Under The Worm Farm Lid.

Letter From The Other Side; from Cynthia.

Last week my dog was taking me for our regular walk through his favourite haunts. He has been invaluable to me during my recovery and has become not just a companion but a major part in my therapy.

He was the reason I began to take short walks and is still the reason I will move from my chair on days when I would rather be resting than take myself outside.   It has been truly amazing during these last few months how he has been aware of my inability to move about as I once did. When, after nearly twelve months I first attempted a walk with him, he matched his pace with mine and seemed to know if I was hesitating on a slope or a step and would stop and lean into my leg lightly but comfortingly as though saying ‘I’m here, It’s O.K.’

We are now back to the full two mile stroll we always took.

So many of us walk each day, some going from place to place with only the goal in mind, others amble along with a friend or lover enjoying the company and paying little heed to what may be surrounding them. The ones I feel sympathy for are the joggers and power walkers. They look so unhappy and sour as they drip sweat profusely while pounding past me, often starring fixedly at where the next footfall should be without raising their eyes in any sort of greeting. Most are plugged into a type of electronic device with wires protruding from their ears. They often wear a look of grumpy determination. For me, a walk should be something pleasurable, a good exercise to help lower the blood pressure, sooth the mind and remind us the world is not always the dreadful place the news broadcasts would have us believe. I fail to see how exercising so hard during such hot weather and in a mind-set that is not happy, can be good for anyone.

 Perhaps it is the thought of the glass of wine they will enjoy when next they are talking to friends and are in a situation to throw in the line, ‘When I was out jogging the other day,’ compensates for the pain they put their bodies through. Bodies that will probably need premature knee and hip replacements if they keep stressing the joints for too long, encouraging the body’s ‘use by dates’ to come along much sooner than it should.

My favourite walk is with Walter. I think until you walk with a dog it is easy to miss so many of the sensory pleasures of human and animal contact that a dog will help you make and enjoy.

            Walter is a jet black cocker spaniel and of course has the appealing, heart melting eyes of his breed and uses them to great advantage. He adores the route we take through the main shopping street because it is busy, full of interesting sounds and smells issuing from restaurants, clothing shops, busy service stations and fragrant hardware shops wafting the odour of manures and sweet smelling timber through their doors.

As we turn a corner and walk past a boutique brewery; he always checks the shrubs and grasses to see if there have been any changes or new dogs since we were last passing by. The garrulous terrier which lives around the corner often follows the same path and I’m sure our stop there is to cover up his scent. They don’t like one another very much.

 He isn’t keen when a truck hisses the airbrakes. He replies to the insolent barking of a superior looking Blue Heeler hanging over the tray of a farmer’s Ute and lifts his head in appreciation of the rural smell issuing as another truck carrying cattle into the markets passes by.

The clothes hanging on racks outside apparel stores provide enormous pleasure as do the people sorting through them. His nose twitches with appreciation as he checks the air to sniff the scrumptious smells of the coffee shops and pub lunches and sometimes after using those ever appealing eyes, receives a small snack from some soft hearted person sitting at a table outdoors.

As we walk, his tail keeps up a constant wag of pleasure and tourists missing the pets they have left behind at home ask if they may give him a pat. He sits obligingly in front of them. It happens so often he is quite miffed if a group walk by and there isn’t at least one of them pause to pat. Last week a group of three stopped but only two of them patted. He moved and deliberately sat in front of the person who had ignored him and stared until the gentleman’s hand reluctantly moved to fastidiously touch the glossy black head. Satisfied he may have improved the gentleman’s attitude towards canines, we moved on.

Children hold out sticky hands as they pass by in strollers and every now and then I have a parent tell me their child doesn’t have a pet and it is rare for them to enjoy the opportunity of stroking a dog. To me, when I think back to my whole lifetime surrounded by animals of all kinds, I feel saddened for them that they will grow up with a void in their lives which prevented them from learning to love and care for another creature.

We move on from the street and turn down a road that leads to the park. He likes this road because there is a low brick fence he can jump onto and walk along it to demonstrate his balance and tight walking skills. We then go down the slope under the giant plane trees and across the grass toward the river where he is delighted if he can disturb the ducks from the group preening session they had been enjoying in the shade.

The river is different every day. When the level in low the children shift the smooth stones making them into pretend dams or walls or whatever their imaginations have created. These shapes change constantly with each different group of visitors. During winter the mood of the waters can change into stunning ferocity, sometimes raging and frothing and carrying trees and debris. We both stand and watch it because that is what everyone does. It seems to demand a moment of contemplation and is impossible to walk past without stopping and staring as it relentlessly moves along.

Here under the trees, the grass is long and thick. Often the council men have cut it and Walter smells the rich odours that come floating up from the ground. It must be a mix of cut grass, duck droppings, spilt food, people’s scents, decaying leaves, dropped cigarette butts…... So much he could tell me. Then he may enjoy startling a bird or watch the children at the swings or be attracted by the seductive smell of fish and chips that picnickers are spreading out across a table.

 A little further along, past one of the scary swing bridges that neither of us likes, is another low stone wall with a flat top. Here he jumps up and thumps his bottom down firmly. I am not allowed to move or be distracted until he has been petted and we have had a discussion about something. I don’t care if the people sitting at the tables under the trees of the restaurant behind us think I am balmy, he needs his chat. This is our small part of the day together. There are things he could tell me about some of those folk which they would prefer others didn’t know such as do they carry sweets, do they smoke, do they take drugs, are they friendly…or not, are they sad, do they have an illness? Dogs know these things and more.

 Sometimes we watch people swimming or canoeists paddling about and occasionally falling out into the water which has not long left the mountains and is still extremely cold. They emerge all pink and covered in Goosebumps.

Further along, the path is close to bushy scrub. It is used daily by dozens of people. This year summer has been long and hot and sometimes if the path has been quiet for a while we will come across a lizard sunning itself.

On a walk one day early in the season Walter kept bumping my legs and walking in front of me, eventually I stopped and asked ‘what’s wrong’? He was clearly not happy and stood stock still staring, his eyes fixed ahead. There I saw what had been upsetting him. On a low rock sunning itself was a young Tiger snake. It was only about three feet long but quite big enough to kill anything it struck. We would have passed within a foot of it had Walter allowed me to go on. Snakes kill a lot of dogs during summer particularly Fox terriers and the type that like to chase rabbits down holes. They have also killed quite a few people if medical attention isn’t found soon enough. I bent and picked up a small rock and threw it at the snake. He didn’t like being disturbed at all, flicked his tongue in disgust and slithered down off the rock into the dry grass. Once I was sure he was gone and Walter said it was safe, we went on our way.

Tourists from the city wander along this path oblivious to the wildlife that may be around and we locals don’t enlighten them very often because the wild things have more sense  than to stay around and mostly do less harm to the tourists than the tourists do to them.  

From that spot we slowly make our way up a slope past the elms and the Woolamai Pine tree and take small steps down another slope to the car.

Sometimes a small white dog, with a nasty attitude and an unrealistic, concept of its size will try and start an argument. Walter very wisely waits until he is in the security of the car before he lets fly with a deep and very loud reply. Once he is satisfied he has preserved his honour with the obnoxious little squirt he lies down.

I think any walk I take now is enriched by the things he has taught me to appreciate and a companionship that is not possible to explain to anyone who does not have an affinity with animals.

If you are lonely, get a dog. You will not only have a loyal companion you will have a friend who will help you meet new people, see new things. See some things in a different way and never complain about where you take him.

Happy walkies,

Cynthia.

 

Pop The Corks, Raise The Glasses, Strike Up The Band!. I'm Back.

To those of you who have been kind enough to search out my blog. and have found no new posts for months, I do apologize.
I have been ill.
Although I am not altogether better, I am much improved and getting on with my life.
New blogs should begin to appear as from today.
During my recovery Teddy and I have been working on a series of cartoons.
As regular readers know, we are keen organic gardeners and we have been collaborating in the creation of a cartoon series.
A new cartoon will be added most weeks from now on and we hope you will get a smile or even a laugh from the little creatures who live "Under The Worm Farm Lid'.

 

 

Letter From The Other Side; from Cynthia.

 It is unwise to begin sinking quietly into your favourite chair thinking thankful thoughts about Christmas and New Year celebrations being behind you because as soon as you do Australia Day celebrations begin. I’m sure other countries have this type of day. It is the day when national pride is supposed to shine like a beacon out into the world, or into a black hole which is my idea of where it mostly goes.

Politicians heap accolades on us bolstering our national psyche by telling us what a special people we are and many other wonderful things we promptly forget as soon as we enter a sporting arena or someone cuts us off on the freeway. That’s just before they go back to parliament to abuse the living daylights out of each other under the freedom of parliament and call each other names, heaping insults upon one another they wouldn’t dare utter in the public arena for fear of litigation.

At last the children are packed off back to school following a long and dreadful summer and parents are left contemplating the bills which fill the letter boxes after the purchasing of new uniforms, school books and computers, Oh yes, and buying all the now discarded Christmas gifts. Resolutely they return to work so they can pay for it all again next year.

Some parents and many others in our communities have no letter boxes. They have been washed away by floods and others have been burnt along with their homes, animals and livelihoods. It’s been a horrible summer.

A month after it began, the fire in the mountains near us is still burning. Professional and many volunteer firemen are still working long hours on their trucks or on foot in rugged terrain while water-bombing helicopters drone back and forth all day. At times the smoke has turned the sky red, stinging our eyes and throats making people with heart and lung disease ill. If you have ever seen a photograph of the eerie red atmosphere on mars, then think of us, that is what our landscape looks like at present.

We had a little rain and the fire has gone quiet as it creeps around the ravines and down into the gullies. It would only take another day of 40 degree heat and it could wake like a roaring giant and threaten to eat the towns and everything before it once more.

Most days we go for a walk with our dogs and joke with others we meet about taking our ‘breath of fresh smoke for the day.’ If the dogs are aware of the tension all around us they give no indication. Perhaps their trust in us is too complete.

This threat will pass, it always does. People have lost everything they own, some have lost their lives but we go on, we have to, we are told how tough we are how strong and brave we should be and beside all that according to the television and the supermarkets Valentines Day is coming!

That too will pass and before the last chocolate heart has left the shelves the chocolate eggs and bunnies will be filling the spaces.

The entire world, accept those who have suffered will forget the headlines and the pictures of destruction. It must, because it can’t become bogged down in despondency and depression. However, should you meet anyone who has been touched by these and other tragedies tread lightly on their feelings as you offer that person who has nothing left, a chocolate.

Letter From The Other Side; from Cynthia.

‘Not by the hair on my chinny-chin-chin.’

The snow is still deep up on the mountain slopes but spring is stirring in the valleys. Birds are stealing the coconut fibre from the flowers hanging baskets and taking the threads from the weed matting edges to make their nests. The male bower bird has stolen every blue flower out of the garden to impress his harem.

Cats are strolling the streets at night howling their feline love songs in what to them is a delightful serenade and when the males come to blows, the losers of the fence top fights are taken to the vet to have their abscesses syringed. The owners, after paying a large bill, are given the dubious pleasure of tending to a spitting cat as they try to deal with the drainage tubes. This process often leads to the owner swabbing blood from scratches on her hands after being swatted by flailing claws.

 Cats appear to have no sense of appreciation toward veterinary or nursing care.

The young foxes have been kicked out of home to find their way in the world and to make room for this year’s family. As with the young of all species they are rather naive and lazy. The foxes sniff out the nearest chook pen to get a breakfast they don’t have to chase and hunt down.

Our neighbour who lives across the road left for Melbourne for a much needed holiday. We were happy to agree to care for her girls. Four lovely Isa Brown hens.

Her dog went with her and so to my horror the first morning I crossed the road to feed the girls and collect the eggs I came upon a nasty scene. One hen gone and another badly mauled. Feathers were spread across the bottom of the pen and I could easily follow the trail of where the fox had run with his take-away meal. The two hens left were looking very agitated and obviously not in the mood to lay any eggs.

A large hole under the pen’s wire was a clear indication of where the fox had easily burrowed in to grab his meal.

Just our luck. First day Barbara is away and this happens.

Teddy immediately went across to kill the severely damaged bird and gave it a decent burial in the compost heap. He then sorted through the sheds until he found enough wire to put an apron of it right around the pen and half way up the sides so that the fox couldn’t have his meal as easily the next day. For it was a certainty he would be back.

After a couple of days the remaining chooks seemed to have recovered and were laying two lovely eggs a day. They obviously didn’t suffer a long bereavement and probably took the view that the extra greens they were getting made the episode worth while.

Our friend returned home a little sad but philosophical about her loss and planned to replace the two dead girls.

The very first night she was home her dog woke her just before dawn insisting she go out into the frosty garden. There was a commotion down at the chook pen. The noise echoed off the hill opposite and started every dog in the town barking including ours who just love a good rowdy dollop of excitement to start their day.

The young woman who lives next door to Barbara was awake early and had seen the fox getting under the hen house. Her dogs had also joined in the row and were doing laps of her back yard.

By sheer chance she was appropriately dressed for the occasion in her ‘Zena Queen of The Jungle’ leopard patterned mini pyjamas. She clambered over the wire fence which separates the properties and ran into the hen house, bravely stamping her foot onto the fox’s head as he tried to back out from under the chicken wire. At the same time she was calling for her husband to come and help.

The two remaining chooks were squawking and franticly dithering about. Torn between running to some place of safety but glued to their perches by fear as they stared down at the fox beneath the foot of the screaming woman dressed in flimsy leopard spotted clothing. They cackled hysterically not knowing what to do.

By the time Barbara had thrown some clothes on, shoved her feet into her gardening boots and arrived at the scene of mayhem, the young husband was emerging like an executioner from the tower of London, his axe dripping with blood and a look of grim pleasure on his face. His wife’s foot had survived in tact but the fox hadn’t.

Teddy has since put a solid base in the chook house for Barbara but her girls have decided while they wait for their nerves to recover there is more to life than laying omelette ingredients.

When the fox was laid out on the back lawn we could all see what a truly magnificent animal he was and felt rather sad he had chosen to break into the hen house.

Foxes are not a native species in Australia and are considered vermin because they kill so many native animals, although they also kill a lot of rabbits, which are also not native animals. At times rabbits have been in plague proportions in the country, inflicting enormous damage on the land.

In defence of the fox, he was just doing what any species will do, trying to provide for himself.

Hens are another imported species to the country, but they are useful to the inhabitants and so are reprieved.

It comes down to the fact that if something is useful to man they are spared. If not, they may be hunted or lose their habitat.

Vale Mr Fox you were a lovely animal.

I’ve noticed I haven’t heard the blackbird that was beginning to tune up for the season. His song seems to have stopped. Blackbirds are also not native birds and some gardeners don’t like the way they flip mulch and soil onto the paths and dig up seedlings as they search for worms and grubs. Perhaps someone has trapped the songster and done away with him.

It’s a hard life surviving in a world when your personal instincts and habits upset the ruling species.

Hooroo from,

Cynthia

Letter From The Other Side; from Cynthia.   Tunnel Vision.

Dear Del,

A few days ago a friend of mine remarked as we stood chatting in the main street of town, that men are afflicted by tunnel vision. She made this observation while watching her spouse, a keen fisherman, look with devotion at a fishing rod displayed in the sporting goods store window.

 This remark of hers made a memory stir restlessly in my mind for a few days. One that I don’t think I have ever shared with you. I think it has been on the outskirts of much of my thinking while our home has been subjected to the hours of work Teddy has spent while making a solar hot water panel. All else has been ignored while the weeks of construction of the Mark. 2. model of this panel has been in progress.

Mark. 1. was demolished some time ago much to my relief because it was taking on such large proportions that I felt if our roof wasn’t reinforced before it was put in place, the structure would come crashing through into the living room. This would not only spoil our television viewing it would most likely upset the finely balanced relationship we have with our home insurance company.

I knew when we married all those decades ago that I was marrying a man of high intelligence. I wasn’t quite prepared for some of the small eccentricities that sometimes accompany such intellect.

Within a few weeks I was given quite a few examples of what I could expect and the degree to which my patience, humour and tolerance would be stretched.

For example, we had been living in our first small flat for about four weeks. The night had been wet with the sort of lashing rain that Melbourne is capable of producing following a long dry spell. The water flows down the street gutters washing all the paper, leaves and rubbish before it and at times it will eventually clog up the road drains leaving vast puddles of filthy water swirling around for days until it is at last dried up, or a council team comes along and unblocks it.

It was Teddy’s habit to walk to the shops, pick up his morning paper, read it as he walked along the footpath all the while trusting the other travellers to keep his footsteps on the right course as he made his way along and through the underpass to the station while concentrating on the newspaper.

One morning as was usual, I made his packed lunch and after a peck on the cheek at the door, waved him off with a happy smile. That’s the sort of thing we women were shown to do in the 1960’s magazine articles entitled, ‘How To Keep Your Husband Happy.’

Some time later, after I had tidied the small amount of second hand furniture which adorned out little nest and washed up the breakfast dishes, I heard a noise at the door.

Feeling a little apprehensive I opened it slowly. Teddy was revealed sitting on the doorstep with his boots off and ringing out his soaking socks. His overalls were wet up to his thighs and there was an assortment of wrapping papers and grit in his wet hair.

‘What on earth happened to you?’ I asked.

‘Hmmm…….Well.’ He giggled a bit. I learned over the years, little things don’t upset him easily.

He began, ‘I bought the paper and opened it to read while walking along with the others as I always do…then after a time I realized no one was walking with me and my feet were really cold. I lifted the paper up and looked around to see I was up to my knees in muddy water and floating things. The underpass tunnel was filled right across the paths and road. None of the b…..blokes told me! They were all just standing behind me pointing and laughing at me. Then,’ he continued at last showing some exasperation, ‘some coot with a great sense of fun planted his foot on the accelerator of his car and drove through the water fast enough to dowse me with a wave of the muck.’

I sighed, the first of many to come and handed him a towel, some dry clean socks, a clean, dry pair of overalls, and shut the door firmly.

Despite my best efforts life has gone on in much the same way for five decades. Now, after much hammering, sawdust, metal pieces and piping made of various materials we have our own solar hot water.

‘Buying one from the solar shop would be far too easy and not as much fun,’ he told me the other day while I was removing another small handful of screws and metal objects from the bowels of my washing machine.

It’s too late to miss the tunnel now isn’t it? I wonder what it next has in store for us?

Cheers Cynthia.

Letter From The Other Side; from
Cynthia
‘James, James, Morrison, Morrison
Weatherby George Dupree
Took great care of his mother,
although he was only three……
……..and goes on to the 4th
verse
‘You must never go down to the
end of town, without consulting me.’

Those words of A.A Milne were engraved forever on my mind when as a
child I recited his poems over and over again.
To this day I still enjoy their rhythm and flow and the wonderful
memories of my relatively carefree childhood they recall.
Last week as we made our way slowly along the shopping strip of our
small town the words of the poem wandered quietly into my head once more.
It was a beautiful Saturday morning. The sun shone brilliantly and the
early autumn glow was touching the edges of the leaves on the trees lining the
streets. The haze of smoke from the late seasonal burn-offs of the Department
Of Environment hung in the air. We all know autumn will bring this haze if the
weather is still and warm and are grateful for it, as the extra
undergrowth which has grown in the
forests during the summer will make any summer bushfire next year all the
hotter and hazardous.
The street was buzzing with tourists lounging about as they enjoyed the
mountain air and drank coffee at the tables along the footpaths. They always appear
to have their feet strategically placed to trip any unwary pedestrian. It seems
to me at times that tourists grow longer legs than we do.
The local volunteer groups find Saturday mornings very profitable for
their raffle ticket sales and some set up sausage sizzle stalls. The smell of
barbequed sausages and bacon wafts down the street enticing pedestrians to
follow their noses like ever hungry spaniels seeking the source of a scent.
Teddy and I were strolling from the supermarket down to our lovely old
Victorian red brick library. It is really only a very short walk and would take
no more than ten minutes on a quiet day.
Walking is something I can still
do without too much trouble just so long as I am wearing a pair of sturdy
supporting shoes. I have drawn the line at the ‘glow-in-the-dark’ gym shoes and
have opted for a more sober style.
We crossed the path which leads across the roundabout and were making
good progress until we met a friend. He is an interesting man, a musician and teaches
the drums. Teddy being of the opinion he is also a musician because he tortures
us with his trumpet every day enjoys chatting with him. I think the book he
read about Lois Armstrong has gone to his head.

While we were speaking to our drummer friend I spotted a decoration in
a garden nearby that didn’t really appeal to me. It was a discarded toilet
which has been converted into a plant pot. Two doors down from this home is a
small road sign which indicates there is a public convenience further along the
street and I wondered if the plant pot owner had taken his idea from the sign.
Another gentleman we know came along while we were being silly and
giggling childishly about the garden landscaping and he joined in the
conversation surmising along with us why anyone would opt for such a decoration
for their front yard.
After twenty minutes or so we parted company and went on our various
ways buoyed up by the happy and rather ridiculous conversation.
Not very far past the newsagent we met another couple we know and fell
into conversation with them. After receiving and giving updates on our health,
our families’ health, our dogs’ peculiar behaviourisms and where to purchase a
decent handbag in town, we continued on our stately progress.
Then we came upon the raffle ticket sales. It was in aid of a good
community cause and so we bought two or three and of course began a
conversation with the lady selling the tickets. We hadn’t ever met her before
but …and I still don’t know how the conversation got around to it,….. the
subject of my present health issues came up. She was a fund of information and
attends the same neurosurgeon that I do. She takes weight strengthening exercises
for the ‘older person’ and those rehabilitating from illness and after quite a
time, (there was another person selling tickets while we chatted) I left her
feeling as if our meeting had somehow been organized by someone or something
much wiser than me. It was quite
stunning how much better I felt from being able to share some of my experiences
with her.

Next stop along our way was the library. Well….. what can I say about a
trip to the library? It is never a quick drop-the-returning-book and run is it?
We shuffled through shelves, looked at videos and discs, argued about who’s
fine it was that had to be paid for the late return and came out carrying more
books than we can possibly read in the allotted time ultimately enjoying the
full library experience.
By this time, instead of taking ten minutes to walk the distance we had
spent an hour and a half.
We turned out steps back toward where the car was parked and made for
the chemist shop and met a lady we have known for ages and stopped to ask after
her health and laugh about her antics as she tried to hold her walking stick in
one hand and balance her barbequed sausage rolled up in its bread, in the
other.
We had reached the end of the town and began our journey back, not in
the least worried by the time we had taken. We know that trying to hurry on a
Saturday morning in our main street is a waste of time. Instead we looked up at
the smoky hills and shuffled along happily recounting some of our friendly and rather
silly conversations which were all enjoyed in comradeship and the pleasure and
the privilege of living in such a place which has the support and help we
provide to one another.
We did see one gentleman coming toward us that we felt unable to face
on such a nice day. He is possibly the most irritating and negative person in town
and I have yet to work out why he feels as grumpy as he does, but I ducked into
the shoe shop and Teddy followed quickly. It cost the price of a new pair of
shoes I fell instantly in love with to miss him, but we felt the purchase price
was worth avoiding being depressed on such a pleasant morning.
I think James, James, Morrison, Morrison must have lived in a town like
ours and knew that if his mother went down to the end of town she would be a
long time and would not be back in time for tea. That way he would know he could
be free to raid the biscuit tins in her absence without being caught.
At least the authorities didn’t have to put up a notice that we were ‘lost,
stolen or strayed and post a forty shillings reward’.
Cheers for now,
Cynthia







The End Of Town Without Consulting Me.

Letter From The Other Side; from Cynthia. 'It's All In The Names.'


Dear Del,

We all think of our name as our own individual identification don’t we?
Of course many people go through life identified by their friends and family by a nickname but even the nickname can be a problem. There is always a ‘Bluey’ around, so called because of his red hair. Every town has a Musty because of his reluctance to open his wallet or a Lofty because of his height and of course we mustn’t forget Gunna. You know him, that fellow who is always ‘Gunna’ do this and ‘Gunna’ do that but doesn’t ever make the time to do much at all.

We think of our names as special things and like to keep our ‘good name’ and hope people or family won’t ‘ruin our good name’ or sully our family name in any way.

The first time a person becomes aware of sharing the same name with someone else can come as a shock, particularly if you meet them and you dislike them at once for some reason.

Years ago Teddy was confused by the stares of people who seemed reluctant to speak to him for a time until he found out he and a man who had been stealing from the company they both
worked for, shared the same name. Once the other man was identified in the press and the confusion was cleared up, Teddy became popular again.


A few decades later when I registered at a new medical surgery I discovered I shared my name with four other women also registered on their books. It made it confusing for the staff,
who had to make sure they double checked my address and details to ensure the doctors were given the correct details and didn’t mix up our files.

About six months later, Teddy began receiving sympathy cards from all over the district and interstate. At first he thought it was some sort of sick practical joke until we heard that
one of my other namesakes had been killed in a dreadful accident. We felt awful for thinking bad things about the senders of the cards and made sure we eventually found out her address and forwarded the cards onto her bereaved family. Although we hadn’t ever met her, we almost felt we knew her after opening the cards and reading some of the thoughts which had been expressed.

The next thing was to have problems with the small local bank when they mixed my name and address with another namesake. Luckily it was still during the days of being able to deal with your local branch manager face to face and not with a computer with tentacles which
became entangled and very hard to straiten out. The problem was fixed with apologies all round.

A mix up with names can also lead to funny incidents.
Teddy’s dad, Huey, had not been working in his allotment for a few weeks and when he returned to it, he found that some of his tools were missing.
The next time he went even more of his tools were missing and also some of the vegetables were gone.
“I swear I’ll catch the *****
that’s stealing from me.” He declared, irate that the prized vegetables he had worked on were on someone else’s dinner plate.

Sure enough when he went down to the allotment there was a fellow working away in his plot. He walked up quietly behind him and reached out to tap him on the shoulder. ‘What d’ya’mean by
stealing my stuff?’ he bellowed in the small man’s ear.

The chap swung around and staggered back and away from Huey who could look quite intimidating even though he was also short. His pronounced jutting jaw and broom of black hair which appeared to explode from his scalp could be very unnerving when his temper was
roused.

‘B’y God man, you’re dead.’ The little fellow squeaked. Huey declared the bloke turned as white as his hair, his knees buckled and he flopped into the furrow he had been digging.
Huey realizing how shocked the poor bloke was went no further with his accusations but assured the man he felt more alive than Don, as he was called, looked at that moment sitting at his
feet in a muddy plot of soil panting and shaking.
Eventually he and Don worked out that the people in the council office had been notified of the death of a man bearing the same name as Huey and had of course mixed up which allotment
had become available. It took him a while to reclaim the missing tools and for a while reassure people who had heard of his ‘death’ that they weren’t seeing a ghost.

I suppose the worst mix-up I have experienced was the day after giving birth to our daughter when I was handed a baby to feed. I knew immediately it was not my baby and when I said to the nurse it wasn’t my child she stared at me for a time and without checking any further went to get the nurse in charge. This large, loud voiced;absolutely no nonsense ex-army nurse came and demanded why I wasn’t feeding the baby.
‘It isn’t my baby’, I answered plaintively.
‘Stop being so neurotic’, she ordered, ‘and feed that child.’
I sat mute for some time looking at the little ginger haired child. It wasn’t mine. My daughter I was sure, even though I had only a couple of glimpses of her before she was rushed
off to the nursery where all the newborns were placed behind glass screens they used during the 1960’s to allow the fathers to view them.
I examined the tiny fingers, I examined more….. no definitely not, this was not my little girl, this was a little boy!
The sound of a stiffly starched uniform hurrying along the hospital corridor caught my attention and the nurse re-entered the ward carrying a baby.
‘Here Cynthia this is your baby I’ll take that one.’
She snatched the small red headed Cuckoo she had almost forced onto me and placed my daughter in my arms.‘Get on with feeding her’, she demanded as she rushed off without an apology or any sort of acknowledgement of the mistake.

I read of this same thing happening in a Victorian hospital a couple of months ago and they were in big trouble. It was splashed all over the papers and the mother received counselling and no doubt monetary recompense.
I wonder if her doctor also offered to circumcise her baby girl as my forgetful one did. That would have cost them months of counselling and even more money.

Maybe that is what is at the back of all my problems. Not enough counselling during my life.

Aaaah it’s all in the name they say. Well, not always, I think the name can be a problem as well.

I envy you Del if you cherish a name no other shares, because I can assure you it can be a trial at times.


Cheers
Cynthia.