EVER had the blinkers on?
For those not familiar with horse-racing, these are bits of leather or plastic placed near a horse's eyes to narrow their focus to just what's in front of them.
Sometimes people have that too. Sometimes though, it can be better to get out and do something a little bit different, go off the beaten track (cliche count growing rapidly here).
A couple of events here in London have brought that back home to me.
First up, I went for a walk around Wimbledon one Sunday afternoon. I doubt if even the locals could have found anything charitable to say about the weather, what with it being cold, wet and generally miserable, but given the mouse that powers my brain wheel was buzzing around like Mickey Mouse on speed, I had to get out and do something.
While out walking I decided to check out the local shopping area, see what was around, grab a snack etc. Glad I did.
Behind the main street I came across a second-hand bookstore. Now I should mention early up that I'm addicted to reading - and especially any good sporting books (cricket in particular but this should come as a surprise to nobody). In Cooma I used to pop into a second-hand bookstore there and generally came away with something good to add to the library.
This bookstore was no different. Think of an English house (many levels, rooms all over the place), with all the walls and a number of shelves jam-packed with ink on paper.
The cricket section took a bit of finding but was well worth it - a few old Wisdens, some good biographies and even some old-school histories. This was all next to massive tennis and soccer (football) sections, all tucked away in a room overlooking the street.
Now this would have been enough by itself, but the owners had decided to get into the Christmas spirit and handed out cups of mulled wine for everyone. What's not to like?!?
The other event involved that horrendously painful experience of commuting to work.
Now Wimbledon's a fair way out from the city, meaning I can catch two trains and take well over an hour or catch three trains and take about an hour.
I mentioned this to my boss one night and he reckoned the best way was to walk from the main station to work - around 20 minutes or so compared to 30 or more on the train (the London Underground can get extremely busy).
I've been doing this for a few weeks now, and can't help but be blown away. The walk home goes past the Royal Courts of Justice, St Clement's Church (oranges and lemons said the bells of...), Australia House, Somerset House (ice skating in the main courtyard), and over Waterloo Bridge, from which I can see the London Eye, Houses of Parliament, St Paul's Cathedral and the Southbank area.
All this by taking the blinkers off.
But I guess that's the same everywhere too. The beauty of Venice's Piazza San Marco is ruined by wall-to-wall tourists and pigeons, but head about 10 minutes away and you've got enchanting laneways pretty much to yourself.
Stop for a walk in Cooma and have a look at the courthouse, or even go off the beaten track and come across an old church or town that time seems to have overlooked.
Either way, take the blinkers off and get out of the fast lane. Never know what you'll find.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Friday, May 04, 2007
I'm On The Road Again...
I'VE mentioned a few times in the last few posts about the fact I've moved on more than one occasion. I can never really figure out the exact number, but generally my age matches the number of houses I've lived in.
Each time it comes to move I like to tell myself it's getting easier. And to an extent it is: with the wonders of e-mails and mobile phones it's not that hard to keep in contact with friends you've made along the way.
There's also the bonus of not seeing people you don't want to on account of not living in the same area.
Despite this, it's still hard to say goodbye.
You become accustomed to an area, used to its little quirks and follibles. I can tell you which tube carriage to go on if you're heading northbound to Willesden Green or southbound to Charing Cross on the Bakerloo line if you want to get out before the rest of the great unwashed.
There's the social groups that will inevitably drift apart once one member moves on, leaving memories and a few good stories to tell at parties.
Then there's the friends.
Every time I've changed cities I've left behind people that I'd rather not have; the kind of friends that are willing to do anything for you at the drop of a hat. And vice-versa.
I'm leaving all that...
Good thing I'm back on the tour buses Tuesday!
Each time it comes to move I like to tell myself it's getting easier. And to an extent it is: with the wonders of e-mails and mobile phones it's not that hard to keep in contact with friends you've made along the way.
There's also the bonus of not seeing people you don't want to on account of not living in the same area.
Despite this, it's still hard to say goodbye.
You become accustomed to an area, used to its little quirks and follibles. I can tell you which tube carriage to go on if you're heading northbound to Willesden Green or southbound to Charing Cross on the Bakerloo line if you want to get out before the rest of the great unwashed.
There's the social groups that will inevitably drift apart once one member moves on, leaving memories and a few good stories to tell at parties.
Then there's the friends.
Every time I've changed cities I've left behind people that I'd rather not have; the kind of friends that are willing to do anything for you at the drop of a hat. And vice-versa.
I'm leaving all that...
Good thing I'm back on the tour buses Tuesday!
Monday, April 23, 2007
God Save The Future Queen...
I SEE that Denmark's Princess Mary has had a baby girl.
By all accounts it sounds like mother and daughter are doing well, while Prince Frederik is reported to be delighted with the addition to his family. Certainly, he's managed to get one of each a lot quicker than it took Mum, who finally got a baby girl on the sixth attempt.
But as my cousin Aaron pointed out, neither of us was actually aware of the fact that Mary was even pregnant. We put this down to being in England, where they don't feel the need to report on Mary's every bowel movement because she was born and bred in Tasmania.
Of course the reason for this is that England have their very own royal family to write reports about every time they have a bowel movement.
The major target of these reporters/photographers was of course Princess Diana. They "reported" on pretty much every that happened in her life, eventually driving her driver up to and into the wall, which then proved that seatbelts are a lot more than a fashion statement.
After that little escapade things quietened down a bit, only to increase as Princes William and Harry hit drinking age and starting to muck about in pubs and clubs.
There's a shock - young men drinking and acting the fool. Never seen anything like that before...
First up Harry copped a bit for acting the Hooray Henry (or Harry) and laying into paparazzi when they lay in wait for him after a big night out. That and dressing as a Nazi stormtrooper at a fancy-dress party.
Meanwhile old Bill's been copping it as well. In recent times he's been photographed groping the breast of a Brazilian in a posed photo (she wasn't aware until she saw the photo), and took a girl back to barracks. Admittedly, this was because he had a girlfriend back home who wasn't particularly impressed.
And now the two are no longer an item. Again, two people in their mid-twenties breaking up is about as shocking as a politician saying they need to raise taxes or that he was very sorry for getting drunk and doing something silly.
But no, this came as a massive shock to the royal reporters, many of whom had tipped an engagement by the end of the year. One company even designed a series of commemorative souvenirs to flog the instant an announcement was made.
Evidently the breakup was such a newsworthy event that half the Amazon rainforest was cut down and converted to newsprint to analyse why it went wrong.
Why they would do this is completely beyond me. By all accounts Will has a pretty good head on his shoulders, and he's acutely aware of the fact that any future bride is going to have to go through a hell of a lot from the media.
And let's face it, who wants to go through that in their mid-twenties?
By all accounts it sounds like mother and daughter are doing well, while Prince Frederik is reported to be delighted with the addition to his family. Certainly, he's managed to get one of each a lot quicker than it took Mum, who finally got a baby girl on the sixth attempt.
But as my cousin Aaron pointed out, neither of us was actually aware of the fact that Mary was even pregnant. We put this down to being in England, where they don't feel the need to report on Mary's every bowel movement because she was born and bred in Tasmania.
Of course the reason for this is that England have their very own royal family to write reports about every time they have a bowel movement.
The major target of these reporters/photographers was of course Princess Diana. They "reported" on pretty much every that happened in her life, eventually driving her driver up to and into the wall, which then proved that seatbelts are a lot more than a fashion statement.
After that little escapade things quietened down a bit, only to increase as Princes William and Harry hit drinking age and starting to muck about in pubs and clubs.
There's a shock - young men drinking and acting the fool. Never seen anything like that before...
First up Harry copped a bit for acting the Hooray Henry (or Harry) and laying into paparazzi when they lay in wait for him after a big night out. That and dressing as a Nazi stormtrooper at a fancy-dress party.
Meanwhile old Bill's been copping it as well. In recent times he's been photographed groping the breast of a Brazilian in a posed photo (she wasn't aware until she saw the photo), and took a girl back to barracks. Admittedly, this was because he had a girlfriend back home who wasn't particularly impressed.
And now the two are no longer an item. Again, two people in their mid-twenties breaking up is about as shocking as a politician saying they need to raise taxes or that he was very sorry for getting drunk and doing something silly.
But no, this came as a massive shock to the royal reporters, many of whom had tipped an engagement by the end of the year. One company even designed a series of commemorative souvenirs to flog the instant an announcement was made.
Evidently the breakup was such a newsworthy event that half the Amazon rainforest was cut down and converted to newsprint to analyse why it went wrong.
Why they would do this is completely beyond me. By all accounts Will has a pretty good head on his shoulders, and he's acutely aware of the fact that any future bride is going to have to go through a hell of a lot from the media.
And let's face it, who wants to go through that in their mid-twenties?
Monday, April 16, 2007
I Don't Like Cricket... I Love It!
GROWING up we didn't have much in the way of stability. Dad's job in the army meant we moved around a bit: so much so that the school I finished up at was my eighth such institution (five primary and three secondary for the curious/nosey).
In that time we went from Townsville to Canberra to Brisbane to Toowoomba to Queanbeyan to Caboolture to Brisbane before I kicked on at boarding school in Toowoomba. They're all very different cities with very different climates.
But the more things changed the more they stayed the same.
Up until 1997 Dad's parents lived in the same place in Mildura; we always had a pet of some description (generally a dog); and weekends in summer would always see the same scene repeating itself in the lounge room. Dad would be sprawled out on the couch and simultaneously reading a book, listening to the radio and watching the cricket with the volume turned down. Often while asleep. Alter this finely-tuned balance and Dad would pipe up that he was watching/listening/reading that.
Just quietly, from the research I've done it seems this scene was repeated throughout the country.
All this is a long-winded way of saying that from a young age I've been indoctrinated with cricket. Where most would have been upset at the "bloody cricket" being on the tv yet again, my main concern was that I couldn't hear the commentators because the radio was on.
I couldn't hear the commentators last Friday either, but not because a close relative had turned on the radio to stop me from hearing what those esteemed gentlemen had to say about Ireland getting walloped by Australia. Indeed, I didn't have a radio to listen to.
Reason for this was that I watching a game of cricket at Lord's, the home of cricket.
This had been a goal for me since I began travelling to this side of the world two years ago, and while it wasn't the Ashes Test I was hoping for at the time (courtesy of a media officer not approving my application for a press pass), the MCC (Marylebone Cricket Club) against county champions Sussex would do nicely.
I arrived just after the first over of the season, which contained the first wicket of the season when James Kirtley forced Nick Compton to edge to slips. All this is worthy of nothing other than the fact that I was sitting in the Denis Compton stands (Nick is the grandson of the late England great).
There was still room for the surreal though: early on I was reading an article by Times cricket writer Christopher Martin-Jenkins about the start of the English season while son Robin Martin-Jenkins fielded in front of me at deep fine leg.
There were around 50 people in the stand I was in, scattered around like someone had thrown a handful of dice. Behind me a group of Sussex lads cheered on their mate Chris Nash, applauding his every dive, throw and stretch with a gusto only long-time mates can do without embarassment.
There was probably another 100 or so in the stand to my right, while the MCC members took up their seats in front of the pavilion. Some MCC players - who included Steve Harmison and Matthew Hoggard in the numbers - sprawled out on the home team's verandah while up in the media centre a handful of journalists enjoyed an Alistair Cook century on an otherwise uneventful day.
Actually, that's not true. The MCC lost three wickets in the last session, but by that stage I was gone; off to listen to people bitch about the fact they were seated in the front row of a comedy show (three even walked out after the first act).
But that's another story for another time...
For an alternative view on the first day check out this BBC report.
In that time we went from Townsville to Canberra to Brisbane to Toowoomba to Queanbeyan to Caboolture to Brisbane before I kicked on at boarding school in Toowoomba. They're all very different cities with very different climates.
But the more things changed the more they stayed the same.
Up until 1997 Dad's parents lived in the same place in Mildura; we always had a pet of some description (generally a dog); and weekends in summer would always see the same scene repeating itself in the lounge room. Dad would be sprawled out on the couch and simultaneously reading a book, listening to the radio and watching the cricket with the volume turned down. Often while asleep. Alter this finely-tuned balance and Dad would pipe up that he was watching/listening/reading that.
Just quietly, from the research I've done it seems this scene was repeated throughout the country.
All this is a long-winded way of saying that from a young age I've been indoctrinated with cricket. Where most would have been upset at the "bloody cricket" being on the tv yet again, my main concern was that I couldn't hear the commentators because the radio was on.
I couldn't hear the commentators last Friday either, but not because a close relative had turned on the radio to stop me from hearing what those esteemed gentlemen had to say about Ireland getting walloped by Australia. Indeed, I didn't have a radio to listen to.
Reason for this was that I watching a game of cricket at Lord's, the home of cricket.
This had been a goal for me since I began travelling to this side of the world two years ago, and while it wasn't the Ashes Test I was hoping for at the time (courtesy of a media officer not approving my application for a press pass), the MCC (Marylebone Cricket Club) against county champions Sussex would do nicely.
I arrived just after the first over of the season, which contained the first wicket of the season when James Kirtley forced Nick Compton to edge to slips. All this is worthy of nothing other than the fact that I was sitting in the Denis Compton stands (Nick is the grandson of the late England great).
There was still room for the surreal though: early on I was reading an article by Times cricket writer Christopher Martin-Jenkins about the start of the English season while son Robin Martin-Jenkins fielded in front of me at deep fine leg.
There were around 50 people in the stand I was in, scattered around like someone had thrown a handful of dice. Behind me a group of Sussex lads cheered on their mate Chris Nash, applauding his every dive, throw and stretch with a gusto only long-time mates can do without embarassment.
There was probably another 100 or so in the stand to my right, while the MCC members took up their seats in front of the pavilion. Some MCC players - who included Steve Harmison and Matthew Hoggard in the numbers - sprawled out on the home team's verandah while up in the media centre a handful of journalists enjoyed an Alistair Cook century on an otherwise uneventful day.
Actually, that's not true. The MCC lost three wickets in the last session, but by that stage I was gone; off to listen to people bitch about the fact they were seated in the front row of a comedy show (three even walked out after the first act).
But that's another story for another time...
For an alternative view on the first day check out this BBC report.
Monday, April 02, 2007
Up And Down And Back Again...
TOWNSVILLE, the town I was born in, is about 1335km away by road from Brisbane. It is 2214km to Mildura in north-western Victoria.
Impressive figures, and only noteworthy because Brisbane and Mildura are where Mum and Dad's families resided at the time. Certainly a long way to travel just to catch up with my parent's nearest and dearest.
Given that cheap flights at the start of the 1980's generally cost an arm and a leg (and possibly an ear as well), it's not surprising that we did a lot of travelling by car, especially as the family increased in size and Dad's job took us along the Eastern Seaboard.
Obviously you can't do these trips without some form of entertainment - screaming children not really classifying as entertainment unless you're into getting your hand caught in a chainsaw on a regular basis. Sometimes we'd (generally Matt and I) would sing Australian folk songs, but for the other 15-odd hours of the trip we got the best of Mum and Dad's cassette tapes. Aaron, Phil, Leith - you now know who to blame for the Elton John/Paul Simon/Jimmy Barnes et al that I'm so strangely fond of blasting your eardrums with.
To me there was something so compelling about travelling through the countryside with the music to keep us company. When old favourites came on (Hotel California for Mum, Crocodile Rock for Dad), we'd crank the music up and sing along before going back to the bickering that accompanies all large families on long road trips.
This in turn set me up for my current job as a tour guide, where large stretches of the journey are watching the world go by while listening to music.
Mention you're a tour guide and people will generally describe it as a dream job. To be fair it does have its perks - you meet a truckload of people, get to travel an area extensively (in my case Europe), and generally help people enjoy the trip of a lifetime.
There are downsides to everything though.
Talk to Dad and I'm sure he'll tell you he doesn't regret his time in the military: yet that same time also took him away from his young family for long periods of time, leaving Mum to deal with four constantly bickering sons.
Likewise, as Mum is very fond of telling people (while I'm standing next to her no less), if she had her time over again she wouldn't have married and had children so young (19 and 20 respectively). Even though I'm the child she had at 20 I can see her point: getting settled down so young meant there was very little time for exploring the world.
For me, while many think tour guides (especially male ones) are Hugh Hefner wannabes on wheeled Playboy mansions, if you're not close to your driver you really can be on your own when the faecal matter hits the revolving blades. I was lucky that I had a few friends among the passengers I was ferrying around when that happened to me last year.
It's even impacted me in the time I've been in London. I can think of at least three times in the last 12 months where I've been questioned (interrogated would be closer to it) by females about my plans post-touring. Tell them you're not sure (visa issues and the need to pay at least a fleeting visit back home) and that's pretty much where the conversation stops. Which, again, is fair enough - who wants a six-month long-distance relationship with someone who's in a job that's traditionally about as compatible with monogamy as George W. Bush at an al-Qaeda meeting?
But them's the breaks. On balance, I'm more than happy doing what I do during the northern summer. Just don't be surprised though when I give a little wry grin when someone tells me I have the best job in the world.
Impressive figures, and only noteworthy because Brisbane and Mildura are where Mum and Dad's families resided at the time. Certainly a long way to travel just to catch up with my parent's nearest and dearest.
Given that cheap flights at the start of the 1980's generally cost an arm and a leg (and possibly an ear as well), it's not surprising that we did a lot of travelling by car, especially as the family increased in size and Dad's job took us along the Eastern Seaboard.
Obviously you can't do these trips without some form of entertainment - screaming children not really classifying as entertainment unless you're into getting your hand caught in a chainsaw on a regular basis. Sometimes we'd (generally Matt and I) would sing Australian folk songs, but for the other 15-odd hours of the trip we got the best of Mum and Dad's cassette tapes. Aaron, Phil, Leith - you now know who to blame for the Elton John/Paul Simon/Jimmy Barnes et al that I'm so strangely fond of blasting your eardrums with.
To me there was something so compelling about travelling through the countryside with the music to keep us company. When old favourites came on (Hotel California for Mum, Crocodile Rock for Dad), we'd crank the music up and sing along before going back to the bickering that accompanies all large families on long road trips.
This in turn set me up for my current job as a tour guide, where large stretches of the journey are watching the world go by while listening to music.
Mention you're a tour guide and people will generally describe it as a dream job. To be fair it does have its perks - you meet a truckload of people, get to travel an area extensively (in my case Europe), and generally help people enjoy the trip of a lifetime.
There are downsides to everything though.
Talk to Dad and I'm sure he'll tell you he doesn't regret his time in the military: yet that same time also took him away from his young family for long periods of time, leaving Mum to deal with four constantly bickering sons.
Likewise, as Mum is very fond of telling people (while I'm standing next to her no less), if she had her time over again she wouldn't have married and had children so young (19 and 20 respectively). Even though I'm the child she had at 20 I can see her point: getting settled down so young meant there was very little time for exploring the world.
For me, while many think tour guides (especially male ones) are Hugh Hefner wannabes on wheeled Playboy mansions, if you're not close to your driver you really can be on your own when the faecal matter hits the revolving blades. I was lucky that I had a few friends among the passengers I was ferrying around when that happened to me last year.
It's even impacted me in the time I've been in London. I can think of at least three times in the last 12 months where I've been questioned (interrogated would be closer to it) by females about my plans post-touring. Tell them you're not sure (visa issues and the need to pay at least a fleeting visit back home) and that's pretty much where the conversation stops. Which, again, is fair enough - who wants a six-month long-distance relationship with someone who's in a job that's traditionally about as compatible with monogamy as George W. Bush at an al-Qaeda meeting?
But them's the breaks. On balance, I'm more than happy doing what I do during the northern summer. Just don't be surprised though when I give a little wry grin when someone tells me I have the best job in the world.
Friday, March 30, 2007
Now everybody's lost the way that I was...
I COME from a family where getting lost is the family tradition.
Give my aunt a map and a mission to get from Brisbane to Toowoomba, and she may just manage it without going via Sydney. My late grandmother was pretty much the same: after one visit I mentioned to Mum that Grandma had taken me to the cinema then gone past a place they used to live at when Mum was a young 'un. Mum's response was along the lines of asking whether we'd got lost doing this treacherous stunt.
I'm the same on this side of the world. After a lifetime of growing up with the sun in the north, I have to really think about it when someone gives me a compass direction to head in.
This extends to the wonders of the internet.
Ignoring the obvious that pretty much any search will end up with at least one link to adult content, it never ceases to amaze me just where you can end up when surfing the very interesting 11pm-7am night shift away.
Wikipedia's the worst for this. Pretty much anything in an article that has an article of its own will have a link to that page. This can lead some interesting places.
Take Paul Simon for example. I've upgraded the iPod after the old one decided it wasn't going to be reliable anymore, and as such have been going through familiar artists to get songs that can be played with minimal complaints from drivers during this summer's touring season. After finding quite a few of Simon's solo tracks that I liked I decided to have a look at his Wikipedia article.
While reading this (and having little side adventures to the Simon & Garfunkel page), I found that in his younger days Simon had written a few songs with Bruce Woodley of The Seekers. Curious as to the appeal of The Seekers (or indeed why they're treated as royalty back home), I clicked on that link.
While looking that up I found out that The Seekers classic "The Carnival Is Over" was played at the end of Expo '88, the world exposition that many people consider the birth of a newer, more city-like Brisbane.
Which in turn ties in with a blog by Brisbane author John Birmingham on the Brisbane Times website about Brisbane and what could be done to make it great.
Even for a quick reader like myself, this does take a little bit of time to get through.
Such is the wonder of the internet. More than just adult content...
Give my aunt a map and a mission to get from Brisbane to Toowoomba, and she may just manage it without going via Sydney. My late grandmother was pretty much the same: after one visit I mentioned to Mum that Grandma had taken me to the cinema then gone past a place they used to live at when Mum was a young 'un. Mum's response was along the lines of asking whether we'd got lost doing this treacherous stunt.
I'm the same on this side of the world. After a lifetime of growing up with the sun in the north, I have to really think about it when someone gives me a compass direction to head in.
This extends to the wonders of the internet.
Ignoring the obvious that pretty much any search will end up with at least one link to adult content, it never ceases to amaze me just where you can end up when surfing the very interesting 11pm-7am night shift away.
Wikipedia's the worst for this. Pretty much anything in an article that has an article of its own will have a link to that page. This can lead some interesting places.
Take Paul Simon for example. I've upgraded the iPod after the old one decided it wasn't going to be reliable anymore, and as such have been going through familiar artists to get songs that can be played with minimal complaints from drivers during this summer's touring season. After finding quite a few of Simon's solo tracks that I liked I decided to have a look at his Wikipedia article.
While reading this (and having little side adventures to the Simon & Garfunkel page), I found that in his younger days Simon had written a few songs with Bruce Woodley of The Seekers. Curious as to the appeal of The Seekers (or indeed why they're treated as royalty back home), I clicked on that link.
While looking that up I found out that The Seekers classic "The Carnival Is Over" was played at the end of Expo '88, the world exposition that many people consider the birth of a newer, more city-like Brisbane.
Which in turn ties in with a blog by Brisbane author John Birmingham on the Brisbane Times website about Brisbane and what could be done to make it great.
Even for a quick reader like myself, this does take a little bit of time to get through.
Such is the wonder of the internet. More than just adult content...
Saturday, February 24, 2007
If I Could Talk To The Animals...
LONDON'S brilliant for oh so many things. The sights, the history, the nightlife; even the amazingly eclectic array of nationalities that set up camp here. Just in my workplace alone we have Australians, South Africans, Swedes, Poles, Italians, Albanians and the occasional token Pom. It certainly livens up the place in a way that, bizarrely enough, only Cooma has matched.
Unfortunately for yours truly, there's not a real lot to do in London between 3am and 5am when you're working as the night porter ina fairly swanky hotel. The temperature's cold, the skies often bursting or about to, and all you're thinking about is getting home and dropping into a sound enough sleep so as not to wake up when the flatmates do their midday re-enactment of Pamplona's Running of the Bulls (complete with hooping and hollering).
To fill in the inevitable blanks, you tend to jump onto the net and find out what's been going on back home. Ordinarily I log onto the Sydney Morning Herald website on account of that newspaper providing some thoughtful analysis of sport and news without dipping into sensationalism. Of course, being a Queenslander I am known to drop across to the Courier-Mail's website where this interesting article recently appeared about pets (in particular pet dogs). The bloody thing made me homesick!
I can't remember a time from 0-18 when the family, or even Mum after the split, didn't have a pet of some kind. Obviously I can't remember the ones 0-5, but after that we had quite the collection of animals with their own personalities.
Top of the list would have to have been the dog Jemma. She was actually older than two of my brothers and had the memorable distinction of teaching one brother how to say "hello". Whenever we came back from a few days away, Jemma would race up to the fence and bellow "har-roh", a pronounciation Daniel (I wasn't going to embarass him, but what the hey) picked up himself!
She was a beautiful little thing - a mongrel like most of our pets - with a personality to match. Indeed, if you could say anything bad about her, it would be that she was rather fond of getting out of the yard and going walkabout.
Jemma was around 6 when we added another dog, Meila, to the menagerie. Meila was a tiny puppy - so small in fact that Dad wanted to call her Stubby on account of being able to fit in a stubby cooler - but grew large enough to avoid that "overgrown rat" status. She was one of those dogs that never backed down from a growling match, no matter how big the opposition dog was.
Our cats were pretty similar. Mim and Gypsy both had no hesitation in standing up for themselves during their times with us. Both had their troubles with attacking family members: Mim was put down after continually attacking Bryan when he was a young tacker, while Gypsy once pounced on Matt after he held her above next-door's two pig dogs!
We had a few birds as well, but the only one that remains in the memory was Peachy, a peach-faced bird (took us ages to think of that one). She came into our lives after landing on the next-door neighbour in Toowoomba. Mum put out fliers saying we'd found this obviously tamer bird, but as no-one claimed her she became ours by default. The enduring memory of Peachy has to be her perched on Bryan's shoulder as he crawled down the hallways of our Toowoomba houses.
Alas, all these have fallen by the wayside. Mum got the pets when she and Dad split up, and eventually they all succumbed to old age or wanderlust. When I left Australia almost 12 months ago neither parent had a pet; since then Mum has added a kitten that causes as much havoc as a certain Miss Hannah.
Eventually I'll settle down and stay somewhere for more than a few months: when I do a pet is pretty high up on the agenda.
Unfortunately for yours truly, there's not a real lot to do in London between 3am and 5am when you're working as the night porter ina fairly swanky hotel. The temperature's cold, the skies often bursting or about to, and all you're thinking about is getting home and dropping into a sound enough sleep so as not to wake up when the flatmates do their midday re-enactment of Pamplona's Running of the Bulls (complete with hooping and hollering).
To fill in the inevitable blanks, you tend to jump onto the net and find out what's been going on back home. Ordinarily I log onto the Sydney Morning Herald website on account of that newspaper providing some thoughtful analysis of sport and news without dipping into sensationalism. Of course, being a Queenslander I am known to drop across to the Courier-Mail's website where this interesting article recently appeared about pets (in particular pet dogs). The bloody thing made me homesick!
I can't remember a time from 0-18 when the family, or even Mum after the split, didn't have a pet of some kind. Obviously I can't remember the ones 0-5, but after that we had quite the collection of animals with their own personalities.
Top of the list would have to have been the dog Jemma. She was actually older than two of my brothers and had the memorable distinction of teaching one brother how to say "hello". Whenever we came back from a few days away, Jemma would race up to the fence and bellow "har-roh", a pronounciation Daniel (I wasn't going to embarass him, but what the hey) picked up himself!
She was a beautiful little thing - a mongrel like most of our pets - with a personality to match. Indeed, if you could say anything bad about her, it would be that she was rather fond of getting out of the yard and going walkabout.
Jemma was around 6 when we added another dog, Meila, to the menagerie. Meila was a tiny puppy - so small in fact that Dad wanted to call her Stubby on account of being able to fit in a stubby cooler - but grew large enough to avoid that "overgrown rat" status. She was one of those dogs that never backed down from a growling match, no matter how big the opposition dog was.
Our cats were pretty similar. Mim and Gypsy both had no hesitation in standing up for themselves during their times with us. Both had their troubles with attacking family members: Mim was put down after continually attacking Bryan when he was a young tacker, while Gypsy once pounced on Matt after he held her above next-door's two pig dogs!
We had a few birds as well, but the only one that remains in the memory was Peachy, a peach-faced bird (took us ages to think of that one). She came into our lives after landing on the next-door neighbour in Toowoomba. Mum put out fliers saying we'd found this obviously tamer bird, but as no-one claimed her she became ours by default. The enduring memory of Peachy has to be her perched on Bryan's shoulder as he crawled down the hallways of our Toowoomba houses.
Alas, all these have fallen by the wayside. Mum got the pets when she and Dad split up, and eventually they all succumbed to old age or wanderlust. When I left Australia almost 12 months ago neither parent had a pet; since then Mum has added a kitten that causes as much havoc as a certain Miss Hannah.
Eventually I'll settle down and stay somewhere for more than a few months: when I do a pet is pretty high up on the agenda.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)