter. Connection: Pella spent time in San Sebastián last year.

Then – what  a day! – the two of them celebrate their 29th wedding anniversary, still in San Sebastian. There’s a lovely selfie of Anne and Rod – with red wine.

En route back to England Anne is reminded of some of the world’s current realities. “We saw the refugee camp in Calais. Overwhelmingly sad.”
From London they fly to Dublin. More green fields and hedges welcome them. In a pub in Kinsale they catch an ad hoc performance of The Band Played Waltzing Matilda, just a few days after the Pacific Boy Choir show the piece off as their Australian speciality when they perform it during their visit to Canberra.

Back in England, near Windsor on 22 August, we see (at last) a nice portrait of Anne and Rod together. They pass through scenic Bourton-on-the-Water on the way to Cardiff, resist feeding the feckin’ ducks, as requested, and in Cardiff they see the Welsh National Assembly.

Soon they will be back in their refurbished, well-appointed pied–à–terre in Canberra. Anne will want to worry about the Hawks’ form. But we all know that hers will be immaculate. Thank you so much Anne!

Result: The Western Bulldogs beat the Sydney Swans by 89 points (13-11) to 67 (10-7).

Fact: Sting provided the pre-game entertainment – but did not sing Fields of Gold.

History: On 15 May 2013 the Melbourne Age newspaper published an article by Bob Murphy, Western Bulldogs AFL player, entitled The dream that never dies. It began:

The Boston Red Sox baseball franchise in the Major League of America is a famous source of both fascination and inspiration for sport lovers all over the world.

Thrust into prominence in the early 20th century through the heroics of a champion team and Babe Ruth’s charismatic talent, the Red Sox were the hottest ticket around. Inexplicably, they then traded ‘the Babe’ to the New York Yankees, where he won even more championships and established the Yankees as the powerhouse franchise in the world. They remain so to this day and the ‘curse of the great Bambino’ was born.

Between 1918 and 2004 the Red Sox didn’t win a single pennant, despite coming painfully close a few times. That all changed when, 0-3 down in the best-of-seven American League Championships Series (against the Yankees, of course), the Red Sox fought their way back to claim the title, rid themselves of the curse and etch their names into sporting folklore for ever.

ESPN made a documentary on this incredible story simply titled Four Days In October. About four weeks ago I sat down to watch it, and it nearly ripped me in half.

In the final stages of the game, with victory a mere formality, the documentary-makers were able to capture the emotions of the Red Sox players and fans. Generation upon generation of broken hearts came together to cry, to cheer, to hold one another close and live in the world of their dreams.

As I sat watching I couldn’t help but draw the obvious comparisons to me and my Bulldogs.

Fact: On Sunday 2 October 2016,  ABC television’s Offsiders began with Gerard Whateley declaring: “It’s a concept so big, in circumstances so far-fetched, as to feel like the stuff of make-believe.”

He referred to a stanza of Bob Murphy’s article: “Generation upon generation of broken hearts came together to cry, to cheer, to hold one another close, and live in the world of their dreams.” The discussion on Offsiders was joined by Caroline Wilson, Roy Masters and Waleed Aly.

Judgement: Gerard said it was “a quest that will be recounted from here until football eternity” – – “just about the best thing you’ve ever seen at the footy”. Caroline agreed: “We’ve seen a woman ride the Melbourne Cup winner, we saw Cathy Freeman at the Sydney Olympics. It was one of those days – one of the greatest afternoons, certainly in Australian football history, and one of the biggest days in Australian sport. It has allowed everyone now to think that they can do something like this.”

Things had conspired against the Western Bulldogs Football Club. The administration of the AFL had tried to merge them, relocate them, and at one stage cut off the club’s funds.

According to Waleed Aly the Bulldogs had had to trade success for survival for so long – selling great players in order to stay afloat financially. Roy Masters – vastly experienced in Australia’s sports sector and a delightful wordsmith – said he had been fascinated by the physical difference between the two teams in the final. Whereas so much of the preparation of football teams these days is based on science, metrics and method, this had been “just a desperate physical struggle – humans v computers. – –  You could see the enterprise, enthusiasm and fitness of the Bulldogs and you could see the physical degeneration of the Swans.”

Folklore: The signature moment of the day happened on the podium when Bulldogs coach Luke Beveridge called for his injured captain, Bob Murphy, sometime Age correspondent, and put the medal around his neck – – a moment that “instantly became part of Australian sporting folklore”.

Caroline Wilson noted that most of the 99,981 people present had stayed for the presentations. “The Swans and their fans had been reduced to a bit player by the last 5-10 minutes, and yet everybody stayed – even those who were mourning needed to see this.”

Achievement awards:

Tom Boyd for provig his critics wrong.
Liam Picken, whose father Billy played in four losing grand finals for Collingwood.
Jason Johannisen won the Norm Smith Medal for ‘Best on Ground’.
Josh Kennedy, in a losing side, played (in the second) “one of the great Grand Final quarters”.
Dale Morris, including for a tackle on Buddy Franklin that led to a Bulldogs goal, and who was under an injury cloud during the finals series.
Club Chairman Peter Gordon, Luke Beveridge and Bob Murphy for building and operating a winning human culture.
Gerard Whateley, for consistently providing terrific sports journalism.

Villain: the goal that was overturned unilaterally by someone upstairs using “the appalling intervention of flawed technology” (Gerard). However, as Roy pointed out, the conceit of technology was trumped “when humanity came back – with the Bulldogs kicking the next goal straight afterwards”.

The Swans: Must be more shattered than two years ago (when they were trounced by Hawthorn). “It will be a long way to come back; it’s a game they thought they should have won.”

Wrapping up: “This year, every final was won by the less experienced team – we may never see this again.”

In anticipation of the ARL Grand Final in Sydney, Gerard said: “If you believe in symmetry, if you believe in omens, then the fates have tipped the way of the Sharks.”

So the porch light can now be turned off. Harold isn’t coming home – but the Sharks are.

For those who mist it, here is a summary of the exciting 19th stage of the Tour defiance. To save time, it was dictated through the speech recognition software I use. The stage featured rain, crashes and, among others, For Whom, Thomas Folklore, Vincent So Italy and Nevera Choirday.

Stage 19 of the Tour was carnage for many, including some of  the leaders, as rain fell in the House.

From Whom crashed but saw his overall lead grow as Romain Bardet won a damp, treacherous stage to Saint-Gervais Mont Blanc.

The stage began at Albertville in dry conditions, with Thomas Folklore (Direct Energie) soon establishing a break in typical mischievous fashion along the valley of the river Chaise. He was joined in the break by Daniel Technical High Note (Dimension Data) and Romanesque Never Doubt Us (Cannondale).

Once Folklore’s break was brought back another formed based around Status Claimant (I am Cycling), But Ours Was Asking (Bora-Argon), Great Than Other Might (BMC) and Tossed Against (Blotto).

While negotiating the hairpins of the 5.4 km climb to Queige, a number of riders got off the front, including Lose Inches (Long Grey), Roman Great Figure (Tinkoff), Tom Helter Skelter (Cannondale) and Chris and Kurt Sorensen (Fortuneo-Vital Concept). (It’s still a mystery why Tour Director Christian Prudhomme permits Chris and Kurt to share the bike when everyone else has to do it all themselves.)

The Tour leader’s crash came with 11km to go. His front wheel slipped on a white line on a left-hand bend shortly before the foot of the drop down from Megève to the valley before the final first-category ascent to the finish. He brought down Vincent So Italy (A Stunner) with him.

Team Buy responded to their leader’s crash with its usual efficiency, with From Whom taking over Giant Thomas’ bike and being brought back to the leaders by Mikel Naively, Dutchman White Polls and Sergio And Now.

From Whom’s recovery on Thomas’ bike was criticised by Matt White, Sporting Director of Team Orica-BikeExchange. “They pinched our idea,” Matt said wistfully.

For Whom made contact with the leaders as the final climb started, but remained near the back of the group as he tried to get used to the set-up of Thomas’ bike. “Now I know why he’s called Giant”, Chris said.

“Today showed exactly why the race isn’t over. A crash like that could have gone either way and I’m grateful that nothing is injured. Nevera Choirday on the Tour!”

In the confusion after From Whom’s crash, Bardet (Ag2R) escaped to link up with As a Visual (Francis To Ensure).

On the final climb to Mont Blanc the GC leaders attacked each other without any of them taking significant time. Ritchie Porte tried to dislodge his friend and former teammate For Whom but he had had to work hard on the descent from the super-category Montée de Bisanne after crashing, just as Vincent So Italy and his A Stunner teammates Channel Anger At and Local Folks Lang were piling on the pressure.

Bardet’s win was France’s first of this year’s race. So now the spell is broken.

PS When they started their last lap on the Champs Elysées, did anyone ask Froome the Bell Tolls?