Off on a holiday

Well, last Sunday morning I clambered aboard a mini-bus which picked up lots of others and deposited us to North Sydney where we did some more clambering, this time aboard a big coach.

There were 34 people and a very endearing driver/guide who filled us with information as we drove from place to place. For example, that the M5 tunnel is five and a half kilometres long, which incidentally correlates to five and a half kilometres of boredom. The whole trip was in fact stretches of boredom interspersed with food, eaten at various exotic beachside resorts. (At least the area around the airport didn’t stink as it did in the ‘50s because then you drove to the airport via a number of tanneries.)

Sydney is very, very big. If you add on Campbelltown which, strictly speaking, is another city, then Sydney is very, very, very big indeed. By the time you get out of greater Sydney, you would probably have driven through three European countries.

The boredom of long stretches of driving is largely because the entire flora of the NSW coast and inland is eucalypts of various descriptions, with she-oaks or casuarinas. True, past the border of gums you sometimes see rather wonderful vistas of cleared land dotted with homesteads, farm buildings, cows, sheared sheep and horses. What made these views special was the extraordinarily verdant green of the pastures because of the rain over recent months. There was also evidence from time to time of the terrible fires two-plus years ago but eucalypts are remarkable trees in their capacity to regenerate, so despite their blackened drunks, the eucalypt forests are also very green.

Another interesting fact from our bus driver is that Australia has 800 species of gum tree. We passed many with white and very straight trunks. They must have been ideal for the sawmills. But in the pastures, for windbreaks I expect, were great stands of what I think were fir trees. There’s no doubt that the Great Dividing Range, which seems to come very close to the coast as you go down south, provides spectacular vistas.

We also had two cruises, both of about two and a half hours duration: one up the Clyde River at Batemans Bay (where incidentally we had the best fish and chips I’ve ever eaten) and the other at Jervis Bay to see dolphins. Perhaps I’m hard to please but I must say both these trips were about as exciting as watching paint dry. The Clyde is very wide and its shores are covered with mangroves and eucalypts (of course!) and decked with oyster beds. We sailed up to a small town called Nelingen which was closed, so we were told. Considering this was mid-afternoon we were puzzled. It turned out that one place which sold souvenirs was in fact open but by that stage I’d decided not to risk the uphill walk to the shop. The cruise in Jervis Bay showed you a lot of Jervis Bay which is something like six times larger than Sydney Harbour but has infinitely less charm. We did in fact catch up to the dolphins in the last ten minutes or so but they were not obliging and only showed us a small curve of their backs and their fins.

One of the highlights of the holiday was a visit to Mogo zoo where you could get up close and personal with meerkats, strange moustachioed monkeys and giraffes who came right up to the keepers to be fed. The zoo also has cheetahs, lions (including white lions which were hiding), hippopotami or it may have been rhinoceros (also hiding), a couple of very grumpy looking gorillas and lots of zebras.

On this holiday, I observed again what I’d noticed in driving holidays many decades ago; the propensity of country people to build their homes right on the roadside or, if further away, at least facing the road. It’s extremely odd that they don’t find a spot off in the pastures which would give some privacy. Ah, well … a mystery not to be solved. I also noticed shipping containers in many of the gardens of the more run-down houses. Were they for storage or living? Another mystery not to be solved.

By contrast, at many places on this trip we drove through or into flyspeck towns packed with huge, modern and attractive homes, some with a holiday feel and others very suburban. In other, bigger, towns there were mixtures of these modern buildings and old-fashioned fibro houses or weatherboard, sometimes gussied up with smart paint. The tour organisers took pains to take us to attractive towns to have morning or afternoon tea and lunch. We’d pull up to a park (universally well kept) at a beach with covered benches and tables where our driver set out the goodies. And one very important fact: there was always a toilet block. Given that the average age of the people on tour was probably 80, access to a clean toilet is the sine qua non of a driving holiday. These small coastal towns down south could teach our Northern Beaches parks a thing or two. The only negative in some of the parks was the need to dodge kangaroo poop; in one park we saw a large group (troop?) of kangaroos snoozing in the shade of a large tree.

And speaking of coastal communities, on the way back via Wollongong, we actually avoided Wollongong itself and took the coastal road past a series of small beach-side towns like Thirroul, Austinmer, Coledale, Wombarra and more. They were delightful and many boasted houses of great charm. I’d say they would be a perfect place to go for a beach holiday except that I live in a beach holiday!

(Our driver, as I’ve said was full of facts. He told us not only that wombats and koalas have a common ancestor but that koalas poop olive-shaped poos but wombat poop is cubed.)

As I said earlier, this trip – and perhaps all coach tours – caters for an older tourist. If you live on your own, as many of my companions did, it was a nice way to have company on a holiday. At least one third to one half of the whole 34 was English. Most of the group were very hale and hearty and seemed to have no trouble keeping up the pace. I imagine, however, that this sort of trip with its long driving stretches and multiple stops (and loos) was just right for the energies of the slightly older. For the remainder of the passengers, some spoke such broad ocker that I wished I brought Let Stalk Strine with me. All, thankfully, were nice people, easy to please and appreciative of the company they found themselves in.

 

Quote of the week from Chambers Dictionary of Modern Quotations:

Sir Robert Menzies, when accused by a Member of Parliament of harbouring a superiority complex: “Considering the company I keep in this place, that is hardly surprising.”

 

 

Ancient history

I was musing about my scars recently – as you do when the weather’s foul – and was thinking about how permanent they are. Well yes, of course they are – that’s in the job description for a scar. But I was particularly engaged with the scars on my forehead and down to my nose. They’re the reminders of my earliest introduction to sewing and its ancillary arts and crafts.

We lived in Eastwood when I was small and I would go next door to visit Mrs Onion (it was actually Unwin but the nick-name stuck). She was a great sewer and sat for hours at her sewing machine. I would pop up on the table facing her and presumably chatter away while I watched her work. On one inauspicious day, her sewing table collapsed sending me – and all the pins, needles and scissors – onto the floor. The scissors cut my forehead just above my nose and the pins and needles went into the rest of my forehead and my nose. I don’t recall the accident, but I do have a faint memory of our doctor dabbing at my forehead with some sort of antiseptic. Needless to say, I was extraordinarily lucky not to have been blinded and a bunch of now very faint scars was not a problem under the circumstances.

I have some scars on my arms and back where small lumps were removed – never (and again I was very fortunate) turning out to be a problem. The same applied to the moles which were taken off my front. I also have a small scar on my calf from tripping over a concrete step in the craft gallery where I worked a very long time ago. However, these scars have now almost disappeared in the forests of age spots, varicose and spider veins.

Other ancient history musings take me on the drive between our home (but I can’t remember if this was our Eastwood or Pymble home) and my grandmother’s home in Parramatta. Quite vividly, I can see a group of very large buildings on our route which I remember being told were homes for orphans. Perhaps these were Aboriginal children stolen from their families or children orphaned in other ways. I can’t remember any details other than a feeling of sorrow as we passed them by.

My grandmother came to Australia with my youngest uncle Alan after my grandfather died some time after we arrived Down Under. I remember very little of her house, which she must have chosen because we were then living also in Parramatta, except for a very ugly, dark and unwholesome goldfish pond. By the time we moved to the North Shore my uncle was married and my grandmother lived with us although she eventually moved to live with the same uncle in the Eastern Suburbs. I regret vividly not asking her much about her life in England. All I know was that she lived in a fairly large house with her husband, her four sons and two grandfathers who lived with them. Imagine how hard it must have been cooking each day for seven men. And one thing I do know was that she was taken out of school at 16 to help her own mother with her multitude of siblings. Consequently she became one of those “housewives” who only understood what the Germans called Kinder, Kirche, Kuche – children, “church” and kitchen.

I don’t remember that she did much cooking when she lived with us. The two things which stand out are the kasha she cooked for my father – disgusting buckwheat – and her legendary ginger cake which was in fact a honey cake for the Jewish New Year and any other time she decided to bake. She and my mother did not get on well. This I do remember. I was often irritable with her myself because she used to tell on me when I did something wrong. I must have missed many punishments because my mother was so cross that she “dobbed” me in.

Back to the memories which may have sparked my interest in sewing and other crafts as well as what had stuck from watching Mrs Onion sew. At one stage in her life my mother patronised a dressmaker and sometimes took me with her when she had to go for fittings. I recall walking to the sewing room through a long hallway lined on one side with shelves. These held bundles of fabric left over from each of the many, many dresses she had created and formed a kaleidoscope of colours and textures which I found breathtakingly wonderful.

When I gave birth to a girl (my second child) I determined to learn how to make her clothes. My mother was not interested in sewing but my father had worked with patterns and cloth all his adult life. So he showed me how to use a sewing machine and how to lay out the pattern pieces, pin and cut them. I became a dab hand at making delightful dresses for Jessica and eventually even clothes for the boys. This was after I took a course in sewing stretch fabric and could make a creditable go of creating t-shirts. I also sewed my own maternity clothes. In those days 50-plus years ago we actually wore special shapeless tent-like maternity dresses which were easy to sew because they didn’t have to fit. I am bemused by the young women of today who stuff their bumps into t-shirts and other “normal” clothes; I really don’t like the look but then I’m old and out of touch!

 

Quote of the week from Chambers Dictionary of Modern Quotations.

British actor A. E. Matthews: “I always wait for The Times each morning. I look at the obituary, and if I’m not in it, I go to work.”

 More words and memories

 

My dear friend Denise, who lives in delightful Lennox Head, was inspired to share her favourite multi-use word with us all. It’s “up”. Here is her list plus a few extras …

You can go up, lift up (a box), lift up (your eyes), look up (a word), look up (to the sky), hold up (as in robbery), hold up (as in hold up as an example), check up (on something), (have a) check up, set up (a system), stand up (to someone), shore up (support), tie up (shoe laces), cheer up, fold up, dry up, shut up, bring up (in conversation), bring up (your children) and bring up (vomit).

Let me know your favourite multi-use words so we can all share.

And now to memories, specifically memories of holidays.

Each time I hear a news report about Myanmar, I flash back in my mind to the single night I spent in Burma, as it was then, when I was 16. I’ve mentioned before that my parents took my brother and I on a major holiday abroad at that time. Burma was our overnight stop on the way back to Sydney. We stayed in an hotel which I think had been some European’s palatial mansion. It had circular steps to the upper floors and ceiling fans, which I called punkah fans, lazily rotating. After dinner, I took a stroll outside in the warm dark evening toward the low wall which bounded the property. I heard a low murmur and to my surprise, the adjoining wall which bounded the property next door, was being used by a dozen or so Buddhist monks who were just sitting there and quietly talking. I was told later that the next door property was the Buddhist equivalent of a monastery – a lamasery perhaps. It was quite spooky.

Another clear memory was an evening in Rome when our parents took us to the Hostaria dell’Orso. Housed in a 14^th Century building it had a bar on the ground floor, magnificent restaurant on the next floor up and a nightclub on the third floor. When I checked recently, I found it is still operating just as it had been all those decades ago and for some hundreds of years before that.

Also on that trip, history really smacked me in the face when we visited the site of Mycenae in Greece. Because I was an ancient history nut, my parents had let me choose where outside Athens we would go in our few days in Greece. Mycenae, in Greek legend, was the home of King Agamemnon who would initiate the decade long Trojan War to capture the beauteous Helen (who had run off with Paris of Troy) and return her to her husband, Agamemnon’s brother Menelaus. The site of Mycenae had been partly excavated by Heinrich Schliemann, who also excavated at Troy. He found, among many other objects, a beautiful golden mask which is called (incorrectly it is now thought), the mask of Agamemnon.

On the day we visited there were no other tourists; this was the early ‘60s and mass tourism was in the future. The guide who had accompanied us to Mycenae from Athens introduced us to a very, very old man who told us, through translation, that he had been a six-year-old child when Schliemann dug at Mycenae. His father was one of Schliemann’s helpers and the old man remembered meeting him. What a thrill! It was like shaking the hand of history.

Holidays in Australia were much more modest. The very earliest, not remembered by my brother and I but told to us by our parents, was a holiday in Bondi when we were living in Paramatta. From this holiday came the Great Tick Talking Point. Apparently I had a tick somewhere on my scalp. How my parents knew this is a mystery but when the tick was removed (by whom unknown), they kept it in an old Benson and Hedges tin and used to show it to their friends. Imagine! They’d been through the Blitz (my mother) and years of fighting with the British Army (my father) and experienced all the other depredations of war but they found a burrowing insect from their daughter's scalp to be marvellous.

The first holiday I remember was Jervis Bay. In what was then and still is a naval base, there was a large building surplus to the navy’s requirements which was turned into a holiday boarding house and was where the English Jews went for holidays. There were white beaches and green lawns and my brother managed to break his arm on one of these holidays which of course makes it memorable. A few years ago, the spouse and I were on a south coast driving holiday and took advantage of the navy’s generosity in allowing visitors to the base, provided they stayed in their cars. I was absolutely overcome when we drove around a bend and there was the building and the huge green sward in front, just as I’d remembered it.

As a child I also went to the Blue Mountains and stayed in the Hydro Majestic. Majestic is just how I remember it, with what seemed to me to be huge rooms with apparently outsized furniture. Returning in my late teenage, I realised the rooms and the furniture were all conventionally sized; it was just that I must have been very small.

Finally, my family, and many other English and Australian Jewish families, settled for a decade or so to have summer holidays at Surfers Paradise. Quite small and not well developed, Surfers was a cosy holiday destination with only one restaurant I recall: the Zuider Zee. We stayed in a very modest boarding house close to the sand and I recall my brother and cousin running around in the sun while I sat under a tree with my book. In teenage, however, I eventually ventured to the sand and have pictures to prove it. This was at the very beginning of “rock ‘n roll” and I remember a broadcast system which blasted Rock around the Clock across the beach.

Now, of course, I live in a holiday. Maybe I should book a week in Balmain!

 

Quote of the week from Chambers Dictionary of Modern Quotations:

Groucho Marx, when excluded from a beach club on racial (read antisemitic) grounds: “Since my daughter is only half Jewish, could she go in the water up to her knees?”

 English wonders

 

The English language is a truly wondrous thing. Its highways and byways catch you sometimes with surprise and oftentimes with pleasure.

Take collectives, for example. We all know about a pride of lions and a herd of elephants. But how about a “murder” of crows or a “parliament” of owls. I looked up some more for your delectation: an eyrie of eagles, an ambush of tigers, a confusion (or argument) of architects, an army of herrings, a bale of turtles, a battery of barracuda, a bellowing of bullfinches, a bevy of swans, a bloat (or crash) of hippopotami, a boil of hawks, a bubble of divers, a celebration of polar bears, a clowder (?) of cats, a coalition of cheetahs, a commonwealth of bees, a conflagration of arsonists and a converting of preachers – and all of this without going past the letter c.

There are also plenty of odd words describing one specific thing. “Dottle” is a good example. Dottle is the remaining plug of unburnt tobacco and ashes left in the bottom of a tobacco pipe when it has been smoked (precise definition from Wikipedia). Not something you need in everyday conversation but delightfully precise.

Take a word like “hull”. It means the husk or shell of a seed or fruit but in its verb form it means to remove a hull. So, for example, digging out the green leafy stem of leaves on a strawberry is called hulling the strawberry. I’m curious about the strawberries and cream which apparently are a feature of watching Wimbledon live. Do they have an army of minions (or indeed Minions) hulling thousands of strawberries every day of the tournament? What an extraordinary thing to put on your CV; “I hull strawberries at Wimbledon”.

Then there are words which have multiple meanings, some of which are odd. For example, if you are dressmaking, you “set” a sleeve into a bodice, vastly different from “setting” something down or “setting” something up. Which reminds me of the school age mantra: Flu breaks out, a thief breaks in, school breaks up and a car breaks down.

How about the odd use of simple words. Take “neck” for example. It is used perfectly sensibly for the bit of your body which attaches your noggin to your torso. But we also say “which neck of the woods do you come from”. And there’s “nick”.
It’s often used for a small cut. But we also say “in the nick of time” or “I’ll just nick out to the shops”.

You are supposed to eat “a peck” of dirt before you die, and you sing to your grandchild: “I love you, a bushel and a peck, a bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck.” Both peck and bushel are old imperial measurements up there with guinea (one pound one shilling) and a “baker’s dozen” (13). The Britannica tells us that there are a few theories as to why a baker’s dozen became 13, but the most widely accepted one has to do with avoiding a beating. In medieval England there were laws that related the price of bread to the price of the wheat used to make it. Bakers who were found to be “cheating” their customers by overpricing undersized loaves were subject to strict punishment, including fines or flogging.

Even with careful planning it is difficult to ensure that all your baked goods come out the same size; there may be fluctuations in rising and baking and air content, and many of these bakers didn’t even have scales to weigh their dough. For fear of accidentally coming up short, they would throw in a bit extra to ensure that they wouldn’t end up with a surprise flogging later. In fact, sometimes a baker’s dozen was 14—just to be extra sure.

The word “hawk” is another example of weirdly different meanings for same word. Of course it’s the name of a bird of prey and, not too distantly, describes a person with bellicose views. It also describes carrying goods around for sale and it’s the word for expectorating or clearing one’s throat and bringing up phlegm.

If you’ve got any favourite examples of English at its best and most peculiar do let me know; you can share it with everyone.

 

Quote of the week from Chambers Dictionary of Modern Quotations.

Donald McGill, British comic postcard artist: “Do you like Kipling? “I don’t know, you naughty boy, I’ve never kippled.”

Antimacassars and other strange customs 

I was going to write to you about antimacassars, a strange word which had fallen into disuse. Except it hasn’t. When I went into Google to check its spelling, I find that it’s still used to describe a piece of cloth draped as protection across the arms and/or back of an armchair. In the Victorian era, antimacassars were usually of lace or possibly embroidered cloth; now it seems they’re of any fabric and appear to be much more sturdy than their older relations.

At least we don’t have to live with other Victorian ideas like draping fabric around a piano’s legs because seeing legs, even on an inanimate object like a piano, was regarded as provocative. Seeing a lady’s ankle was a sexy as it got. Which is odd as in slightly earlier times as we saw in Pride and Prejudice and a myriad of other television series and movies, women wore extremely tight bodices with a great deal of bosom pushed up and out and men wore extremely tight “inexpressibles” of knitted material which one imagines were even more revealing than budgie smugglers.

O tempora, o mores – Oh the times, oh the manners!

It’s interesting how fashion – in clothing, manners, activities and more – has changed from my youth to now.

Take “Ban the Bomb”, the slogan of the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament, a strong peace movement in the late ‘50s and ‘60s. It advocated the abolition of methods of mass destruction but is no longer active although its logo, a kind of revamped Mercedes symbol, is still co-opted sometimes by other anti-establishment movements.

And then there were beach inspectors. Even in the ‘60s, they patrolled Bondi Beach (and maybe elsewhere) looking for young women wearing scanty bikinis which were against either the law or the statutes of Waverley Council. I was humiliated by being complimented by one of these loathed public servants because my two-piece was supremely modest, the bottom half coming all the way to my waist.

In the ‘50s and ‘60s, men escorting women down the street would reliably position themselves on the kerb side of the sidewalk, a custom ingrained from when streets were muddy and passing traffic would fling mud or dust upwards. I doubt there is anyone alive under 70 who would do this for that reason. It’s a bit like women wearing gloves to go to town – totally foregone.

Kids today have their LOL (laughing out loud), BRB (be right back), BTW (by the way), FISH (first in, still here) and POS (parents over shoulder). But we had our own acronyms; as young teenagers we wrote SWALK on the back of envelopes (sealed with a loving kiss) and giggled at the supposed meaning of POSH (allegedly written on the suitcases of the sahibs and memsahibs sailing to and from India and standing for Port Out Starboard Home, instructions on which side of the ship to have one’s cabin) and the supposed meaning of the word Snafu, coined by the military and meaning Situation Normal All F**d Up.

We also had Pig Latin, an invented language where each word lost its first letter which was pushed to the end of the word with the sound “ay” afterwards. So, Pig Latin for Pig Latin was “igpay atinlay”. Astonishingly, it didn’t really catch on.

Ladies were not supposed to eat in the street in the Olden Days; if I ever find myself slurping an ice-cream as I wander along, I send up a silent “sorry” to my late mother.

Young ladies also didn’t get their ears pierced. That, apparently, was only for foreign people. So strong was this admonition that I didn’t get my ears pierced until I was a dashing 72.

We did a lot of singing the National Anthem in the Olden Days, including at the cinema where we had to stand and sing before the film (or fillum or pitcha). In those days it was, of course, God Save the Queen. It took me years to learn Advance Australia Fair when it was introduced as our National Anthem, and I’m still wobbly on the second verse.

By the way, the young Queen visited Australia in 1954, less than a year after her Coronation, which was celebrated by the publishing of glossy black and white picture books which we young girls sighed over. On her 1954 visit, my mother, along with an estimated 1.8 million others, took my little brother and I to wave flags as her motorcade flashed by. I recall wondering when I was older how she coped with the disgusting stench of the tanneries which lined the then best route from the airport to the city. Perhaps she had her bottle of sal volatile (smelling salts) without which, I understand, no lady would travel.

And another quaint custom of the Olden Days … When we young ladies finally met and married Mr Right we completely lost our identity, subsumed into that of our husbands; Betty Williams became Mrs John Brown or Helen White, Mrs Bob Jones.

 

 

Quote of the Week from Chambers Dictionary of Modern Quotations.

US poet Robert Lowell: “If we see the light at the end of the tunnel, it’s the light of the oncoming train.”

 

 Things I know

 

I know the motto of NSW. In case you ever feel you need to know this it’s Orta Recens Quam Pura Nites which means “Newly risen, how brightly you shine”. There you are – instant geek!

I know how to sing La Marseillaise, the French national anthem. I presumably picked this up in French lessons at school but I’m mystified by why I still recall it. When one’s brain capacity is shrinking it seems odd that this is one of the memories it retains.

I know the date of the French Revolution – 1789; also learned in modern history at school. As a sign of those times, we learned about the French, Russian and Japanese revolutions instead of learning the name of Australia’s first Prime Minister – or indeed any Prime Minister. And further to this French theme, I have some remnants of French language from five years of study.

I know how to clean silver cutlery and other smallish silver objects, at least a practical thing to remember. You line a large bowl with silver foil, put the cutlery in, shake in lot of bicarb soda and cover it all with boiling water. Instant clean!

As I’ve noted before, I know a LOT of poetry. It’s interesting that I remember poetry and lots of history but, as I’ve written before, absolutely nothing from my years of learning maths at school. There’s not a jot of Algebra, Calculus or Trigonometry in my noggin, but there’s masses of bits and bobs of literature including Shakespeare’s Sonnet 116 which is supposed to be the most perfect sonnet in the English language. OK, if you really want to know …

“Let me not to the marriage of true minds

Admit impediments. Love is not love

Which alters when it alteration finds,

Or bends with the remover to remove.

O no! it is an ever-fixed mark

That looks on tempests and is never shaken;

It is the star to every wand'ring bark,    

Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.

Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks

Within his bending sickle's compass come;

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

If this be error and upon me prov'd,

I never writ, nor no man ever lov'd.

 

I know how to use a Thesaurus.

I know when to use “shall” and when to use “will” (it’s I shall, you will, he/she it will).

I know that media and data are plurals so they should be followed by “are” not “is”.

I have a profound understanding of where and when to put an apostrophe. An example: it’s “such and such was popular in the 1970s”, but “the clothes were 1970s’ fashion” where the first is a plural and the second a possessive. (I know I’m a punctuation bore.)

I know the two most famous dates in British history: 55 BCE and 1066 CE. The first is Caesar’s invasion of Britain and the second, the Norman invasion. This information became fixed in my mind when years ago I read the wonderful spoof on British history called 1066 and All That. And of course in those days we used BC (Before Christ and AD (Anno Domini – in the Year of our Lord), now replaced by BCE (Before the Common Era) and CE (Common Era) because not all of us count with reference to Jesus.

I know the other thing which happened in 1492. Not only did Columbus “sail the ocean blue” but all the Jews were kicked out of Spain in the same year. Well, most of them, because there were pogroms and expulsions well into the next century.

I know how to give a good speech. I write them, then perform them. My mother was very supportive of my inability to speak extempore and told me I was in good company because Winston Churchill also wrote his speeches.

I know, thankfully, how to make good friends and I’m really chuffed that I’ve made new friends on the Northern Beaches.

I once knew how to use a theodolite and even a slide rule although I suppose this doesn’t count because I’ve forgotten how to do either. I just thought you might be impressed with the one-time breadth of my knowledge.

I know that Britain only has 36 actors who wander from program to program.

Because I am hopelessly boring, I know where to put apostrophes around quotes at the end of a sentence and I know that most publishers get it wrong. (If the quote is only a part of the sentence, the inverted commas go inside the full point, not after it. Boring, I know!)

I know what DNA stands for – Deoxyribonucleic Acid – but not what it means.

I know how to iron shirts really well.

To quote Tevye in Fiddler on the Roof I can do a “little bit of this, a little bit of that”.

I once saved the life of a newborn chick, but to be fair I didn’t have a clue how to do this until I’d spoken to a vet. The chick was suffering separation anxiety from having been taken from its mum and sold to my offspring at the school fete. When I discovered they had purchased this chick we were already home. Within minutes of coming inside, the chick keeled over. I rang a vet from the yellow pages (remember those) and he told me to put the chick on a warm hot-water bottle, cover it with a soft jumper (cashmere preferred) and feed it warm water through an eye dropper. I conscientiously did all these things and was richly rewarded when the chick returned to the vertical.

These chicks (there were actually two of them, but one was decidedly more robust than the one who’s life I saved) lived initially in the children’s bath-tub as their principle activity was pooping. Later they graduated to the courtyard as the weather warmed up but grew decidedly uglier as they aged. Eventually they were gifted to a friend with acreage in Queensland, via another friend who was flying up to see her; my spouse presented this second friend with a carrier bag to take with her on the plane which secretly contained the two chickens. Somehow or another, she managed the trip without knowing what she was carrying and the chickens lived a reasonably peaceful life until they were eaten by a fox.

 

Quote of the week from Chamber’s Dictionary of Modern Quotations:

American humourist (and mathematician) Tom Lehrer: “It is a sobering thought that when Mozart was my age he had been dead for two years.”

And from one of his hilarious songs:

“I am never forget the day I first meet the great Lobachevsky. In one word he told me secret of success in mathematics. Plagiarize!

Plagiarize!

Let no one else's work evade your eyes;

Remember why the good Lord made your eyes, 

So don't shade your eyes, 

But plagiarize, plagiarize, plagiarize … 

Only be sure always to call it please "research".

 

 

 

 

Poetic ageing

Reading a history of the Middle Ages, as you do on the Northern Beaches in the middle of summer, I came across a delicious extract from the 12^th Century De Miseria Humanae Conditionis of Pope Innocent III which translates as Concerning the Wretchedness of the Human Condition.

“If, however, one does reach old age, his heart weakens straight away and his head shakes, his spirit fails and his breath stinks, his face wrinkles and his back bends, his eyes dim and his joints falter, his nose runs and his hair falls out, his touch trembles and his competence fails, his teeth rot and his ears become dirty. But neither should the old man glory against the young person nor the young be insolent to the old person, for we are what he was, someday will be what he is.”

I’m not entirely sure about the dirty ears, but the rest sounds pretty familiar.

There’s a lot of poetry and literary prose which deals with the issue of ageing.

Of course, Shakespeare has a go in his famous speech about the seven ages of man:

“All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like a snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like a furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side,
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,

Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.” (As You Like It)

And then there’s the very depressing Sonnet 30

“When to the sessions of sweet silent thought

I summon up remembrance of things past,

I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,

And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste:

Then can I drown an eye, unus'd to flow,

For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,

And weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe,

And moan th' expense of many a vanish'd sight;

Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,

And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er

The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,

Which I new pay as if not paid before.

But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,

All losses are restor'd, and sorrows end.”

 

Andrew Marvell’s delightful poem about seduction and ageing, titled To His Coy Mistress is a delight.

 

“Had we but world enough and time,

This coyness, lady, were no crime.

We would sit down, and think which way

To walk, and pass our long love’s day.

Thou by the Indian Ganges’ side

Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide

Of Humber would complain. I would

Love you ten years before the flood,

And you should, if you please, refuse

Till the conversion of the Jews.

My vegetable love should grow

Vaster than empires and more slow;

An hundred years should go to praise

Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;

Two hundred to adore each breast,

But thirty thousand to the rest;

An age at least to every part,

And the last age should show your heart.

For, lady, you deserve this state,

Nor would I love at lower rate.

But at my back I always hear

Time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near;

And yonder all before us lie

Deserts of vast eternity.

Thy beauty shall no more be found;

Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound

My echoing song; then worms shall try

That long-preserved virginity,

And your quaint honour turn to dust,

And into ashes all my lust;

The grave’s a fine and private place,

But none, I think, do there embrace.

Now therefore, while the youthful hue

Sits on thy skin like morning dew,

And while thy willing soul transpires

At every pore with instant fires,

Now let us sport us while we may,

And now, like amorous birds of prey,

Rather at once our time devour

Than languish in his slow-chapped power.

Let us roll all our strength and all

Our sweetness up into one ball,

And tear our pleasures with rough strife

Through the iron gates of life:

Thus, though we cannot make our sun

Stand still, yet we will make him run.”

 And I have just come across this marvellous 1961 poem called Warning by British poet Jenny Joseph.

"When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick flowers in other people's gardens
And learn to spit.

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and pickle for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
And pay our rent and not swear in the street
And set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

 

 

QQuote of the week from Chambers Dictionary of Modern Quotations

BBritish writer Hugh Kingsmill: “Friends are God’s apology for relations.”