Letter From The Other Side from Cynthia.
Written by Elizabeth. M. Thompson.
Dear Del,
Do you like scones? I know that is rather a strange question but our neighbour who spends a lot of his time propping up our front gate while enjoying ‘blokey’ talk with Teddy is a very good scone maker.
He will sometimes come across and give us half a dozen of his light fluffy creations and I swap them for a jar of my home made jam or pickle.
Now whether you call then scones with a short O or scones with a lengthened O they have been a great boon to many a harassed housewife over the years who has had the misfortune to be greeted by the wide smiles of unexpected guests on her front door step.
We all enjoy strolling around the shops or beachside antique places and stopping for a creamy Devonshire Tea. Well anyone of baby-boomer or an older age admits to liking all that lovely jam and cream. I think the younger generations do also but it just isn’t ‘cool’ to admit to liking what the ‘wrinklies’ like is it?
Scones have risen to political heights in this country.
Who will ever forget the homely country wife of a certain northern state premier who was renowned for her pumpkin scones? Her recipe circulated the nation and many were the times she was seen on television espousing the taste and nourishment they provided.
Marrying her was probably one of the few wise things that man ever did. He must have blessed her handing her pumpkin scones about during official meetings of his ever so slightly corrupt government. These delicacies were so good they obviously diverted the attention of many within the government and law enforcement agencies who failed to notice the number of small paper bags containing sweeteners which were also exchanging hands.
I am not a good scone maker. My mother always said they needed a light touch. I have a feeling my touch must be in the heavyweight division because they always end up suitable for shipping ballast or perhaps golf practice.
I did make one very good batch many years ago and was so thrilled with my fluffy and perky creations I even had the nerve to take them placed upon a pretty plate to the sort of meeting where we were all required to ‘bring a plate’.
I knew what was in them but when everyone said how light and tasty they were I didn’t share the information that the secret ingredient of their splendour was probably the result of my mistakenly including the milk mixture in the fridge which had been prepared to be given to the orphaned lambs we had in the paddock. It was approved veterinary powdered milk and no one suffered any problems that I became aware of during the next week.
As far as I can recall the worst batch I have ever been guilty of producing, was when William was about fifteen or sixteen.
He stood in the kitchen twitching his eyebrows about at the sight of the flour dusted river pebbles I appeared to have made and suggested they would make good targets for his air rifle.
So out we went and set them up along a fence.
Now William is a very competitive lad and he wanted to show his mum just how good he was with this rifle. His hand eye co-ordination is excellent and even at that young age he was a star bowler for the state ‘under sixteen’ cricket team and had the bragging privileges in the local club of being able to say he had bowled his English father out by breaking his big toe.
But his mum is a competitive lady and shot her first rabbits and foxes, (those awful English imports which have devastated the country in plagues) when she was twelve.
He shot two or three times without even dusting any of the flour from the surfaces. I took over and showed him how to do it by shattering one of them into shrapnel.
He couldn’t believe his old mum could beat him so he tried again causing not a flutter by the scones. My next shot stuck inside the doughy centre of one specimen.
We eventually agreed, I was a good shot and the scones were really dreadful.
Over the years, I have been given all sorts of tips and recipes but to no avail so I have not made any for quite some time. However, it occurred to me this morning, my skill may come in handy as we have some English visitors due this week and after the mauling their cricket team gave us in the Ashes, they will be full of glee, lots of quick repartee and ready to share it with us. I think I may make some scones. They are a guaranteed way to wipe the smiles from the happiest of faces pretty smartly as their jaws grow tired crunching away at the rocky textures.
The mixture may even exhilarate their digestions for a few days as has been known to happen in the past.
I can think of one or two people we know in England I’d be happy to post some to as well but the weight would make the postage prohibitive. Pity about that.
Your competitive ‘flower child friend’
Cynthia.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Friday, August 21, 2009
Letter From The Other Side by Cynthia.
Written by Elizabeth. M. Thompson.
Dear Del,
It was necessary for me to go to Melbourne this week. I haven’t driven a car in Melbourne for years. The last time I did, I became lost, turned right in front of a tram and went up a one way street. Monica who was with me said she would never, ever travel with me in the city again. I couldn’t really blame her.
It would be even worse after all this time as streets have changed and there are new roads and underpasses all over the place.
When I said I would take the train Teddy offered to come with me.
We have a new station near our home but unless you wait for hours or by some miracle your visit coincides with an office clerk, there is never anyone there to sell you a ticket. The office is only open when a train is due to arrive.
It was commissioned, launched, whatever they do to stations when they say we can use them, with the usual gaggle of local and state politicians cutting ribbons and smiling for the camera’s but it soon became obvious to everyone wanting to use it, that the Planning Department forgot to give the commuters enough parking spaces. At the time there was vacant land all around which could have been purchased but it is too late now, the land is covered in new homes.
We chose to go to the next station down the line which is not so far away and is always manned.
I have the reputation of always being too early for anything. The family, if they want me to arrive at 7.30 p.m. will usually tell me 8.p.m. They think I haven’t twigged to this ploy.
We parked our car about two blocks away knowing getting a park was Buckley’s to none, and walked. This brisk trudge around the streets and across a small park kept us warm for the first ten minutes of waiting for the train.
We were lucky, it arrived on time. Not something, as you would know Del our public transport is noted for, and when we entered I was pleased to see the seats and carriage were quite clean.
We were also lucky it was winter because, as you would also be aware of Del, the government when ordering these very expensive items purchased with our taxation money, ordered trains which were designed to function in European weather conditions. I felt sorry for the Melbourne suburban travellers during summer, who were so inconvenienced last year. When they needed the air conditioning because the temperature outside was anything between 30 and up to 48 degrees the air conditioners found it all too much and stopped working. This caused cancellations and passengers were left sweltering on platforms for hours or if they were already on board a train, it travelled very slowly along rail lines threatening to buckle in the heat.
The windows in these new trains won’t open of course the way the old un-air-conditioned trains used to and this results in people fainting from the heat or standing about in puddles of sweat.
The trip from Geelong to Melbourne takes about an hour and is probably the most boring train trip one can take in Victoria. The scenery is a flat wind swept coastal plain which farmers for decades denuded of trees. Much of it has been used for industrial buildings and the biggest crops of Scotch Thistle growing metres high you will see anywhere. Some paddocks have a few lonely horses looking vainly for shelter and trying to find some decent grass to nibble.
New suburbs with enticing names such as something-or-other lakes, or pleasant meadows, or sparkling something creek (which was until a decade ago the outlet for industrial waste) try to give the impression of glamour to the sandy windswept coast.
The advertising gloss must work because monstrous size houses are being built on the smallest sized blocks of land I have ever seen. The walls and windows are so close, you could hand a cup of tea or a glass of wine to your neighbour if the relationship is friendly enough, without leaving your home.
The desolate landscape is relieved a little by that small outcrop of rocks I sense were ironically named the ‘You Yang Mountains’, which because of the flat land can be seen from all directions.
The trip on this line is possibly the roughest trip you will ever take on a railway. I think in an effort to rid the traveller of his sense of boredom the trains are designed with square wheels. The carriages rock violently at times and threaten to leap from the tracks. No wonder most of the regular passengers were wired up with their ipods as they tried to mask the nervousness the violent movements cause. There were so many of these loud things around us I could hear three or four of the programmes. Teddy sat in blissful ignorance because he had turned his hearing aids off.
As we jogged along, I began to take more interest in my fellow travellers. They were a very mixed bunch. One large young woman who sat on the opposite side of the aisle was dressed in a flowing black outfit. Her makeup was pure Goth. Dark angry pencilled eyes, blood red lipstick on her mouth and pallid skin. She only needed her pointy hat and a broom stick in the carriage rack and her look would have been complete.
Another couple about our age sat in front of us. As they sank into their seats I knew we would be safe from moth and silverfish attack all the way to our destination because a distinct aroma of naphthalene hung like a cloud around them.
He possessed the most marvellous face.
I remembered many years ago writers often used the expression of a character ‘knitting his eyebrows together in anger.’ Well this gentleman had eyebrows you could have made a complete cable stitch from.
I marvelled his wife hadn’t attacked him with her pinking shears at some time, or if she was very good at her craft work, she could have encouraged the growth and entered the record books by first spinning the long shaggy hair and creating an entirely man made organic scarf.
I then noticed the electronic signs designed to tell us where we were stopping and the next station we were to enter etc. Someone with a mischievous humour had a great deal of fun setting them up because they were always wrong. Either they showed two stations ahead, or the one we had just left behind. During the entire trip, not once did the sign give the commuter the correct name of the station we were entering.
We at last arrived at Spencer Street station, which the powers in charge insist we now call Southern Cross station.
Whenever this state government can’t think of any reason to get into the news they consult the ‘Department For Changing Names’ which has a list of potential name changes for places and things. They particularly like to change railways stations and sporting arenas. I suspect as well as supplying more photo opportunities and ribbon cutting ceremonies, it is done to keep the travelling public on their toes, in particular the infrequent commuters.
A day trip to Melbourne to see the football means country folk arrive not knowing where they are or where they are going and immediately assume the bewildered and lost looks on their faces sophisticated suburban dwellers love to make jokes about.
Being a regional person, I stepped from the train and and was at once disoriented.
Cynthia in the bush, is fine, in the city or water, forget me I’m gone.
Teddy guided me to our destination.
On the return trip we outsmarted ourselves by taking a train to one of the suburban stations thinking we could pick up the Geelong train from there and save ourselves from a long walk across The Southern Cross station.
The ticket office man told us the Geelong train would arrive at platform six. We trudged along the ramp, across the overpass and down another steep ramp to the platform. No escalators here to save the walking.
We were in plenty of time, naturally.
Three minutes before the train was due, the announcement was made our train would be leaving from platform three.
We hurried up the steep exit ramp, across the overpass and down the steep ramp to platform three and arrived panting like a couple of old draught horses pulling the season’s hay load.
The train was already full. It was standing room only. Everyone must have boarded in the city.
We stood, hanging on grimly to any support which seemed strong enough as we lurched along.
Too keep our minds occupied we renamed the train on behalf of the Geelong population ‘The Rock and Roll Express’. We chose this name because we thought if you were brave enough to buy a coffee from the kiosk you would definitely spill it all over your clothes as you rocked and everyone stepped on your blue suede shoes as they rolled.
Tell me Del, do we have any railway engineers who know how to lay flat tracks in this state or have they just picked on Geelong because our football team usually beats the Melbourne ones?
Your all shook up ‘flower child’ friend,
Cynthia.
Written by Elizabeth. M. Thompson.
Dear Del,
It was necessary for me to go to Melbourne this week. I haven’t driven a car in Melbourne for years. The last time I did, I became lost, turned right in front of a tram and went up a one way street. Monica who was with me said she would never, ever travel with me in the city again. I couldn’t really blame her.
It would be even worse after all this time as streets have changed and there are new roads and underpasses all over the place.
When I said I would take the train Teddy offered to come with me.
We have a new station near our home but unless you wait for hours or by some miracle your visit coincides with an office clerk, there is never anyone there to sell you a ticket. The office is only open when a train is due to arrive.
It was commissioned, launched, whatever they do to stations when they say we can use them, with the usual gaggle of local and state politicians cutting ribbons and smiling for the camera’s but it soon became obvious to everyone wanting to use it, that the Planning Department forgot to give the commuters enough parking spaces. At the time there was vacant land all around which could have been purchased but it is too late now, the land is covered in new homes.
We chose to go to the next station down the line which is not so far away and is always manned.
I have the reputation of always being too early for anything. The family, if they want me to arrive at 7.30 p.m. will usually tell me 8.p.m. They think I haven’t twigged to this ploy.
We parked our car about two blocks away knowing getting a park was Buckley’s to none, and walked. This brisk trudge around the streets and across a small park kept us warm for the first ten minutes of waiting for the train.
We were lucky, it arrived on time. Not something, as you would know Del our public transport is noted for, and when we entered I was pleased to see the seats and carriage were quite clean.
We were also lucky it was winter because, as you would also be aware of Del, the government when ordering these very expensive items purchased with our taxation money, ordered trains which were designed to function in European weather conditions. I felt sorry for the Melbourne suburban travellers during summer, who were so inconvenienced last year. When they needed the air conditioning because the temperature outside was anything between 30 and up to 48 degrees the air conditioners found it all too much and stopped working. This caused cancellations and passengers were left sweltering on platforms for hours or if they were already on board a train, it travelled very slowly along rail lines threatening to buckle in the heat.
The windows in these new trains won’t open of course the way the old un-air-conditioned trains used to and this results in people fainting from the heat or standing about in puddles of sweat.
The trip from Geelong to Melbourne takes about an hour and is probably the most boring train trip one can take in Victoria. The scenery is a flat wind swept coastal plain which farmers for decades denuded of trees. Much of it has been used for industrial buildings and the biggest crops of Scotch Thistle growing metres high you will see anywhere. Some paddocks have a few lonely horses looking vainly for shelter and trying to find some decent grass to nibble.
New suburbs with enticing names such as something-or-other lakes, or pleasant meadows, or sparkling something creek (which was until a decade ago the outlet for industrial waste) try to give the impression of glamour to the sandy windswept coast.
The advertising gloss must work because monstrous size houses are being built on the smallest sized blocks of land I have ever seen. The walls and windows are so close, you could hand a cup of tea or a glass of wine to your neighbour if the relationship is friendly enough, without leaving your home.
The desolate landscape is relieved a little by that small outcrop of rocks I sense were ironically named the ‘You Yang Mountains’, which because of the flat land can be seen from all directions.
The trip on this line is possibly the roughest trip you will ever take on a railway. I think in an effort to rid the traveller of his sense of boredom the trains are designed with square wheels. The carriages rock violently at times and threaten to leap from the tracks. No wonder most of the regular passengers were wired up with their ipods as they tried to mask the nervousness the violent movements cause. There were so many of these loud things around us I could hear three or four of the programmes. Teddy sat in blissful ignorance because he had turned his hearing aids off.
As we jogged along, I began to take more interest in my fellow travellers. They were a very mixed bunch. One large young woman who sat on the opposite side of the aisle was dressed in a flowing black outfit. Her makeup was pure Goth. Dark angry pencilled eyes, blood red lipstick on her mouth and pallid skin. She only needed her pointy hat and a broom stick in the carriage rack and her look would have been complete.
Another couple about our age sat in front of us. As they sank into their seats I knew we would be safe from moth and silverfish attack all the way to our destination because a distinct aroma of naphthalene hung like a cloud around them.
He possessed the most marvellous face.
I remembered many years ago writers often used the expression of a character ‘knitting his eyebrows together in anger.’ Well this gentleman had eyebrows you could have made a complete cable stitch from.
I marvelled his wife hadn’t attacked him with her pinking shears at some time, or if she was very good at her craft work, she could have encouraged the growth and entered the record books by first spinning the long shaggy hair and creating an entirely man made organic scarf.
I then noticed the electronic signs designed to tell us where we were stopping and the next station we were to enter etc. Someone with a mischievous humour had a great deal of fun setting them up because they were always wrong. Either they showed two stations ahead, or the one we had just left behind. During the entire trip, not once did the sign give the commuter the correct name of the station we were entering.
We at last arrived at Spencer Street station, which the powers in charge insist we now call Southern Cross station.
Whenever this state government can’t think of any reason to get into the news they consult the ‘Department For Changing Names’ which has a list of potential name changes for places and things. They particularly like to change railways stations and sporting arenas. I suspect as well as supplying more photo opportunities and ribbon cutting ceremonies, it is done to keep the travelling public on their toes, in particular the infrequent commuters.
A day trip to Melbourne to see the football means country folk arrive not knowing where they are or where they are going and immediately assume the bewildered and lost looks on their faces sophisticated suburban dwellers love to make jokes about.
Being a regional person, I stepped from the train and and was at once disoriented.
Cynthia in the bush, is fine, in the city or water, forget me I’m gone.
Teddy guided me to our destination.
On the return trip we outsmarted ourselves by taking a train to one of the suburban stations thinking we could pick up the Geelong train from there and save ourselves from a long walk across The Southern Cross station.
The ticket office man told us the Geelong train would arrive at platform six. We trudged along the ramp, across the overpass and down another steep ramp to the platform. No escalators here to save the walking.
We were in plenty of time, naturally.
Three minutes before the train was due, the announcement was made our train would be leaving from platform three.
We hurried up the steep exit ramp, across the overpass and down the steep ramp to platform three and arrived panting like a couple of old draught horses pulling the season’s hay load.
The train was already full. It was standing room only. Everyone must have boarded in the city.
We stood, hanging on grimly to any support which seemed strong enough as we lurched along.
Too keep our minds occupied we renamed the train on behalf of the Geelong population ‘The Rock and Roll Express’. We chose this name because we thought if you were brave enough to buy a coffee from the kiosk you would definitely spill it all over your clothes as you rocked and everyone stepped on your blue suede shoes as they rolled.
Tell me Del, do we have any railway engineers who know how to lay flat tracks in this state or have they just picked on Geelong because our football team usually beats the Melbourne ones?
Your all shook up ‘flower child’ friend,
Cynthia.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Writing Groups.
Putting Cynthia and her stumbling progress through life aside for a moment, I want to ask you if you belong to a writing group?
Is it a group you make time to attend or is it a group you just pay membership dues to each year thinking you will take part, one day soon?
What do you hope to receive from this group and what do you intend to give in return?
Lots of questions we should ask ourselves each time we contact other writers.
Do you leave the meetings coming away feeling invigorated or flat?
Finding the right group is hard.
Each one contains strong personalities and even stronger egos which overtly and sometimes covertly drive them.
I have belonged to a few over the many years I've been writing and I have been saddened to see shy and diffident writers buckle under criticisms aimed at them and their writing by others.
Trying to find your own voice and genre can take many years and others forcing their opinions upon you will lengthen that time.
Most writers need mentors from time to time, but if you leave a meeting feeling intimidated by someone ...and there is often a show-off in the group who will be quick to voice his/her opinion down your throat if the convener of the meeting doesn't have enough control.... then take heart, you won't be alone.
I have a theory, which I think is becoming a neurosis, that the poets of some of the groups I belong to are taking over and trying to force the short story writers and freelance writers into feeling inferior.
Heaven help anyone who might wish to write romantic stories, humour, general freelance articles for magazines or any other genre that doesn't appeal to the high minded elitist market.
They are doomed to sit under a rock of disdain forever unless they find or form their own writing group.
If you are feeling a bit low thank your stars you live in a time of digital wonders because there are places, colleagues and friends out there everywhere, you just have to go searching. Some of my best mates are people I have only known because of my computer but that is the writer's life. It has always been an isolated one.
It is fine for people to be poets, but in Australia I defy anyone to make half a living let alone a good one by being a poet......unless you teach it of course. What is the old saying? If you can't do it teach it? That's probably a bit unfair but it does give them a position of advantage to get their work in front of many more people. They teach it therefore they know it all ?Not in my book.
For the young people wanting to make a decent living from writing many start at the local education centres where they take writing and editing courses, or maybe even take a journalism degree.. That's fine, but do they get taught about the business side of writing? Are they told about the hard nosed competitive and plain bitchy world they might encounter when they eventually get that job? I don't think they are.
At least in the bad old days when you were a cub reporter you learned from the start what was ahead of you.
It's a little like the nurses who learn all the theory and are then, when they enter a ward for the first time, are shocked by the smell of bed pans and the sight of the first 'wino' brought in on a stretcher covered in lice and they have to undress, wash and clean him up while he has a fit of the D.T's
O.K I'm getting wound up now, so I'll stop.
My advice is find the right group for you or go it alone with the help you can get from the Internet.
The only criticism you should listen to is when it comes from a writer you really respect. That is all that matters, ignore the rest.
Liz T.
(C)
Putting Cynthia and her stumbling progress through life aside for a moment, I want to ask you if you belong to a writing group?
Is it a group you make time to attend or is it a group you just pay membership dues to each year thinking you will take part, one day soon?
What do you hope to receive from this group and what do you intend to give in return?
Lots of questions we should ask ourselves each time we contact other writers.
Do you leave the meetings coming away feeling invigorated or flat?
Finding the right group is hard.
Each one contains strong personalities and even stronger egos which overtly and sometimes covertly drive them.
I have belonged to a few over the many years I've been writing and I have been saddened to see shy and diffident writers buckle under criticisms aimed at them and their writing by others.
Trying to find your own voice and genre can take many years and others forcing their opinions upon you will lengthen that time.
Most writers need mentors from time to time, but if you leave a meeting feeling intimidated by someone ...and there is often a show-off in the group who will be quick to voice his/her opinion down your throat if the convener of the meeting doesn't have enough control.... then take heart, you won't be alone.
I have a theory, which I think is becoming a neurosis, that the poets of some of the groups I belong to are taking over and trying to force the short story writers and freelance writers into feeling inferior.
Heaven help anyone who might wish to write romantic stories, humour, general freelance articles for magazines or any other genre that doesn't appeal to the high minded elitist market.
They are doomed to sit under a rock of disdain forever unless they find or form their own writing group.
If you are feeling a bit low thank your stars you live in a time of digital wonders because there are places, colleagues and friends out there everywhere, you just have to go searching. Some of my best mates are people I have only known because of my computer but that is the writer's life. It has always been an isolated one.
It is fine for people to be poets, but in Australia I defy anyone to make half a living let alone a good one by being a poet......unless you teach it of course. What is the old saying? If you can't do it teach it? That's probably a bit unfair but it does give them a position of advantage to get their work in front of many more people. They teach it therefore they know it all ?Not in my book.
For the young people wanting to make a decent living from writing many start at the local education centres where they take writing and editing courses, or maybe even take a journalism degree.. That's fine, but do they get taught about the business side of writing? Are they told about the hard nosed competitive and plain bitchy world they might encounter when they eventually get that job? I don't think they are.
At least in the bad old days when you were a cub reporter you learned from the start what was ahead of you.
It's a little like the nurses who learn all the theory and are then, when they enter a ward for the first time, are shocked by the smell of bed pans and the sight of the first 'wino' brought in on a stretcher covered in lice and they have to undress, wash and clean him up while he has a fit of the D.T's
O.K I'm getting wound up now, so I'll stop.
My advice is find the right group for you or go it alone with the help you can get from the Internet.
The only criticism you should listen to is when it comes from a writer you really respect. That is all that matters, ignore the rest.
Liz T.
(C)
Friday, August 7, 2009
LetterFrom The Other Side, by Cynthia.
Written by Elizabeth.M.Thompson
Dear Del,
When did the revolution begin? I must have been gardening or otherwise engaged when this upheaval began.
Teddy and I were forced to go to the centre of the city last week on some business. It is where the large department stores and shopping malls spread their web shaped traps to catch the unwary impulse buyer and the bored and wealthy shop-a-holics.
Even we were enticed to wander aimlessly around the brightly lit spaces sputtering in amazement at the height of shoe heels, the price of costume jewellery and the strength of the ears needed to carry pendulous earrings which could strangle an ardent lover or at least remove his nose as he snuggles into the neck of the wearer.
We succumbed to the smell of coffee and paid as much for a muffin as it would cost me to make three trays of them but it was pleasant to watch the variety of the people passing. I did wish the young girls who insist on wearing the high heeled shoes would learn to walk in them properly instead of maintaining a permanent forty-five degree angle leaning forward as if they are about to dive from a tower.
While Teddy wandered off to his appointment I filled in time looking at electrical goods which seemed to have been selected from my mother’s 1950’s kitchen. The designs were all there, the cake mixer with its difficult to clean parts, the tiny tiles we happily tore off our walls during the eighties because they were such dreadful things to keep clean, the heavy cast iron pans and pots that no modern day ‘health and safety officer’ would approve because of the weight and which will, unless looked after very carefully, rust just as badly as our old ones did when Mum was so pleased to buy her aluminium set. Of course now aluminium is frowned on and we use stainless steel. Why bring back cast iron??
The next section my feet, firmly encased in their support hose and sensibly comfortable shoes took me to was the ladies lingerie department.
It was as if I had walked into Grandma’s wardrobe only now it had a great deal more colour.
Thirty years ago we metaphorically (most of us anyway) burned our bras. We opted for comfort which I have to admit created rather a lot of bodily sag and expanse, but we were not going to be trussed up like chooks as the generations of women before us had been. It made no sense in our day or in our climate.
Well, there before me in technicoloured rows were the padded, pusher-uppers, the wire reinforced, the plunging strapless, the waist cinching rib compressing body suits obviously devised to allow the tight fitting dress to slip silkily over the derriere to smooth out the cellulite and the saddlebag thighs.
The fashionister’s and vanity have prevailed over common sense again and won the war. The heat of our coming summer will ensure the girls wearing these garments will drop amongst the wilted leaves on the sidewalks when the temperatures reach into the high thirties and forties.
Although the fabric used is light and stretchy, it is not made of cotton like granny’s, it won’t allow the skin to breath or perspire naturally. Thank goodness for deodorants. A month of hot weather and pints of sweat should rot most of them away. ..Ladies of course become a trifle overheated, I forgot myself for a moment…Anyone foolish enough to hang them on a washing line on a hot day will find they disintegrate very rapidly.
No matter, it is a great marketing ploy. It keeps industry turning over. Not ours of course but the Chinese manufacturers and international owners of the stores.
My granddaughters were gob smacked to know there used to be uniformed beach inspectors trying to catch those who were brazen and brave enough to pollute our shores by wearing bikinis. My friends would hide amongst the sand dunes until the inspectors walked by. Soon there were too many girls challenging the male authorities. Being males and vulnerable, they didn’t have a great deal of fight in them when confronted by a costume no bigger than a handkerchief and often arranged on the wearer very provocatively.
The girls won the right to wear as little or as much as they liked without condemnation…well there were a few wives demurely dressed in stout one piece bathing costumes that became fed up with their husbands watching ‘the ships’ with their binoculars.
Fashion turns, it always will, our economies would come to a halt if it didn’t, and the ‘neck-to-knee’ undergarments are back again. I’ll try to think positively and say perhaps it’s a good thing given the crime and dangerous situations women face on the streets and public transport. I just hope it doesn’t go so far back into the past to require the metal belt and padlock with the remote control on the husband or partner’s key ring.
I am too old to join in yet another revolution.
Your comfortable ‘flower child friend’
Cynthia.
Written by Elizabeth.M.Thompson
Dear Del,
When did the revolution begin? I must have been gardening or otherwise engaged when this upheaval began.
Teddy and I were forced to go to the centre of the city last week on some business. It is where the large department stores and shopping malls spread their web shaped traps to catch the unwary impulse buyer and the bored and wealthy shop-a-holics.
Even we were enticed to wander aimlessly around the brightly lit spaces sputtering in amazement at the height of shoe heels, the price of costume jewellery and the strength of the ears needed to carry pendulous earrings which could strangle an ardent lover or at least remove his nose as he snuggles into the neck of the wearer.
We succumbed to the smell of coffee and paid as much for a muffin as it would cost me to make three trays of them but it was pleasant to watch the variety of the people passing. I did wish the young girls who insist on wearing the high heeled shoes would learn to walk in them properly instead of maintaining a permanent forty-five degree angle leaning forward as if they are about to dive from a tower.
While Teddy wandered off to his appointment I filled in time looking at electrical goods which seemed to have been selected from my mother’s 1950’s kitchen. The designs were all there, the cake mixer with its difficult to clean parts, the tiny tiles we happily tore off our walls during the eighties because they were such dreadful things to keep clean, the heavy cast iron pans and pots that no modern day ‘health and safety officer’ would approve because of the weight and which will, unless looked after very carefully, rust just as badly as our old ones did when Mum was so pleased to buy her aluminium set. Of course now aluminium is frowned on and we use stainless steel. Why bring back cast iron??
The next section my feet, firmly encased in their support hose and sensibly comfortable shoes took me to was the ladies lingerie department.
It was as if I had walked into Grandma’s wardrobe only now it had a great deal more colour.
Thirty years ago we metaphorically (most of us anyway) burned our bras. We opted for comfort which I have to admit created rather a lot of bodily sag and expanse, but we were not going to be trussed up like chooks as the generations of women before us had been. It made no sense in our day or in our climate.
Well, there before me in technicoloured rows were the padded, pusher-uppers, the wire reinforced, the plunging strapless, the waist cinching rib compressing body suits obviously devised to allow the tight fitting dress to slip silkily over the derriere to smooth out the cellulite and the saddlebag thighs.
The fashionister’s and vanity have prevailed over common sense again and won the war. The heat of our coming summer will ensure the girls wearing these garments will drop amongst the wilted leaves on the sidewalks when the temperatures reach into the high thirties and forties.
Although the fabric used is light and stretchy, it is not made of cotton like granny’s, it won’t allow the skin to breath or perspire naturally. Thank goodness for deodorants. A month of hot weather and pints of sweat should rot most of them away. ..Ladies of course become a trifle overheated, I forgot myself for a moment…Anyone foolish enough to hang them on a washing line on a hot day will find they disintegrate very rapidly.
No matter, it is a great marketing ploy. It keeps industry turning over. Not ours of course but the Chinese manufacturers and international owners of the stores.
My granddaughters were gob smacked to know there used to be uniformed beach inspectors trying to catch those who were brazen and brave enough to pollute our shores by wearing bikinis. My friends would hide amongst the sand dunes until the inspectors walked by. Soon there were too many girls challenging the male authorities. Being males and vulnerable, they didn’t have a great deal of fight in them when confronted by a costume no bigger than a handkerchief and often arranged on the wearer very provocatively.
The girls won the right to wear as little or as much as they liked without condemnation…well there were a few wives demurely dressed in stout one piece bathing costumes that became fed up with their husbands watching ‘the ships’ with their binoculars.
Fashion turns, it always will, our economies would come to a halt if it didn’t, and the ‘neck-to-knee’ undergarments are back again. I’ll try to think positively and say perhaps it’s a good thing given the crime and dangerous situations women face on the streets and public transport. I just hope it doesn’t go so far back into the past to require the metal belt and padlock with the remote control on the husband or partner’s key ring.
I am too old to join in yet another revolution.
Your comfortable ‘flower child friend’
Cynthia.
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Letter From The Other Side. by Cynthia.
Written by Elizabeth. M. Thompson.
Dear Del,
This week we thought it was time we took Aunt Alice and Uncle Rodger out.
During the past few cold weeks they had spent far too much time slow roasting themselves in their small rooms. Many people in the community have the flu so we thought a good dose of fresh air was needed to put come colour in their faces.
They have been engrossed in the football of course and the inevitable football pools. Also, the daily news of dreadful cricket scores announced by optimistic British sports reporters sensing a coming miracle during summer as English cricket rises from the ashes of decades of obscurity, have not helped Uncle Rodger’s outlook these past few weeks.
We decided a brisk walk through the local Botanic gardens was suitable as the two old people enjoy the open space and love the large trees.
The day we went was clear and the gale from Antarctica was moderately bearable.
As you know it would have swept little Aunt Alice away and over the hills last week.
With the exception of their pink noses, they had barely an inch of skin showing from beneath the knitted hats and yards of scarves knotted around their necks.
Uncle Rodger wore a thick tweed jacket and Aunt Alice was a vision in mauve mohair.
I wore a boucle jacket William says makes me look as if I have developed a bad case of mould. Teddy rugged himself into his trusty ‘Driza-bone’ coat.
As we drove to the gardens with Uncle Rodger as usual supplying unhelpful directions to Teddy, he complained there weren’t any roses for him to pick from the village gardens at present.
Ever since they took up residence at the retirement village he seems to have formed the idea the rose gardens were for his personal use. He takes his secateurs out to them once or twice a week to pick bunches of flowers to give to Aunt Alice and various other lady friends. It never seems to occur to him that the gardens were planted for the enjoyment of the dozens of other residents and not just for his personal pleasure and those of his friends.
We walked slowly along the pathways because Uncle Rodger needed his walking frame and Aunt Alice used her precious stick purchased in Scotland decades ago.
She admired various plants, remembered having them in her garden and wished she still had a few. Especially the lovely red and purple perennial sages the honey eaters were hanging upside down in as they enjoyed the nectar. The lorikeets flitted about in some of the wattles and a couple of black cockatoos kept up a constant conversation in a Bunya pine. The kookaburras were very noisy and Aunt Alice said it meant there would be more rain. They may be right. They probably know as much about it as the weather forecasters who that seem to just throw darts at the map some weeks.
Uncle Rodger spied some late and rather tattered roses still clinging to the shrubs and before we could prevent him, he whipped out his secateurs he must have had secreted in his pocket and cut the few stoic blooms which had survived the recent gales but now succumbed to his cutters. Carefully he placed them in the basket of his walking frame.
Teddy and I looked around to see another couple had witnessed Uncle Rodger’s actions and were glaring at us. Fortunately there were no gardeners were about to see what he had done.
After a little while, we entered the small tea rooms which shelter beneath a giant Morton Bay Fig tree. The ladies who make the delicious cakes and snacks are all volunteers and as I have been there many times with the garden group I belong to, I knew they would turn a blind eye to Uncle Rodger’s misdeeds.
The tea was fragrant and very warming and the old people each ate two scones with lashings of jam and cream on them. It took me a little while to make Aunty Alice aware she was sporting a thick white moustache of cream.
I felt with the one small exception, the morning had gone very well.
Just as we were leaving the kiosk one of the gardeners came in to order his lunch and spied Uncle Rodger’s bouquet gradually wilting in the warmth of the indoor heating.
He came over and quietly said, ‘You know Sir it isn’t allowed for visitors to pick the flowers here, they are for everyone to enjoy.’
Uncle Rodger was a little taken aback at being admonished but argued no one would miss a few roses.
The young man caught my eye and smiled ‘No perhaps not.’ He nodded.
Aunt Alice of course had been listening. ‘He should really know better shouldn’t he?’ She dimpled up at the young gardener and her little eyes flashed behind the thick glass of her spectacles. She opened her coat. ‘You should really only take cuttings like I have which just trim the bushes a little and no one can see where they came from, shouldn’t you?’ She smiled innocently at us all again as she produced a bunch of the unmistakable red Pineapple Sage and various other small pickings from unspecified plants.
The young man, who had tried to be so kind and understanding, was lost for words.
The ladies behind their cake display, smiled.
Teddy and I left a large tip in the tin on the counter for the ‘The Friends Of The Gardens Fund’ and took the old people home.As usual, the Kookaburra's laughed as we left. Their timing impeccable as always.
I think we have all been in similar predicaments haven’t we Del?
Your blooming ‘Flower child friend’
Cynthia
Written by Elizabeth. M. Thompson.
Dear Del,
This week we thought it was time we took Aunt Alice and Uncle Rodger out.
During the past few cold weeks they had spent far too much time slow roasting themselves in their small rooms. Many people in the community have the flu so we thought a good dose of fresh air was needed to put come colour in their faces.
They have been engrossed in the football of course and the inevitable football pools. Also, the daily news of dreadful cricket scores announced by optimistic British sports reporters sensing a coming miracle during summer as English cricket rises from the ashes of decades of obscurity, have not helped Uncle Rodger’s outlook these past few weeks.
We decided a brisk walk through the local Botanic gardens was suitable as the two old people enjoy the open space and love the large trees.
The day we went was clear and the gale from Antarctica was moderately bearable.
As you know it would have swept little Aunt Alice away and over the hills last week.
With the exception of their pink noses, they had barely an inch of skin showing from beneath the knitted hats and yards of scarves knotted around their necks.
Uncle Rodger wore a thick tweed jacket and Aunt Alice was a vision in mauve mohair.
I wore a boucle jacket William says makes me look as if I have developed a bad case of mould. Teddy rugged himself into his trusty ‘Driza-bone’ coat.
As we drove to the gardens with Uncle Rodger as usual supplying unhelpful directions to Teddy, he complained there weren’t any roses for him to pick from the village gardens at present.
Ever since they took up residence at the retirement village he seems to have formed the idea the rose gardens were for his personal use. He takes his secateurs out to them once or twice a week to pick bunches of flowers to give to Aunt Alice and various other lady friends. It never seems to occur to him that the gardens were planted for the enjoyment of the dozens of other residents and not just for his personal pleasure and those of his friends.
We walked slowly along the pathways because Uncle Rodger needed his walking frame and Aunt Alice used her precious stick purchased in Scotland decades ago.
She admired various plants, remembered having them in her garden and wished she still had a few. Especially the lovely red and purple perennial sages the honey eaters were hanging upside down in as they enjoyed the nectar. The lorikeets flitted about in some of the wattles and a couple of black cockatoos kept up a constant conversation in a Bunya pine. The kookaburras were very noisy and Aunt Alice said it meant there would be more rain. They may be right. They probably know as much about it as the weather forecasters who that seem to just throw darts at the map some weeks.
Uncle Rodger spied some late and rather tattered roses still clinging to the shrubs and before we could prevent him, he whipped out his secateurs he must have had secreted in his pocket and cut the few stoic blooms which had survived the recent gales but now succumbed to his cutters. Carefully he placed them in the basket of his walking frame.
Teddy and I looked around to see another couple had witnessed Uncle Rodger’s actions and were glaring at us. Fortunately there were no gardeners were about to see what he had done.
After a little while, we entered the small tea rooms which shelter beneath a giant Morton Bay Fig tree. The ladies who make the delicious cakes and snacks are all volunteers and as I have been there many times with the garden group I belong to, I knew they would turn a blind eye to Uncle Rodger’s misdeeds.
The tea was fragrant and very warming and the old people each ate two scones with lashings of jam and cream on them. It took me a little while to make Aunty Alice aware she was sporting a thick white moustache of cream.
I felt with the one small exception, the morning had gone very well.
Just as we were leaving the kiosk one of the gardeners came in to order his lunch and spied Uncle Rodger’s bouquet gradually wilting in the warmth of the indoor heating.
He came over and quietly said, ‘You know Sir it isn’t allowed for visitors to pick the flowers here, they are for everyone to enjoy.’
Uncle Rodger was a little taken aback at being admonished but argued no one would miss a few roses.
The young man caught my eye and smiled ‘No perhaps not.’ He nodded.
Aunt Alice of course had been listening. ‘He should really know better shouldn’t he?’ She dimpled up at the young gardener and her little eyes flashed behind the thick glass of her spectacles. She opened her coat. ‘You should really only take cuttings like I have which just trim the bushes a little and no one can see where they came from, shouldn’t you?’ She smiled innocently at us all again as she produced a bunch of the unmistakable red Pineapple Sage and various other small pickings from unspecified plants.
The young man, who had tried to be so kind and understanding, was lost for words.
The ladies behind their cake display, smiled.
Teddy and I left a large tip in the tin on the counter for the ‘The Friends Of The Gardens Fund’ and took the old people home.As usual, the Kookaburra's laughed as we left. Their timing impeccable as always.
I think we have all been in similar predicaments haven’t we Del?
Your blooming ‘Flower child friend’
Cynthia
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