He sat staring morosely at the painted cream table top, with the sun's rays showing the worn patches, the scratches, & the awful green trim along the edge. It reminded him of the institution green paint. It was supposed to calm people it was said. That particular shade of green made him feel rather green, and also, rather angry.
He supposed the table top was from his mother's days in this house. Before she died. He wondered why his father hadn't got rid of it, or changed it. He wondered if his father even saw it these days. He looked at the little dent marks he had made with his pocketknife on day when his father was not home yet.
His gaze lifted to the smudged widow, the swipe marks where someone had tried to wipe it clean, but had only succeeded in smearing whatever it was, in arc. He glanced at the filthy curtains, the red & once-white check now grimed, & almost permanantly pleated with stiffness. He could remember the last time his sister had washed them, ironed them, & hung them back in the windows.
It was before he went away, & he was shocked to suddenly notice that the two little pot plants she had placed on the windowsill were still there. Brown skeletons, both of them, with dried soil now almost turned to concrete, or perhaps dust.
His vision shifted out the window, across the long grass, to the leaning stakes from old tomato plants. The overgrown & thigh high weeds which had overtaken the once neat vegetable garden.
He remembered weeding it, watering the vegetables, helping his father plant the new seedlings. That was three years ago now. He had been gone for a year. He had been home again for six months. If he could really call this home.
He looked at the plum tree, now stripped of most of it's leaves. He remembered the evenings in the early summer when they had lain beneath the magic of the cotton candy tufts of pink plum blossom. He remembered how they had talked for hours. Her long hair lying on the grass,Little petals of plum blossom, like confetti on her hair. Her easy laugh, their happy discussions of books they had both read. He had felt no one would love the books he liked, but she did. She seemed to see them, understand them with his understanding.
"Where the hell did you go last night?"
His father, standing in the doorway, his face wearing an expression as sour as his after-sherried breath. His eyes red, pouches of too many nights of drinking sagging under his faded blue eyes.
He turned to fill the jug, & turned on the element on the stove under the disgusting frying pan, which looked as if it might never have been washed. It seemed he lived on whatever food came out of that pan.
"I hope you didn't get stupid, & go making trouble at the girl's place. The old Lady doesn't need that nonsense, at her age."
"What makes you think I went there? I just went out for a run. I might play footy."
"Not with your build, your'e too slight. They want big buggers, the Maori boys would flatten you in the first five minutes."
"I might make those Maori boys my mates, then they wouldn't flatten me!"
Why did his father always have to make him feel worse about his size. Why couldn't he have inherited his father's height, not his mother's slight build. He could feel his face burning with the shame, the sense of inadequacy his father just had the knack to bring out. He wished his blond hair & white skin did not make his blushing so obvious. He felt a rage burn over him again.
"Do ya want some bacon? Eggs? May as well have some, seeing I'm cooking. What about a cup of tea, eh?" As if to soften the remark about his size.
His father didn't take milk in his tea, & he knew there was no milk in the fridge. The old man never remembered to buy it, & it rotted in the fridge when he did. He never forgot his sherry flagon though, as the stack of empties out the back testified.
"Nah. I prefer coffee."
"Well if you get a real job, you can buy your fancy coffee, can't you?". He put the hot water in the teapot, swirled it about, tipping it out and adding the tea leaves from the packet.
"Old man Purdy said I could help stack the hay in his shed today. He'll pay me."
"You can come & work with me. I can teach you house painting, you'd do ok."
"Dad, we both know it wouldn't work, me working with you. I piss you off too much. Besides there wouldn't be enough money. You knock off too early, to get into your piss every day."
The older man turned back to the frypan, flicking the fat over a couple of eggs. Pretended not to hear the last remark.
"Just stay away from that girl, I'm warning you. I don't want any more scenes like there were here that night. Understand?"
He waited a minute or so, dishing out the dripping eggs onto the fatty bacon, some dry bread & butter.
"What the hell were you thinking? I thought you were trying to kill her!"
"Let's leave it eh, Dad? I will see if I can get the mower going, & mow the lawn later this afternoon?"
"Please yourself. I don't care anymore."
He could see his father meant it. He seemed to have lost all care about the yard, the house, his life. It was a wonder he still had any jobs, but he was still regarded with some respect, even though he 'drank' and his only son had been sent 'away'.
Lenience was given, after all the poor man had lost his wife, in childbirth, when she was very young.
He still managed to work, he kept that much dignity.
Ricky Nelson.
This is so old it has a beard!!! It goes with the time of the story.
Monday, March 30
Saturday, March 28
Night Moods Chapter 1.
He pulled his woollen cap down further about his ears. He had never liked wearing hats of any sort, but he was glad he had this one. The air was sharply cold, & he shrugged his shoulders up, so the collar of his jacket was right up around his neck. He had pulled the zip as high as it would go.
He had never liked ski type jackets, but he was glad he had accepted this from her Grandmother, even though he had not wanted to take a dead man's jacket.
Her Grandmother was practical, and had not wanted it "to go to waste", as she said. He was actually quite surprised at how often he had worn it.
He wished he had worn the pantyhose, under his jeans, like the others wore for their footy training, The girls teased them about cross dressing, but hell, on cold frosty nights, like this one, they needed something to keep them warm initially.
He walked briskly, watching the puffs of his breath, in the bright moonlight. This was the second night he had headed off briskly, telling himself he would just take a training run. His feet felt cold still, in his cross trainers, but he knew they would warm as he walked on, the soft spongy soles rolling under the balls of his feet, cushioning his heavy heel footfalls.
He saw the lights knifing through the darkness, as they approached the bend in the road. He quickly crouched down in the ditch, among the long grass, and bracken, that tickled his nose, until the lights had passed, going too fast on the gravel road, the tyres spewing out stones as the driver swung the ute around the curve. He knew who the driver was, knew he was returning home and would be in a foul mood, as his father-in-law-to-be would have come out to order him home. It was a standing joke, in the dressing room, about the "Blue Balls".
Almost there now, the first fingers of frost tipping the grass, the bracken. It would be a heavy frost, and he felt the cold of it biting at his nose and teeth.
Here was the wide wooden gate, never closed, it hung slightly askew, growing more lichen with each year.
He could see the sliver of light, like a blade on the ghostly grass, thrown from the gap in the drapes that never quite closed. He edged closer, cursing softly as his trainer sank into soft soil. The old lady must have weeded the flower bed.
He peered into the room. He could see the old Grandmother sitting in her chair at the top of the table, seemingly staring right at him. He pulled back, then realised she could not see him in reality, the net curtains prevented sight out into the dark. Not so, the reverse though.
He could hear the murmur of their voices, watched as her hair fell across her neck and face. She brushed it back, tucking it behind her ear. She said she was going to have it all cut short. He had asked her not to have it cut.
She said something, and her Grandmother laughed. She laughed too, lifted her knitting, to measure the length, with a tape measure, on the table top.
He had often wondered about the fact that they chose to sit in the dining room, rather than the lounge room. True, it was more cosy and easier to keep the smaller room warm, on cold nights such as this. The younger brother would be in bed, sleeping the sleep of the young, the innocent.
He stared, his heart thumping inside his chest. He could feel the burning pain of her rejection. His fingers dug into the window sill to steady himself, as a surge of pain and yes, rage, passed shudderingly through him.
He stifled the urge to scream out her name. He thought of her Grandmother's soft eyes, when she had learned that it was all over.
He wanted to reach out, smash the window. Pull down the drapes, the curtains, leap the windowsill, grab her and.... then what? The pain washed over him, the feeling of helplessness.
A dog began barking furiously, somewhere over the paddocks. He could hear the chain rattle, carry in the still frosty night's air.
He looked at his foot prints, a darker green grey in the frost on the lawn. They would surely re-freeze. His footprint in the soft earth would remain.
He had never liked ski type jackets, but he was glad he had accepted this from her Grandmother, even though he had not wanted to take a dead man's jacket.
Her Grandmother was practical, and had not wanted it "to go to waste", as she said. He was actually quite surprised at how often he had worn it.
He wished he had worn the pantyhose, under his jeans, like the others wore for their footy training, The girls teased them about cross dressing, but hell, on cold frosty nights, like this one, they needed something to keep them warm initially.
He walked briskly, watching the puffs of his breath, in the bright moonlight. This was the second night he had headed off briskly, telling himself he would just take a training run. His feet felt cold still, in his cross trainers, but he knew they would warm as he walked on, the soft spongy soles rolling under the balls of his feet, cushioning his heavy heel footfalls.
He saw the lights knifing through the darkness, as they approached the bend in the road. He quickly crouched down in the ditch, among the long grass, and bracken, that tickled his nose, until the lights had passed, going too fast on the gravel road, the tyres spewing out stones as the driver swung the ute around the curve. He knew who the driver was, knew he was returning home and would be in a foul mood, as his father-in-law-to-be would have come out to order him home. It was a standing joke, in the dressing room, about the "Blue Balls".
Almost there now, the first fingers of frost tipping the grass, the bracken. It would be a heavy frost, and he felt the cold of it biting at his nose and teeth.
Here was the wide wooden gate, never closed, it hung slightly askew, growing more lichen with each year.
He could see the sliver of light, like a blade on the ghostly grass, thrown from the gap in the drapes that never quite closed. He edged closer, cursing softly as his trainer sank into soft soil. The old lady must have weeded the flower bed.
He peered into the room. He could see the old Grandmother sitting in her chair at the top of the table, seemingly staring right at him. He pulled back, then realised she could not see him in reality, the net curtains prevented sight out into the dark. Not so, the reverse though.
He could hear the murmur of their voices, watched as her hair fell across her neck and face. She brushed it back, tucking it behind her ear. She said she was going to have it all cut short. He had asked her not to have it cut.
She said something, and her Grandmother laughed. She laughed too, lifted her knitting, to measure the length, with a tape measure, on the table top.
He had often wondered about the fact that they chose to sit in the dining room, rather than the lounge room. True, it was more cosy and easier to keep the smaller room warm, on cold nights such as this. The younger brother would be in bed, sleeping the sleep of the young, the innocent.
He stared, his heart thumping inside his chest. He could feel the burning pain of her rejection. His fingers dug into the window sill to steady himself, as a surge of pain and yes, rage, passed shudderingly through him.
He stifled the urge to scream out her name. He thought of her Grandmother's soft eyes, when she had learned that it was all over.
He wanted to reach out, smash the window. Pull down the drapes, the curtains, leap the windowsill, grab her and.... then what? The pain washed over him, the feeling of helplessness.
A dog began barking furiously, somewhere over the paddocks. He could hear the chain rattle, carry in the still frosty night's air.
He looked at his foot prints, a darker green grey in the frost on the lawn. They would surely re-freeze. His footprint in the soft earth would remain.
Thursday, March 26
Did anyone notice... Does anyone care...
I have been at the ranting again. Not as vehement as sometimes, but niggles here & there. I am sure a good venting every now & then, does us a power of good!
There is currently an Ad for some insurance. As if it is not insulting enough to have to see the damn thing, they are trying to produce a 'new' word. As if our young are not dumbing down enough!
This new 'word' is 'unworry'. I can hear my departed mother snorting in rage! I used to quietly watch as she fumed & ranted about things, & I never thought I would see the day, where I do the same. I try not to. I mute the sound. I leave the room, but I still see the stupid ad in newspapers, & it just enrages me.
Another point of rage making occurs when I hear the 'new phrase' "Two times".
As in, it is 'two times as effective'. What happened to TWICE?? It is a perfectly good word. It saves sound & time- why say two times, when twice would do? GGRRRRR. I am in danger of becoming apoplectic over some of this nonsense!
We like Australian films, Australian made dramas. We recently watched Rogue Nation. For overseas readers, it was an historical drama about the formation of Australia as a Colony with rights & regulations.
It was apparently made with a small budget. We quite enjoyed it, but there seemed to be one or two glaring 'comical' aspects.
I saw them as comical anyway, & they detracted from my enjoyment of the series as being accurate.
One of the comical aspects I noted was the use of the language of the day. I know this was true to the time, but it just sounded funny & odd to hear John Wood, saying things like "Damn your eyes Sir! I will see you in Hell!"
It reminded me of how, as a teenager I loved Georgette Heyer's books, & her use of quaint language of the period she used for her wonderful novels.
Perhaps it was because John Wood has been such a prominent actor on TV playing many great modern roles. I am not sure. There were times when I found myself giggling when some of the gravest events were happening.
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In other news, I have been graciously, & generously awarded this award by Ian, writer of Or So I Thought. Thank you Ian.
I feel very humbled, as Ian is a really excellent writer- he is a 'Real Writer'.
This is the Premio Dardos Award.
What’s the Premio Dardos Award?Premio Dardos means “prize darts” in Spanish. It is given for recognition of cultural, ethical, literary, and personal values transmitted in the form of creative and original writing.What do you do once you’ve received one?There are some rules to be followed.
• First, accept the award by posting it on your blog along with the name of the person that has granted the award and link to his or her blog.
There are quite a few rules & regulations attached to this award. I am a notorious rule breaker, & the thought of having to limit my choices to 15 recipients makes my head hurt.
I feel all the blogs I read are worthy of some award, or I would not read them. Some are gentle, & full of art & pleasure. Some are sad & soft. Others are full of Swash & Buckle ~can one say that? Please take the award if you would like it, or award it to some blog you consider worthy.
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MISS TEE.
I was reminded, on the weekend, of a character from the past.
I have thought of her often lately, & I think she wants to be written about.
I would almost bet that she is departed this life, now. She was not young, when I encountered her.
Miss Tee was a tall slightly faded recently tinted red~gold blonde. Rather in the style a rose, whose fresh bloom of youth is gone, the full blown petals not quite wilting, but showing the slight sag of the heaviness of the bloom.
Not that Miss Tee was buxom. Not at all. In fact she was rather angular, & slim. She wore her hair fastened up at the back, & it looked quite rigid during the day, as if she perhaps used those many-toothed metal bulldog clips at night to press the rows of waves into the front lines, that swept back from her slightly wrinkled forehead.
Because her hair must have really been that red-gold colour naturally, her eyebrows were also that colour. Miss Tee used a black pencil to accentuate them, which relulted in a somewhat comical expression on her face. Her raddled rouged cheeks were a bright red, with a matching lurid red lipstick.
She had strange blue piercing eyes set a tad too close together. When the lines on her eyebrows were particularly rakish she had a very fierce look.
Miss Tee ran a Boarding House for Young Gentlemen.
Miss Tee had very strict Rules & Regulations. No young Ladies were to be taken to any bedrooms.
Young ladies could be brought for Dinner, if permission was prearranged.
Miss Tee did all the cooking, & provided a full nightly meal for all her Young Gentlemen boarders. For a small extra cost, she would also cook for ~& grill & vet, with gimlet eye, & probing questions~ the young Lady of choice.
Miss Tee occasionally entertained a Gentleman herself. She & the Gentleman would retire to her private Sitting Room, to partake of their meal, while the Young Gentlemen were left a pre-plated meal, they could reheat, or a cold salad, to be eaten, as they were ready. They were not to eat their meals in the Communal Sitting Room, they must eat in the Dining Room.
When Miss Tee entertained the Young Gents would turn the music, or the television low, & listen for any grunts, thumps & noises of a mystic nature to come through the walls from the Private Sitting Room.
The Young Gents were usually disappointed in this regard, as Miss Tee's bedroom was a room further away.
Miss Tee rather liked a tipple, & she could often be seen, hair in disarray, makeup slightly smeared, eyebrows even more askew, farewelling her Gentleman Caller.
Of course this occasioned much speculation, & laughter on the part of the mostly sex starved Young Gents.
As it happened I was 'seeing' one of the Young Gentleman boarders. I had got to know several of the other young men, as they were all friends, & would often come to the house where I shared accommodation with some other girls.
One evening we were told we were invited for Dinner at Miss Tee's. We all concluded that we were to be checked out for suitablility for Miss Tee's young Gentlemen.
One of the Young Gents, we shall call Al, was engaged, & his fiancee was invited to attend the Dinner. Miss Tee had learned that Al's fiancee loved classical music, & she startled all of us by loudly playing Henri Mancini music all evening, declaring that she "Just love Classical Music!" Miss Tee had a Special Voice, she would use when, entertaining.
I dont remember much about the meal, but from memory I think it was roasted meat & veg with some thin gravy, with fruit & custard to follow. I disgraced myself by refusing the custard, & I am sure I was marked as 'not suitably well mannered'. We all sat about in awkward silence as Henri Mancini crashed about our ears.
I saw Miss Tee years later. She was more faded, a little thinner, her brows crooked, as ever. She told me she still ran her boarding house, for Young Gentlemen, though they were less refined than they used to be. To my knowledge she never married, & none of the Young Gents ever found out her first name.
As a footnote, Al & his fiancee married, but alas, the marriage failed.His sense of fun & the ridiculous were not at all his fiancee's cup of tea, & we could never see how they got together in the first place.
No I didn't marry the turd Young Gent of the time, either.
Sunday, March 22
Old & New
How 'new' is new. I was born, and grew up in, a small town. "New" was a relative term as far as objects, ideas, and people went.
For people, perhaps if it was was less than 10 years since they moved into town, they were 'new'.
For ideas, they need only be the latest bright colours the boys were suddenly all sporting, with fluorescant ties or socks. They were 'new' & were certainly to be frowned upon.
Then there were the 'new' hairstyles that fancy, pelvis wriggling fool, Elvis Presley inspired. Long greasy looking duck tails, on the back of haircuts. Huge slick backs. Sideburns, which had gone out of fashion 20, 30, 40 years before!
'New' in the worst way, & suspect of course. No decent parent wanted their daughter going out with someone who looked like that Presley fool. Someone whose 'new' was to thrust his pelvis about, & pout.
Then the music was 'new' too, and that was a bit suspect. Although Bill Haley & the Comets were not so bad. They looked a bit older, not so 'new'.
The dance crazes they inspired were 'new' & quite frenzied. Perhaps they led to 'sexy' thoughts.
That was not 'new', but the young weren't supposed to know that. They were supposed to think it was not their right to think of such things.
Of course they inevitably did, & then they thought they had invented it. It was NEW, & their special secret.
Parents & 'old' people couldn't possibly know about this, or, if they did, they surely didn't know how to enjoy it. It was all part of their 'old' ways.
Friends were to made slowly, the old were more trustworthy, & the new looked upon with mistrust & suspicion.
What if they were not what they seemed?
Could they be trusted? Even after ten years of honest trading, they were still regarded as 'new'.
It was the country way, the small~town way. Do not be hasty to make 'new' friends.
When I moved to the city, life was different, the pace was faster.
Friends were made quicker, of necessity, & friends would come & go in your life, being no less 'friends' for the quickness of the relationships.
Fashions changed. Dance crazes came & went. The new quickly became the old.
Old friends, though. Really "OLD" friends. They could endure. They took a long time to make, & in the making, something intangible was built, as well as the simple appearing 'friendship'. Shared experiences, shared joys, griefs, delights. Shared sorrows, along with simple laughter & small joys.
I was lucky, growing up in that small town of my birth, because I forged friendships throughout school days. I still have some of those friendships, & I consider myself very privileged. The value of shared friendships still plays a part in my life today.
I have recently been contacted by an old school friend. We had lost touch for many years, but have found it wonderful to reminisce & catch up on shared aquaintances lives & pathways. This friend rings me, when she can, using her 'free' phone time. She lives interstate. It is amazing how many of us, from that small town, now live here in Australia. It is amazing how our memories from that time differ, but are the same.
Since I began blogging I have made many friends. Friends I may never meet in person, but nonetheless, I feel they are friends. Because I have only been blogging since 2006, they would not really be classified long term friends in the usual sense. However, I feel they are, in the world of cyber friends.
I was privileged to receive an award from one such "Old Friend", Tanya, of Anecdotally Yours. I can't remember exactly when I first met Tanya, but I have enjoyed her blog for as long as I can recall, in two incarnations.
Now, I am a dreadful rule breaker, so if you want to take this, please do, & if you want to know the rules for using it, please hurry on over to Tanya's to see her wonderful posts. (and read the rules of course!)
It does rather resemble me in the mornings!!
Plodding about in the garden, I looked for something to brighten the old blog.
All I could see was this lone Tibouchina flower. I should have taken the pic before the other blooms were finished!
For people, perhaps if it was was less than 10 years since they moved into town, they were 'new'.
For ideas, they need only be the latest bright colours the boys were suddenly all sporting, with fluorescant ties or socks. They were 'new' & were certainly to be frowned upon.
Then there were the 'new' hairstyles that fancy, pelvis wriggling fool, Elvis Presley inspired. Long greasy looking duck tails, on the back of haircuts. Huge slick backs. Sideburns, which had gone out of fashion 20, 30, 40 years before!
'New' in the worst way, & suspect of course. No decent parent wanted their daughter going out with someone who looked like that Presley fool. Someone whose 'new' was to thrust his pelvis about, & pout.
Then the music was 'new' too, and that was a bit suspect. Although Bill Haley & the Comets were not so bad. They looked a bit older, not so 'new'.
The dance crazes they inspired were 'new' & quite frenzied. Perhaps they led to 'sexy' thoughts.
That was not 'new', but the young weren't supposed to know that. They were supposed to think it was not their right to think of such things.
Of course they inevitably did, & then they thought they had invented it. It was NEW, & their special secret.
Parents & 'old' people couldn't possibly know about this, or, if they did, they surely didn't know how to enjoy it. It was all part of their 'old' ways.
Friends were to made slowly, the old were more trustworthy, & the new looked upon with mistrust & suspicion.
What if they were not what they seemed?
Could they be trusted? Even after ten years of honest trading, they were still regarded as 'new'.
It was the country way, the small~town way. Do not be hasty to make 'new' friends.
When I moved to the city, life was different, the pace was faster.
Friends were made quicker, of necessity, & friends would come & go in your life, being no less 'friends' for the quickness of the relationships.
Fashions changed. Dance crazes came & went. The new quickly became the old.
Old friends, though. Really "OLD" friends. They could endure. They took a long time to make, & in the making, something intangible was built, as well as the simple appearing 'friendship'. Shared experiences, shared joys, griefs, delights. Shared sorrows, along with simple laughter & small joys.
I was lucky, growing up in that small town of my birth, because I forged friendships throughout school days. I still have some of those friendships, & I consider myself very privileged. The value of shared friendships still plays a part in my life today.
I have recently been contacted by an old school friend. We had lost touch for many years, but have found it wonderful to reminisce & catch up on shared aquaintances lives & pathways. This friend rings me, when she can, using her 'free' phone time. She lives interstate. It is amazing how many of us, from that small town, now live here in Australia. It is amazing how our memories from that time differ, but are the same.
Since I began blogging I have made many friends. Friends I may never meet in person, but nonetheless, I feel they are friends. Because I have only been blogging since 2006, they would not really be classified long term friends in the usual sense. However, I feel they are, in the world of cyber friends.
I was privileged to receive an award from one such "Old Friend", Tanya, of Anecdotally Yours. I can't remember exactly when I first met Tanya, but I have enjoyed her blog for as long as I can recall, in two incarnations.
Now, I am a dreadful rule breaker, so if you want to take this, please do, & if you want to know the rules for using it, please hurry on over to Tanya's to see her wonderful posts. (and read the rules of course!)
It does rather resemble me in the mornings!!
Plodding about in the garden, I looked for something to brighten the old blog.
All I could see was this lone Tibouchina flower. I should have taken the pic before the other blooms were finished!
This next blatant weed, is for Del of Del Quilts, who recently had a photo of a pretty yellow Oxalis weed on her blog. I told Del we have only the bright Pink Oxalis, so when I photographed this I was disappointed to see how pale it looks in the photo. It is growing in a rather shady position, but by the size of the leaves, it must be happy there!
This picture is of Sally, for Christine, of Winnowings. Sally is a doll I made for my daughter when she was about 3, so Sally is now aged 37. She has stood the test of time rather well considering how loved she was. She was the prototype of dolls I used to make & sell, & many I sold were made as "Bed Dolls".
I made variations of Sally to order. I crocheted the hair in yarn, & they idea was the 'hair' could be whatever colour a person chose for their decor. Many Sally's had orange or pink hair, with toning clothes to match.
I made variations of Sally to order. I crocheted the hair in yarn, & they idea was the 'hair' could be whatever colour a person chose for their decor. Many Sally's had orange or pink hair, with toning clothes to match. This Sally was purple, because my daughter's bedroom was in pale & dark purple tones. Sally once had a vast wardrobe, but alas, all she seems to have left is her underwear, & a shirt that went with denim overalls. One of Sally's velvet shoes is in need of repair, & she appears to have food stains on her face. Her wig is coming adrift, so I might try washing her to see if she 'cleans up'!
Wednesday, March 18
Indulge me...
"LOVE" Is the message I read from the cloud in the sky this morning. I giant Heart, which I must admit, does not look as clear as it appeared to me, when I snapped the cloud.
Surely though, Love is all around,
Here is a cousin, with his beloved first Grandchild, a grandson, as it happens. He is a lovely member of our wider family.
Here he is, surely laughing at the world, & all it has to offer him, in his years to come.
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Here is my beloved Great Nephew, on his first birthday. Truly a golden child! I love how he glows, in the sun's light.
A true source of much joy to his family, & his wider, honarary family, who love him, unreservedly.His Mum took this pic of his wider family, at his first birthday. His two Uncles on the left of this pic, with Aunt & cousin, then with Daddy holding him, his honorary Uncle next, then his Grandmother, & Grandfather.
Here he is with his Uncle H, from Australia.
Here, Uncle G loves you Baby!!
Here, with his doting Grandfather, my beloved brother.
Here with his wonderful Uncle C. " Will always catch you N"!!
My wonderful Mum, K, will always be my best friend!
My wonderful Dad will always be my Hero!!
Yesterday was St Patrick's Day.
Here, with his doting Grandfather, my beloved brother.
Blowing out THE candle!!
Here with his wonderful Uncle C. " Will always catch you N"!!
My wonderful Mum, K, will always be my best friend!
My wonderful Dad will always be my Hero!!
It was also Sweet K's birthday. Next week will be Daddy DJ's birthday. Their birthdays are all a week apart, in the month of March.
The Grandparents wedding Anniversary is in March also. Hmmmmn. It can be a volatile month at times.
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As I sit & fume cool my heels, about the soaps on Teev, & the many things I wished to gripe about here, .....I feel perhaps I was not meant to gripe?
I went to Spotlight yesterday to look for inspiration, though my light seems to be turned off, presently. I got into a conversation with a lovely lady of 83. She had the most beautiful complexion. She did not look a day over 60. She was somewhat crippled with her back, but refused to let is slow her down. She still drove her own car, had her hobbies.
She told me 60+ is young, & to fight for feeling young. Good advice, but hell, my body betrays me. I seem older than Gom, who is 72, going on 73!! He bemoans the fact that he seems so fit & well.
We have a mind wander occasionally. We went to a shopping mall today. After we parked he asked the way. I was a little shocked he could not remember, yet her has such clarity about many other things. Ask him an actor's name, a movie name. He will most likely remember, whereas I do not know.
I have to say, Feck! It is bloody scary getting older, no matter what field you fail in!
Yes, yes, I know you can't say that... but I did, & have, so there!!
I have decided to do the modern thing, & ignore grammar & correctness!
Friday, March 13
The Hurt They Never Know~or Care About.
I have been lately reminded of thefts.
Of jewelry, identities, property, money.
Of Trust.
Last but not least, of Beauty, & Pride.
I guess, most of us, over a certain age, have experienced some type of theft.
It could have been theft of an idea, in school, those long years ago, when you excitedly told your best 'friend' of your excellent 'idea' for a story, an art project, a presentation.
Only to watch, as that 'best friend' stole your idea, or presented your art, as their own creation. And won accolades, & you could only stand & watch.
You hurt, as you realised the betrayal, the loss, and the actual 'theft'. Your dismay, that someone could do that... with seemingly guiltless ease.
I only remember it once in Primary School, but it made me stop, & feel appalled.
Later in life, we were burgled. I lost dearly loved, & sentimental pieces of jewelry, irreplaceable in the 'real' world. A ring my mother had given me, for an accademic achievement. A piece of Greenstone a dearly loved suitor had given me. Rings my husband had given me.
Our son lost coins, irreplaceable, & frightening to him, at his young age. The pages slashed from his collection book, with some sharp knife, as the police suggested.
The police seemed to feel we had been burgled whilst asleep, which further disturbed our son. We had recently had jewelry valued for insurance purposes. Of course, we were suspicious, as to who had perpetrated the burglaries.
Another theft has been the graffiti, which debases the beauty of our environment. The weak, egotistical, small-penis statements that those sad people feel they have to leave. Can they not see, how they expose their indequacies so boldly for all to read?? When will they realise? Expose them, I say, & let everyone 'admire' their 'small' stature!!
A friend who was assaulted has been told he can write a 'Victim Impact Statement'. He has been told it will have no impact on the sentence of the 'scrote', ( to borrow an American term, which seems so appropriate!) who has now pleaded guilty to the "assault with grievous bodily harm". It makes one wonder, why do they bother to pay lip service to this idea? Why do they offer 'deals' to the little P*!*ks who will just keep offending?
If it has no bearing on the sentence, or the court hearing the crime, why do they encourage people to write them? It would seem to be merely a venting outlet, with no value or impact, on the eventual outcome of the sentence. It seems the victim's suffering, or distress to his life, or family life, is totally irrelevant.
It smacks of the 'wet bus-ticket slap' & we are not expecting the sentence to reflect the pain or life changes, dealt to the victim, by this hideous, injurious attack, this rotten little 'scrote' caused, to be reflected in his sentence.
What price is the loss of pride, & personal repsect a disabled person can extpect, in our society?
I have come to believe in a whole different structure to the human evolutionary story.
It is not pretty, but it may not be true. It is just my private belief.
One more gripe out of the current buildup!
Neil Finn, Fall At Your Feet. A Kiwi with soooo much talent!
Of jewelry, identities, property, money.
Of Trust.
Last but not least, of Beauty, & Pride.
I guess, most of us, over a certain age, have experienced some type of theft.
It could have been theft of an idea, in school, those long years ago, when you excitedly told your best 'friend' of your excellent 'idea' for a story, an art project, a presentation.
Only to watch, as that 'best friend' stole your idea, or presented your art, as their own creation. And won accolades, & you could only stand & watch.
You hurt, as you realised the betrayal, the loss, and the actual 'theft'. Your dismay, that someone could do that... with seemingly guiltless ease.
I only remember it once in Primary School, but it made me stop, & feel appalled.
Later in life, we were burgled. I lost dearly loved, & sentimental pieces of jewelry, irreplaceable in the 'real' world. A ring my mother had given me, for an accademic achievement. A piece of Greenstone a dearly loved suitor had given me. Rings my husband had given me.
Our son lost coins, irreplaceable, & frightening to him, at his young age. The pages slashed from his collection book, with some sharp knife, as the police suggested.
The police seemed to feel we had been burgled whilst asleep, which further disturbed our son. We had recently had jewelry valued for insurance purposes. Of course, we were suspicious, as to who had perpetrated the burglaries.
Another theft has been the graffiti, which debases the beauty of our environment. The weak, egotistical, small-penis statements that those sad people feel they have to leave. Can they not see, how they expose their indequacies so boldly for all to read?? When will they realise? Expose them, I say, & let everyone 'admire' their 'small' stature!!
A friend who was assaulted has been told he can write a 'Victim Impact Statement'. He has been told it will have no impact on the sentence of the 'scrote', ( to borrow an American term, which seems so appropriate!) who has now pleaded guilty to the "assault with grievous bodily harm". It makes one wonder, why do they bother to pay lip service to this idea? Why do they offer 'deals' to the little P*!*ks who will just keep offending?
If it has no bearing on the sentence, or the court hearing the crime, why do they encourage people to write them? It would seem to be merely a venting outlet, with no value or impact, on the eventual outcome of the sentence. It seems the victim's suffering, or distress to his life, or family life, is totally irrelevant.
It smacks of the 'wet bus-ticket slap' & we are not expecting the sentence to reflect the pain or life changes, dealt to the victim, by this hideous, injurious attack, this rotten little 'scrote' caused, to be reflected in his sentence.
What price is the loss of pride, & personal repsect a disabled person can extpect, in our society?
I have come to believe in a whole different structure to the human evolutionary story.
It is not pretty, but it may not be true. It is just my private belief.
One more gripe out of the current buildup!
Neil Finn, Fall At Your Feet. A Kiwi with soooo much talent!
Tuesday, March 10
Challenges
I have been challenged by the lovely Marianna, to a 'blog game' as she calls it.
I have done these before, in various guises, but they are not onerous, & can be fun. I guess this one is called the 6 Things meme, & can be as frivolous as we like!
Herewith, the Rules:
1) Put the link of the person who tagged you on your blog
2) Write the rules
3) Mention 6 things or habits of no real importance about you
4) Tag 6 persons adding their links directly
5) Alert the persons that you tagged them
So here goes. In no order of importance, or indeed even truthfulness, I will list 6 'things'.
1. A dear friend had a birthday, last Sunday. Since this friend is special, & always seems to have wonderful ideas for everything, we wanted to get her something special.
I have already given her a quilt, so that was a bit old hat.
Besides, I have not been sewing lately, too hot, too sticky, & too lazy, I guess.
I found what I considered the perfect basket, for her.
TA DAA!!
I have done these before, in various guises, but they are not onerous, & can be fun. I guess this one is called the 6 Things meme, & can be as frivolous as we like!
Herewith, the Rules:
1) Put the link of the person who tagged you on your blog
2) Write the rules
3) Mention 6 things or habits of no real importance about you
4) Tag 6 persons adding their links directly
5) Alert the persons that you tagged them
So here goes. In no order of importance, or indeed even truthfulness, I will list 6 'things'.
1. A dear friend had a birthday, last Sunday. Since this friend is special, & always seems to have wonderful ideas for everything, we wanted to get her something special.
I have already given her a quilt, so that was a bit old hat.
Besides, I have not been sewing lately, too hot, too sticky, & too lazy, I guess.
I found what I considered the perfect basket, for her.
TA DAA!!
Gom & I, in one of our rare points of agreement, thought it would be nice to fill it with exotic fruit. The type one doesn't normally buy oneself, but would like to perhaps sample.
So off we went on a shopping spree for 'exotics'. Might have been easier in Queensland, but we felt happy with what we found.
A Pineapple, a Mango~ from Qld!, 2 different types of Peach, one white, one golden, Passionfruit, Apricots, Nectarines, Grapes, of the seedless variety, which the official Gom-taste-tester, assured me were delicious a Carambola, aka a Starfruit, a Pomegranate, a Dragonfruit, & a Mangosteen.
Looked good enough to eat!
2. How does one wrap it all, I hear you ask? With difficulty & the aid of a Gom, for holding the corners of the RED cellophane together, while I did my best to tie it together on the top.
I forgot to take a photo of it all wrapped up, but trust me, it looked rather nice.
3. We were invited for Coffee, ~the *good stuff*!~ & cake, also 'good stuff'! We watched in delight as her youngest son brought her presents, in relays. He had been delegated to to wrap each item, & he was so thrilled as he presented each gift. He gave colourful accounts of where he had 'found' each item, & we were quite entranced when he told her last had been found 'drenched in the bathroom'. (It was beautiful bath products, as she is partial to her long baths, in delicious potions) Since he is only 9, we thought he did a marvellous gift-giving presentation.
4. I have been happily reunited with my pendant. It is satisfactory, & I am happily wearing it again, & it seems to be nonetheworse for the hideous deformity it initially suffered! I enquired if the rude young woman is a relative of the owner. "No" was the startled reply. I asked her name, & will now address the letter to the Manager & name the girl, so there is no mistake as to whom I refer. I must admit, the steaming anger has largely gone, & now that I have my pendant restored to almost perfect former glory, I am almost prepared to forgive & forget. Won't stop me telling friends about the p***-poor service for repairs though!
5. If you would like to read about my skating escapades around the local carpark, or other preposterous subjects, just type in 'list 7 things memes' in the top of the 'Search this blog' space. All my old memes come up, with surprisingly, not a heck of a lot of changes. I was surprised to learn it was 2006 when I began blogging. I seem to have lost track of time....
6. I have been priveleged to be able to provide photos of my father when he was young, to members of his second family, ie, my half siblings, & their offspring.
I have been surprised to recognise how much like my father one of my sisters is, & her two children, are also very like their Grandfather. It is a curious thing about genetics. Brown eyes are supposed to dominate, but that is not always the case, & there are both blue & brown eyed members of many in our families.
Now this is the part where I fall down. A lot of blog friends do not wish to be named for memes for games, so I respect their wishes.
I also urge you, who read here, to do this, it is quick & fun. You can lie if you wish, it will all be for fun. Let's face it... we don't know where you live!!
Have I been watching too much Underbelly?? Or Gangs of Oz??
We would seem to be moving into Autumn, thank goodness. I am ashamed to say I have challenged a cousin, resident of New Zealand, to do the BOM of Bunny Hill Designs. She has done her first 2 blocks, & I ..... well, I have done none!! Shame on me. I promise, the cooler weather will produce some sort of results.
Go you quilting ladies - & lads! I have been letting the team down, but somewhere it is winter, & lots in the quilting fraternity are keeping on keeping on!!
Augie March. I do so admire this musical talent, I so enjoy the music.
Thursday, March 5
Further (mis)adventures, with ugly people..
Last evening's sunset. Truly a promise for a lovely day, & it has delivered on that promise. It really feels like a perfect Autumn day, clear blue skies, no humidity! & a light breeze with bright sun. Bliss.
Scenes from yesterday.
Meggie, entering Jeweller's, wearing a smile thinking honey catches more than acid.
Shop assistant of the previous dealings, is serving another customer. Upon sighting me she quickly drops her eyes. She carefully avoids me, thereafter, for the entire time I am in the shop.
Out from behind the glass comes Ms Simply Superior, herafter referred to as SS.
"Can I help!" not a question.
M, presents 'before' photo, of pendant, then produces pendant.
M indicating photo, "This is what I brought in for repair. This is how it was done."
SS looks at the picture, then takes the pendant.
"It has been made upside down, that is why the ring has been put on it up that way"
M slightly speechless initially, says "It was made that way & that is how I have worn it these many years I have had it."
SS, in supercilious tone, "Well usually, they go up this way!" dangling it by the overlarge j ring. "They always make them up this way, that is why it has been mended that way."
I then broached the fact that the J ring is far too large for the delicacy of the pendant.
"Well," SS again, "That is because you didn't have a chain with it. We always make them large in case you want to wear it on a large chain."
M is even more speechless at this piece of 'logic'. Especially since I did take the chain in, when I first took the pendant to be mended. The other assistant sited it, knew it's size, but told me to take it home.
I venture to tell SS this piece of news. She totally ignores that, implying once again, it is my fault for not leaving the chain.
As it happens, I have the chain with me again, but she tells me I need not leave it.
I realise further discussion with her is pointless, so I ask to see the jeweller.
"NO! He is busy, I can deal with this it will all be repaired. So do you want the J ring half this size then?"
I attempt to suggest something in keeping with the size of the pendant would be ideal. I again show her the chain. She is determined to ignore it. She tells me again, "Lots of people like to wear them on large thick chains."
My fingers tingle madly. I am not one to slap anyone. But for her, I could have made an exception! Twice!
I mention the fact that the stone looks different. The original stone always seemed to have a slight flaw. In it's now 'polished' state, it looks quite different.
For that heinous suggestion, I get told "Only very low grade stones have flaws"
I was tempted to say, "So? Maybe it was a lowgrade stone. I dont care. It was a gift, I treasured it, & loved it just the way it was."
I decided to leave it. No point in talking to someone who knows everything. She is so lucky as she is only about 20, give or take. I hope she has left home, seeing as she knows everything. She would make her parents life a misery, I am sure, should she still be living with them. An absence of rings would seem to indicate there is no 'partner' on the scene.
I then venture to say "I hope there is going to be no charge for this, since it cost rather a lot in the first place, & the new J ring will be much smaller."
SS looks disdainfully at the docket, sniffs & tells me it was far too cheap for the ring in the first place, & should have cost a lot more than that!
I was flabbergasted again. I blurted out "I don't believe that. That is nonsense!"
SS calmly repeats, "It was far too cheap."
I leave the shop. I am secretly shaking with rage. Why didnt I just stand my ground, demand to speak to the jeweller? Why do I let people bully me?
I seem to do so much better on paper. I have decided to write a letter explaining why I will no longer be patronising the shop. Of course, I won't deliver the letter until after I have the pendant in my possession once more.
I have to wait until next Tuesday for the (hopefully) last part of the story.
*******************
Gom had left me to fight my own battles, which he always does.
He decided to sit in the car to wait for me.
He must have gone to sleep, since he didn't seem to notice I was gone nearly an hour!
Haha, I sneaked off for a haircut after the unpleasant encounter at the jewellers. I have finally found a hairdresser I can trust, after all these lately years of wanting to die after haircuts.
The hairdresser is actually a barber. He has a real 'feel' for hair, & I have never seen him give a bad haircut. He plays music, -sometimes wonderful Italian Tenors singing.
Yesterday was Irish dance music? Not sure why. He told me a client had given him the CD. I could see his young assistant was not really enjoying it. He told me the tunes all sound the same to him, but the client had said each was better than the last! He seemed genuinely puzzled as to how the client could think that. So was I.
I still dont think Gom has noticed that my hair has been cut! It is a lot shorter than it was.
*************
I am off out to accompany my daughter. She has had dreadful pain in her neck & shoulder area. She has been to see a Specialist, who did a full body scan, & has recommended a series of injections. She had decided not to have them. However since she is in agony, her GP has recommended she have them, as he has seen dramatic pain relief achieved from this man. I so hope she gets some relief.
Simon & Garfunkel, Bridge over Troubled Water
Tuesday, March 3
Disappointments.
I don't seem to have much luck with jewellry, if I ever have to get it repaired.
Some years ago, my mother gave me a lovely pendant, with an Amethyst set in among delicate scroll work. I have loved that pendant from the minute I saw it, & have had many compliments about it, over the years.
One morning in the shower I heard a metallic click, & there was the pendant lying at my feet. The chain was still around my neck but it seemed the little ring that threaded onto the chain, had vanished.
Upon examining the pendant, I could see that the little ring in the top of the setting was worn, almost to a gap.
You can see the thinness in this photo I took of it. I have blogged about it, & took this photo. I am really glad I did, because of what is to follow.
This is the before photo. Note worn ring.
I also had a ruby & diamond ring, which Gom gave me about 19 years ago. It is very unusual, & I have worn it with much joy. One of the claws came off the large ruby, so I decided to have both pieces of jewellry mended.
Today, I went & collected the repaired items. I wore the ring, & am very happy with it, it was polished nicely & seems to be well repaired with a new claw on the central stone.
The pendant is another story entirely. I had forgotten to take the chain with me, so I didn't wear the pendant home. When I got home, I unwrapped it, & felt immediately that there was something 'wrong' - different about it. I threaded it onto the chain, but it still didn't seem right.
I noted there was also a twisted little filigree that could have been straightened, surely not a difficult task? (It had been twisted previously, so was not new.)
Upon consulting my 'before' photo, I suddenly realised why I had thought it to be 'wrong' somehow. It is upside down!!
The instructions on the receipt docket are printed thus.
"1 ym pdt purple stn 1.8g. build up ring on pdt $****(price) & supply & solder on lgr J ring $****(price). Tasks:(NUMBER)build up ring on pdt. Qty: 1."
What I am wondering is, should I take it back to be further 'modified'. Or should I wear it, as is. I realise the original hole is worn STILL, after requesting it be built up!! I also rather think the link that has been soldered on for the chain, is too large for the delicacy of the pendant. It has changed the look completely. I am left feeling very disappointed, but also fearful of further wreckage.
Gom doesnt give a rat's, daughter J says take it back. I am left feeling somewhat peeved. I have had some other disappointments in repairs in the past & do not trust jewellers as a result. I never actually spoke to the person who was to do the repairs, but I thought the girl's instructions were clear enough?
I can hear some saying, well there are plenty of REAL things out there to be peeved about.
Yes indeedy there are!!
Son in law walked into a peice of funiture & broke his little toe. A huge purple mess is the result, & some time off work.
We have an underspace under part of the house. There is a door to allow acess, but it just consists of clay & pipes etc. Granddaughter refers to it as the "Dirt Room". She had threatened SG that she would banish him to the Dirt Room. I was quite shocked, & told her she mustn't threaten him like that.
We all burst out laughing later in the day when Granddaughter said she had opened the door to the Dirt Room. SG piped up, & said "And out came Nanna's bum!" After I stopped laughing I said I wondered where it came from!
When you are only 6, "bum" is really quite exciting, isnt it! Almost like swearing!
John Denver Grandma's Feather Bed.
Some years ago, my mother gave me a lovely pendant, with an Amethyst set in among delicate scroll work. I have loved that pendant from the minute I saw it, & have had many compliments about it, over the years.
One morning in the shower I heard a metallic click, & there was the pendant lying at my feet. The chain was still around my neck but it seemed the little ring that threaded onto the chain, had vanished.
Upon examining the pendant, I could see that the little ring in the top of the setting was worn, almost to a gap.
You can see the thinness in this photo I took of it. I have blogged about it, & took this photo. I am really glad I did, because of what is to follow.
This is the before photo. Note worn ring.
This is the after photo. Note heavy link for chain.
I also had a ruby & diamond ring, which Gom gave me about 19 years ago. It is very unusual, & I have worn it with much joy. One of the claws came off the large ruby, so I decided to have both pieces of jewellry mended.
Today, I went & collected the repaired items. I wore the ring, & am very happy with it, it was polished nicely & seems to be well repaired with a new claw on the central stone.
The pendant is another story entirely. I had forgotten to take the chain with me, so I didn't wear the pendant home. When I got home, I unwrapped it, & felt immediately that there was something 'wrong' - different about it. I threaded it onto the chain, but it still didn't seem right.
I noted there was also a twisted little filigree that could have been straightened, surely not a difficult task? (It had been twisted previously, so was not new.)
Upon consulting my 'before' photo, I suddenly realised why I had thought it to be 'wrong' somehow. It is upside down!!
The instructions on the receipt docket are printed thus.
"1 ym pdt purple stn 1.8g. build up ring on pdt $****(price) & supply & solder on lgr J ring $****(price). Tasks:(NUMBER)build up ring on pdt. Qty: 1."
What I am wondering is, should I take it back to be further 'modified'. Or should I wear it, as is. I realise the original hole is worn STILL, after requesting it be built up!! I also rather think the link that has been soldered on for the chain, is too large for the delicacy of the pendant. It has changed the look completely. I am left feeling very disappointed, but also fearful of further wreckage.
Gom doesnt give a rat's, daughter J says take it back. I am left feeling somewhat peeved. I have had some other disappointments in repairs in the past & do not trust jewellers as a result. I never actually spoke to the person who was to do the repairs, but I thought the girl's instructions were clear enough?
I can hear some saying, well there are plenty of REAL things out there to be peeved about.
Yes indeedy there are!!
Son in law walked into a peice of funiture & broke his little toe. A huge purple mess is the result, & some time off work.
His partner at work, was even more unlucky. As SIL was being sent home, his partner was called to an emergency, for an out-of-control "Loopy", for want of a better word. He subdued the Loop, the police somehow lost control of the Loopy, & Partner managed to recapture the fleeing Loopy. Police crash tackled the Loopy, somehow the end result was, Partner's leg got in the middle of the tackle, & is badly broken in 2 places. Partner is a very fit man, who regularly works out at the gym. It seems hideous to think of all the pain he will go through. The disruption to his family, his routine. No doubt Loopy won't suffer any consequences. He will keep taking his drugs of choice & messing up everyone else's lives.
It just didn't seem to be anyone's day yesterday. Apparently SG got encouraged to shout out the bus window.
There is a nice Young-Older, neighbour boy, who did his best to prevent SG shouting out the offending word. The "Do it Do it" cries won. Silly SG yelled F*** out the bus window! Umbrage was taken, & some woman, I would guess a mother, reported it to the school personel, & so SG got into trouble. Apparently no more was said, after a phone call to his home yesterday, to 'report the matter'. It is a bit sad, really, but it is a word that is as common as bugger or damn, about the schoolyard, the streets, & in many homes. I have never heard SG say it. He doesn't 'swear', as a rule.
There is a nice Young-Older, neighbour boy, who did his best to prevent SG shouting out the offending word. The "Do it Do it" cries won. Silly SG yelled F*** out the bus window! Umbrage was taken, & some woman, I would guess a mother, reported it to the school personel, & so SG got into trouble. Apparently no more was said, after a phone call to his home yesterday, to 'report the matter'. It is a bit sad, really, but it is a word that is as common as bugger or damn, about the schoolyard, the streets, & in many homes. I have never heard SG say it. He doesn't 'swear', as a rule.
We have an underspace under part of the house. There is a door to allow acess, but it just consists of clay & pipes etc. Granddaughter refers to it as the "Dirt Room". She had threatened SG that she would banish him to the Dirt Room. I was quite shocked, & told her she mustn't threaten him like that.
We all burst out laughing later in the day when Granddaughter said she had opened the door to the Dirt Room. SG piped up, & said "And out came Nanna's bum!" After I stopped laughing I said I wondered where it came from!
When you are only 6, "bum" is really quite exciting, isnt it! Almost like swearing!
John Denver Grandma's Feather Bed.
Friday, February 27
Times are tough enough...
Everyone knows it is tough times. Every little dollar counts.
When things wear out & need to be replaced, value for what little money we have, is very important.
Which brings me to the vexing question of "Buying a Bra".
I have, in fact, blogged about this before. But in case some of you missed it, I thought I would share my recent misadventures, attempting to do the impossible.
First I tried a local outlet, which promises Bargains. Humph! Bargains would be a fine thing, if there was one item in the whole huge shop, which was in my size.
They have acres of bras, hanging on little plastic hangers- does anyone have a go at them about polluting the planet, I wonder?
They have bras for the pre-pubescant girls~ why do they bother?
They have bras for anorexics, in pretty colours, in pretty styles.
They have padded bras. Wired bras. Stuffed bras. Striped bras. Leery neon coloured bras. Black sexy bras. Pale pastel dreams in lace & froth.
They have bras like huge great trusses! They look as if they are made for cows! (Maybe they are?)
No, I didn't actually see any like these! Perhaps it would have made a nice change to have a laugh at.
Instead of feeling more & more desperate as I went about the shops, wearing my almost shredded & over stretched, unflattering, old bra, ~you know the one. The one they ceased making, the minute you found it fit, & was comfortable. Plus affordable.
When things wear out & need to be replaced, value for what little money we have, is very important.
Which brings me to the vexing question of "Buying a Bra".
I have, in fact, blogged about this before. But in case some of you missed it, I thought I would share my recent misadventures, attempting to do the impossible.
First I tried a local outlet, which promises Bargains. Humph! Bargains would be a fine thing, if there was one item in the whole huge shop, which was in my size.
They have acres of bras, hanging on little plastic hangers-
They have bras for the pre-pubescant girls~ why do they bother?
They have bras for anorexics, in pretty colours, in pretty styles.
They have padded bras. Wired bras. Stuffed bras. Striped bras. Leery neon coloured bras. Black sexy bras. Pale pastel dreams in lace & froth.
They have bras like huge great trusses! They look as if they are made for cows! (Maybe they are?)
No, I didn't actually see any like these! Perhaps it would have made a nice change to have a laugh at.
Instead of feeling more & more desperate as I went about the shops, wearing my almost shredded & over stretched, unflattering, old bra, ~you know the one. The one they ceased making, the minute you found it fit, & was comfortable. Plus affordable. It seems as if some cosmic conspiracy tells manufacturers when a person finds a bra that fits. Production immediately ceases. All stock is hastily got rid of.. who knows where, because you never can find them on sale or even slightly reduced.
So I trudged wearily off to other likely venues, which claimed to stock & sell bras. I could say "Tough Titties" -but I won't.
So I trudged wearily off to other likely venues, which claimed to stock & sell bras.Most of them did. But still, none of them had my size. WTH?? I am not a freak!
I stomped on further. Still no luck.
Finally, at an unlikely shop, I find not one, not two, not even three, but Four!! styles in my size. Two of the styles even come in colours!! Well... that is if you count black, white, & skin, as 'colours'.
Grasping them in my hot & weary little hand, I rush off to the 'fitting rooms.' The only thing 'fitting' about them is, the closeness of the walls!
It is downright claustrophobic in the damn cubicle, with the tattery ill fitting curtain to pull across. Always cut meanly, so they dont quite cover the doorway.
As if a generous cut would cut into their profit margin. Of course a real door that closed, would mean certain bankruptcy, I suppose, so that is out of the question too. I suppose I should be gratefull there is a mirror.
So I struggle out of my upper clothes, then become horrified that there IS a mirror...OMG! Who is that?? O hell! It must be me, there is no space in here for anyone but me!
As is usual with these fitting rooms, there is no airconditioning, & you struggle & sweat & squirm about trying on the bras. Crikey! They all look hideous. Well, wait... perhaps 2 of them feel quite comfortable almost. A third seems as if it might last well. Who knows how they actually look?
By now the temperature in the small cubicle is up to sizzle point, so you hastily struggle back into your tattered undergarment. Don your top. Lurch out to hand in the little tag that indicates how many garments you tried. noting, that the vague girl at the desk is on the phone, & doesnt even bother to check whether you are in fact holding all the 'returns'. For all she cares you might have 10 bras on, under your lumpy top.
The horror story doesn't really end there.
You go home, retry your bras, think philosophically, oh well, they are not pretty nor are they exactly what you had in mind, but, they will have to do.
Launder said garments. Proceed to wear them, one after other.
The first, is like some hideous harness, & not of the racing variety either. It pokes you in odd places, & suddenly seems to feel & look, quite different to what it did in the mirror- either shop or home. Why are the straps so fat & ugly? Comfort you say? whose comfort, I wonder??
Why do they make them in such hideous colours. Are larger people not allowed to have a bit of pretty? or at least attractive?
The second 2 are not much better. It seems you cannot really tell just how good or bad, the fit of a bra, is likely to be, until you have worn it around for at least 4 hours.
It is indeed a shame there is no way you can 'test drive' your garments, to see if they will be a fit or failure.
So keep the old tattereds for home wear, until they finally shred, & have to go.
***************************
Today is my youngest son's birthday.
Today is my youngest son's birthday.
As it does every year, it has brought memories flooding back of the joyous day he was born.
Because our birthdays are so close, we usually have a get together somewhere about the time, to celebrate both birthdays.
He is coming to stay, so it will be lovely to see him, as always.
Happy Birthday Son B.
This song is just for him.
He has always loved this one.
Kris Kristofferson, Darby's Castle.
Wednesday, February 25
"Touchy"..or "Taboo"
This may be a hasty post. I have been accused of neglecting the Gom.
He likes his soaps of an evening, on TV. I seem to be almost allergic to 'Soaps'. I detest them, & cannot be enticed to watch any of them.
I may watch series of TV shows- such as "Gangs of Oz" or "Underbelly", with a strange compulsion, having been around, & watched, as some of those stories unfold. Having a second-hand knowledge of some of the characters, if only through their notoriety, & nationality.
Having watched with horror, as some of the stories unfold. To think of such wickedness. To think I was so naive to think the stories may have been exaggerated, or false.
Having witnessed a little of the life of Kings Cross, in the late '70s. Having been shocked & saddened to realise the reality of some lives. Having felt glad that no-one I loved, or cared for, was involved in any of that seedy, scene we witnessed.
To later discover, to my horror, that someone I loved, more than my life, had become a victim of the drug scene we had seen.
Not literally, that particular scene, but a part of the soul destroying drug scene in general.
I have seen how a life full of promise, has been destroyed forever. The utter waste, & devastation. The spiral into despair & hopelessness. The complete alteration of a personality.
Which brings me to the subject of of the title.
Suicide.
I find it very hard to stand in judgement of any person who does commit suicide.
I know all the cliches, of cowardice, & lack of care, & selfishness, which are levelled at people who resort to this method of escape.
I don't subscribe to the blame throwers. I can't stand in judgement of any of them. I find I feel infinite compassion for the them.
Every one of them.
From the young, who, perhaps have not thought things through enough, & have rushed to a hasty demise, to the very elderly, who must have agonised over their decision, & seen no light at the end of their tunnel, no way out of their misery.
Tail down. Tail up.
Don Mclean, Empty Chairs.
He likes his soaps of an evening, on TV. I seem to be almost allergic to 'Soaps'. I detest them, & cannot be enticed to watch any of them.
I may watch series of TV shows- such as "Gangs of Oz" or "Underbelly", with a strange compulsion, having been around, & watched, as some of those stories unfold. Having a second-hand knowledge of some of the characters, if only through their notoriety, & nationality.
Having watched with horror, as some of the stories unfold. To think of such wickedness. To think I was so naive to think the stories may have been exaggerated, or false.
Having witnessed a little of the life of Kings Cross, in the late '70s. Having been shocked & saddened to realise the reality of some lives. Having felt glad that no-one I loved, or cared for, was involved in any of that seedy, scene we witnessed.
To later discover, to my horror, that someone I loved, more than my life, had become a victim of the drug scene we had seen.
Not literally, that particular scene, but a part of the soul destroying drug scene in general.
I have seen how a life full of promise, has been destroyed forever. The utter waste, & devastation. The spiral into despair & hopelessness. The complete alteration of a personality.
Which brings me to the subject of of the title.
Suicide.
I find it very hard to stand in judgement of any person who does commit suicide.
I know all the cliches, of cowardice, & lack of care, & selfishness, which are levelled at people who resort to this method of escape.
I don't subscribe to the blame throwers. I can't stand in judgement of any of them. I find I feel infinite compassion for the them.
Every one of them.
From the young, who, perhaps have not thought things through enough, & have rushed to a hasty demise, to the very elderly, who must have agonised over their decision, & seen no light at the end of their tunnel, no way out of their misery.
Tail down. Tail up.
Having suffered from the depths of depression, I know how hard it can be to climb up from those depths, at times. Even clinging to the little core of knowledge, that says 'you will recover', 'you will see the light again', is not always enough.
The ones who fail to hear the little voice, or the see the small light glimmering, & go on to take their own lives, are not to be judged or mocked, with our small insights.
I can only reach out to them, & say their actions are no less valid than any of our actions. Do not judge. Do not think harshly of any of them.
It is not fashionable to discuss a suicide. It is never admitted, that a family member- old or young- may have committed suicide.
It is hushed up, & never discussed in families. It is regarded as a shame. Which is not how I feel it should be.
It is a part of life. Abeit a painful part.
It is too easy, to judge or be accusing, which, I suppose is all part of the hurt, of the feeling of betrayal, at being the one who is left behind to grieve.
Those who remain will suffer pain. But I would suggest, their pain is as nothing compared to the those who have gone.
Don Mclean, Empty Chairs.
Monday, February 23
Cotton & Wool, retardants...
"They" tell us to dress in wool, if we are in danger of fire. Modern folk don't seem to be aware of the fire retardant properties of wool & cotton. Natural fibres are far slower to burn than their synthetic counterparts.
Why are the young not taught this at school? It would seem they are not taught the basics of survival.
I watched a programme, from America, about a child who is determined to abolish homework!
I would support him in every way I could. I never could see, that the stress, on both child & parent, equalled anything useful from homework. It is an abomination, & a total waste of everyone's time!!
**********************
I was honoured with this Award, by my great friend & fellow Blogger Catalyst. He is a wonderful friend, & I humbly accept his award.
This Award, I am ashamed to say, was awarded some time ago. I have forgotten the awarder. I was probably a bit shaken by the god reference. I don't have a god, nor do I want one.
However I appreciate the sentiment of the Award- leaving aside the god bit! So thankyou, & I apologise for being so late to acknowledge your gift to me.
***********************
David Gray, Shine
Why are the young not taught this at school? It would seem they are not taught the basics of survival.
I watched a programme, from America, about a child who is determined to abolish homework!
I would support him in every way I could. I never could see, that the stress, on both child & parent, equalled anything useful from homework. It is an abomination, & a total waste of everyone's time!!
**********************
I was honoured with this Award, by my great friend & fellow Blogger Catalyst. He is a wonderful friend, & I humbly accept his award.
This Award, I am ashamed to say, was awarded some time ago. I have forgotten the awarder. I was probably a bit shaken by the god reference. I don't have a god, nor do I want one.
However I appreciate the sentiment of the Award- leaving aside the god bit! So thankyou, & I apologise for being so late to acknowledge your gift to me.
***********************I spent most of the afternoon, slothfully, watching the Oscar Awards. People who know me, will say this is not like me at all!
I am not usually a fan of this Hollywood shallowness. I was 'seduced' perhaps by Hugh Jackman, who I see as a huge talent.
I was also impressed, for the very first time by Beyonce. I had no idea, how beautiful, how talented, she is!! Her voice is for angels. Her persona...just so beautiful!! She must be one of the most beautiful women in all the world?
**************
Over the past few days, I have been spoilt rotten.
Phone calls from rellies & friends, far & wide.
Family visits, with chocolate gifts....Surplus to my ever increasing bod's needs... but accepted, nonetheless!!
Lavish lunching...
A wonderful plant, potted, so the Garden Vandal, aka Gom, cannot uproot, or in any way, destroy or damage.
The company of family, friends, & many laughs.
What could be more perfect, for any birthday.
I have a tiny wee book, called "Garden Lovers." It is approx 2"x2 1/2".
There are 2 quotes I love.
The first is, " There is no better demonstation of faith than a man planting a seed in a field." So true.
Please note, there is no reference to any god in that statement. Nor is it needed.
My second favourite is
"Summer set lip to earth's bosom bare,
And left the flushed print in a poppy there".
This is attributed to Francis Thompson.
I wish those were my words.
Wednesday, February 18
How to Eat Jam.
Prompted by a post over at Stomper's , I was moved to memory banks.
Jam.
In this instance "Jam" means the preserve, made with fruit & sugar, mainly, to preserve the bounty of fruit, over the Autumn months, for use in the lean, lacklustre winter months. The making, the bottling, the storing.
Not the type of meaning where one might be 'in a jam' or sticky situation. Nor the meaning of jam, where one is unable to move. Nor the flooding musical experience of a Jam!
"Putting up the preserves", as our Grandmothers would have it.
My Maternal Grandmother was very good at the preserving. The useful use of the season's superfluity. She could take all the fruit,~ about to rot, ~& turn it into magic, sweet jam, for use in the winter, when fresh plums or peaches, apricots, or any other fruit, were unavailable. Even Rhubarb. Remember this.
Apples were a wonderul, bounteous crop, which arrived in buckets. While, perhaps, not so appealing as a jam, it could be made, painstakingly, into the most wonderful, light, delicious, clear jelly.
This brings memories of disused, -but perfectly clean! - stockings. They were filled with the pulp of the cooked apples, & hung to drip, suspended by a wooden spoon, above the perserving pan. The resulting, wonderful clear jelly, was proudly put into jars, labelled, to be admired, for the clarity, & the wonderul flavour!
Heaven help the thoughtless child, that might give the full bag a squeeze, on the way to the toilet!!!
For, in our humble home, the concrete laundry tubs, served as vats for the suspension of the jam/jelly drip systems.
On seeing the bulging stocking, dripping its liquid into a bowl, it was almost impossible, to restrain oneself from giving "the squeeze!!" But.... woe betide if you did, because someone always seemed to keep a tally, on who was out to the laundry-based toilet, when the 'cloud' in the jam/jelly appeared.
As children, we went on berry picking missions. I do not use the word 'missions' lightly. They really were missions. If we failed to return home with non-jamable quantities we never quite lived it down.
Any & all, berries we encountered were to be brought home, unmolested, uneaten, & in good order, for the sizing up, for the making of jams.
The Blackberry, was one of the favourites. Juicy, & so succulent, they would warn a watchdog, by the colour of the stain about the lips, had they been consumed...illegally!
This is a Boysenberry. They were prized, for their flavour, sweetness, & longlasting joy, when made into jams, jellies, & puddings.
Tthere were no large freezers available domestically, back in our day. It was all, eat it now, or preserve. So our Grandmother preserved. 
Jam.
In this instance "Jam" means the preserve, made with fruit & sugar, mainly, to preserve the bounty of fruit, over the Autumn months, for use in the lean, lacklustre winter months. The making, the bottling, the storing.
Not the type of meaning where one might be 'in a jam' or sticky situation. Nor the meaning of jam, where one is unable to move. Nor the flooding musical experience of a Jam!
"Putting up the preserves", as our Grandmothers would have it.
My Maternal Grandmother was very good at the preserving. The useful use of the season's superfluity. She could take all the fruit,~ about to rot, ~& turn it into magic, sweet jam, for use in the winter, when fresh plums or peaches, apricots, or any other fruit, were unavailable. Even Rhubarb. Remember this.
Apples were a wonderul, bounteous crop, which arrived in buckets. While, perhaps, not so appealing as a jam, it could be made, painstakingly, into the most wonderful, light, delicious, clear jelly.
This brings memories of disused, -but perfectly clean! - stockings. They were filled with the pulp of the cooked apples, & hung to drip, suspended by a wooden spoon, above the perserving pan. The resulting, wonderful clear jelly, was proudly put into jars, labelled, to be admired, for the clarity, & the wonderul flavour!
Heaven help the thoughtless child, that might give the full bag a squeeze, on the way to the toilet!!!
For, in our humble home, the concrete laundry tubs, served as vats for the suspension of the jam/jelly drip systems.
On seeing the bulging stocking, dripping its liquid into a bowl, it was almost impossible, to restrain oneself from giving "the squeeze!!" But.... woe betide if you did, because someone always seemed to keep a tally, on who was out to the laundry-based toilet, when the 'cloud' in the jam/jelly appeared.
As children, we went on berry picking missions. I do not use the word 'missions' lightly. They really were missions. If we failed to return home with non-jamable quantities we never quite lived it down.
Any & all, berries we encountered were to be brought home, unmolested, uneaten, & in good order, for the sizing up, for the making of jams.
The Blackberry, was one of the favourites. Juicy, & so succulent, they would warn a watchdog, by the colour of the stain about the lips, had they been consumed...illegally!
This is a Boysenberry. They were prized, for their flavour, sweetness, & longlasting joy, when made into jams, jellies, & puddings.
Tthere were no large freezers available domestically, back in our day. It was all, eat it now, or preserve. So our Grandmother preserved.The wonderful Passionfruit of our childhood summers, would be made into a syrup preserve, for use when winter was upon us.
The bountiful fruit of summer, was transformed into sweetness & joy for our winter puddings, with sauces, or just bottled fruit, with the joyous taste of summer!
**************************
I was never a fan of Rhubarb, (the veg/fruit/ plant.) but a lot of my friends were. One girlfriend used to come to collect a car-bootful of our rhubarb, in the season. So please, regard this vigourous plant behind our Gom & son, in the garden of the day!! I swear, you could not kill that rhubarb! Well, not with thought, anyway!!
This is Meggie, with 2 of our children, & the gift of the vines.
You know what they say,... 'fruit of the vine'..
Good grief, I have forgotten the rest.. Hmmmmn..
And now to a confession of sorts, Stomper!
I have a love of Figs. They are not often available in shops, as fresh fruit.
Some very dear, & caring friends, are aware of this fig love of mine.
They bought me a pot of jam... Fig Jam, in fact.
I was so thrilled, I decided Gom was not to partake of this treat. So. I hid the pot of Fig Jam. Even though, Gom assured me he would not like it.
I know what he is like. He will even eat CHEESE! whe he wants to!! In great quantities, & also with gusto!!
So, I stashed the Fig Jam away, & sneaked it out at intermittent intervals, to slurp from a teaspoon. In secret. In the computer "Dont you dare come in here" room! OMG!! The Fig Jam was just so wonderful!! I loved every morsel. I loved every pip!! It was just luscious!!
So, Stomper, my story of jam snacking is not so terrible... is it??
*************
Here is a further photo of our little new family member.
He, of the rosey cheeks. Or should that now be of the cheeky cheeks!
You gorgeous boy!!Did any one try the French Onion Soup? We all loved the end result!!
Tomorrow, I have been promised lunch out. I will be 66. Is that a good year, or, who cares!! LOL!!
Saturday, February 14
Comfort
I have been offered comfort from many sources over the past few days.
I humbly, say "Thankyou".
Though, I do feel it is not my place to accept the comfort offered to so many, apart from me.
I felt quite ashamed in afterthought, today. We went to our local shopping Village, where the local Rotary were running Raffles to raise funds for the Bushfire Appeal. I bought some tickets, & stood waiting for the spin of the wheel. Gom came up, & asked what I was doing. When I told him, he decided to buy some tickets, along with me, in the next spin. We had no idea of what the prize was... who cared, we were really there to Donate.
I had noticed an unusual name on the winners list. I knew that name. I used to wear that name! We stood & waited as our spin was taken. Number 33! Not our number. Then the wheel skipped to the next number, 14. My number! I could scarcely believe it. I went to collect the prize, which was a $25 gift voucher for meat at the Butchers. I was thrilled.
When I got home, I felt guilty. I wished I had given the prize back, to be given again. It could have raised further funds.
***********************
I was given this award by Brett, at Coachdad. Brett is a courageous Dad, with 4 beautiful daughters. He is a solo Dad, & I think he does a great job. Being a single parent, is never easy.
Thankyou Brett. I am a rule breaker about passing on such things, & am content to acknowledge this is your award, with your sentiments.
Thankyou.
I have posted some pictures, which will not necessarily reflect the subject matter. I just felt like some pretty.
This, a rose at an Aunt's garden in New Zealand. last year.
BTW, Hello reader from Maketu!! I saw your visit on my stats. I spent many happy hours at that beach as a child, & also spent happy days at Newdick's Beach. WAVING!! Please leave a comment. We might have known each other at school...the beach.. 
This cool weather, with the bleak outlook, has prompted thoughts of comforts.
This afternoon, I decided to make some French Onion Soup. I don't know why, but it seemed the ultimate comfort for a cool bleak afternoon. 
I humbly, say "Thankyou".
Though, I do feel it is not my place to accept the comfort offered to so many, apart from me.
I felt quite ashamed in afterthought, today. We went to our local shopping Village, where the local Rotary were running Raffles to raise funds for the Bushfire Appeal. I bought some tickets, & stood waiting for the spin of the wheel. Gom came up, & asked what I was doing. When I told him, he decided to buy some tickets, along with me, in the next spin. We had no idea of what the prize was... who cared, we were really there to Donate.
I had noticed an unusual name on the winners list. I knew that name. I used to wear that name! We stood & waited as our spin was taken. Number 33! Not our number. Then the wheel skipped to the next number, 14. My number! I could scarcely believe it. I went to collect the prize, which was a $25 gift voucher for meat at the Butchers. I was thrilled.
When I got home, I felt guilty. I wished I had given the prize back, to be given again. It could have raised further funds.
***********************
I was given this award by Brett, at Coachdad. Brett is a courageous Dad, with 4 beautiful daughters. He is a solo Dad, & I think he does a great job. Being a single parent, is never easy.
Thankyou Brett. I am a rule breaker about passing on such things, & am content to acknowledge this is your award, with your sentiments.
Thankyou.
I have posted some pictures, which will not necessarily reflect the subject matter. I just felt like some pretty.
This, a rose at an Aunt's garden in New Zealand. last year.
BTW, Hello reader from Maketu!! I saw your visit on my stats. I spent many happy hours at that beach as a child, & also spent happy days at Newdick's Beach. WAVING!! Please leave a comment. We might have known each other at school...the beach.. *********
We have had many days of rain here, in the state of New South Wales. The skies have been grey, clouded, & have frequently dropped heavy showers of cold tears, almost a mockery of the heated devastation of the fires in the southern state of Victoria.
This is a rose called Tequila Sunrise. Again my Aunt's garden in NZ BOP.
This cool weather, with the bleak outlook, has prompted thoughts of comforts.Comfort in quilts. Gom has been huddling under his Red Square Dance. Of course, the irony of the fact that he also is dressed in shorts, seems lost to him!
I have cooked casserole food, which would seem to be the ultimate in comfort food. Pork, with a ton of vegetables. A one Pot meal, complete with potatoes, & so delicious & warming, after slow, aromatic, cooking.
Gom is a terrible coward, where vegetables are concerned. His childhood horrors, with force feeding of vegetables have never left him. It has taken many years for me to trick him into the joys, both taste wise, as well as health wise, of eating vegies.
He had a young Uncle, his father's brother, who boarded with his parents, when he was a young boy. The Uncle had preferences, where certain vegetables were concerned. He liked most vegies, but balked at the skins of Broad Beans. He ate the insides, carefully discarding the shells, & leaving them on the side of his plate.
Gom's mother said nothing. When Gom, who was around 9, left his skins on the side also, & finished eating his meal, she flew at him, & demanded he sit there & consume every last skin! Such tales of cruelty fill me with untold anger. I could NEVER have done such a thing.
As a child, I loved all my vegetables. I was happy to eat almost any, & all. My Beloved Brother did not like pumpkin. I was always so sorry for him, when our Grandmother would force him to eat it. I would sit & try to disguise it for him, telling him to mash it up & pretend it was eggs, which he loved.
To this day, he is not fond of pumpkin, but he will eat it. He still loathes chicken, & I wonder if it is a result of seeing our reluctant Uncle having to kill a chicken at our Grandmother's bidding, once it had ceased to lay.
The experience of watching him struggle with pumpkin stayed with me, & I never forced my children to eat anything they disliked. I am glad to say, they grew up to like almost every vegetable, with no hideous memory associations attached.
Mind you, I hated chicken, back in the day, too, & was never keen to have any of the awful, tough meat, that resulted from the roasted bird.
This is another flower from my beloved Aunt's garden in BOP (which is Bay of Plenty, New Zealand).
This is another flower from my beloved Aunt's garden in BOP (which is Bay of Plenty, New Zealand).
This afternoon, I decided to make some French Onion Soup. I don't know why, but it seemed the ultimate comfort for a cool bleak afternoon.I used Ree's recipe- you can find her on my side bar. I have to say, it is the most delicious I have ever made. I didn't use the oven, but I was flitting about basting a long time quilt.
I have battled with this quilt top, & am still not completely happy with the result. I am hoping the quilting will improve it. It is for my Granddaughter, & she chose the fabrics to finish it off.
Another rose, from my Aunt's garden. A little blurry this one. Photographer's fault. I had been lent a camera, & it took me a while to get the best of it. I probably never did realise it's full potential.
And lastly, my beloved New Zealand bush, which has regenerated on our long abandoned family farm, & I love every inch of it!
Bob Dylan, Not Dark Yet.
Bob Dylan, Not Dark Yet.
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