My scribe assists me

If you remember League of Gentlemen, you might remember the shopkeeper calling out to his wife to help in the shop. Margaret............with a very long pregnant pause, and she would answer.

I issue orders from the comfort of my desk chair. "Kosov". Quite a few tens of seconds passes until the reply comes from his bedroom. "Coming Andreeew". 

"Would you like to help me sort out my pens, Kosov?" "Yes, Andreeew."

We had some fun, and made two piles of pens, one to put in the bin and the other to keep. I had three fountain pens tied together by a rubber band. One was an ink carriage, the one my grandparents gave me no longer had the squeezable rubber bladder to fill it with ink, it had perished, and the last still had its bladder intact. I remember chucking out the ink bottle a few years ago, after finding the ink had dried up. 

It is still strange to keep so many pens as I only use the same pen whenever I have to write.

Which brings me to my scribe, now plural. The few Christmas cards I sent were written by Kosov, in beautiful handwriting. I admire my lads' Indian English education so much. 

Phyllis got into act for a great niece's birthday, and wrote a card for me with some significant flourishes. She turned nine, and probably liked them.

It will be safer if Kosov writes the birthday card to my 38 year old Fire Fighting Nephew, but no. He camped up the writing too.

I must get back control of how my scribes write.

Crayons and dried up markers, and pens that did not immediately write were discarded.

 

The kept pens. The fountain pens are at the bottom right. There are some propelling pencils among the stash, because before I die, I am sure I will need a propelling pencil. 

What is this pen marked Yarra Trams? I think it must have been a giveaway many years ago. I can't remember it at all.

What is this curious pull out piece on the side of the pen.

Well, this really dates the pen, to a year I cannot remember. I remember the brand name Metlink.

Not much to say

This will probably be like my non blogging posts, my thoughts and fingers will run away with me.

Saturday, I invited Phyllis and Kosov to the big green shed where I would buy some plaster screws, with the tempting offer a charity fund raising sausage in a roll, onions on the bottom, with the choice of tomato sauce, barbeque sauce or mustard. They failed to arise by 11.30 and I was hungry, so left without them. 

My trip was pointless, as I didn't really know what I was looking for and there weren't staff available to help me. I went on to Bay Street, Port Melbourne and bought a chicken and avocado sandwich with coffee at a bakery. I asked for half of the sandwich to be wrapped to take home, and it was. I took the car through a car wash, and then I was caught in a terrible traffic jam in Albert Road, thanks Australian Grand Pricks, with road closures. It took about 20 minutes to travel one kilometre. I was in a very bad mood by the time I was home. Phyllis apologised for not getting up earlier. 

Sunday morning former Tradie Brother, now Caring Profession Brother sent me photos of plaster screws. I was over complicating it. But then Phyllis and Kosov arose at a reasonable time and asked if I would like to visit Victoria Market. Yes! 

It was principally to buy fresh food. I made them stop while I had coffee but then Phyllis bought a shared meal for us. They only bought one bag with them, so Kosov had to carry a cauliflower around the market and on his lap on the way home. 

Phyllis lost his sense of direction but I had not and we walked back to the 58 tram stop, unfortunately via the jewellery and toy aisle. That took some time. 

Sunday evening I was apprehensive. My former gay workmate had suggested we catch up for a meal at the nearby France Soir. It had seemed so posh to me in my mind. While it was upmarket, it was fine and the staff, mostly French backpackers I would guess, were great. I asked for the wine list but it was overwhelming, so I asked for a house sauvignon blanc. Even so, I doubt it was a $10 glass of wine. The food was nice. My friend has a very healthy appetite and there was plenty of food to satisfy us. Another glass of wine, and then an espresso coffee, wound up the night nicely. My friend, ever so kindly, paid for our meal. I will return the kindness next time, where we will dine at McDonalds. The cost was somewhere between $200 and $250. The fellow diners were all interesting too, with quite a few gay men and the usual mix of inner Melbourne society. So my fear of being a common person in a posh restaurant was unfounded. 

Mondays I have to hang around at home to wait for my weekly meals on wheels food delivery, which arrives sometime between noon and 1. But earlyish, I crossed the road to sit and have a cup of coffee. 
In the afternoon wee shopping and a haircut done in Prahran, and Phyllis arrived home from work quite late, as he had stopped off to buy chick pea flour, and a model dragon for Kosov. The fish curry had been in preparation since yesterday, with Kosov doing some more cooking during the day. I was served the fish curry, with rice and a nice sauce, roasted cauliflower florets and spicy broccoli. My mentions of having greens seems to be getting through to them. At the age of 21, Phyllis is a terrific natural cook.

It didn't occur to me for a while, but both of them were born in the 21st century. They are millennials and digital natives.   

The middle of the month is when I catch up with my neighbour HH for brunch. I suggested to her that today, Tuesday, would she like to brunch at Acorn Nursery, as I need to buy a balcony plant at the nursery, and she replied with a yes, so it will be a motor car journey to the plant nursery along the most horrible and congested road you can imagine. I will put on my chill coat and not shoot fellow idiot motorists.

Phyllis is quite nice looking and impeccably groomed, but I've never taken a good photo of him. Kosov, with a bag over his shoulder full of fish, fruit and vegetables, dutifully carried the cauliflower home on the tram from the market. 

I live a privileged life compared to many, but at times it all feels so hollow and purposeless. 

Monday Mural

Along with Sami and others, here is my contribution to Monday Murals, taken at the seaside city, St Kilda. 

Sunday Selections

Random photos, mostly from mid 2024 for Sunday Selections, joining in with River and others. 

Our, my dishwasher is not flash but it works well enough. But wtf is Vario Speed? Of course I could check the owner's manual, but I've survived this long without knowing about Vario Speed. I wonder if I should see if I am missing out on something. 

The old dominated by the new. What fun it would be to see smoke coming out of the chimneys. 

Little Bourke Street, our Chinatown. It can be manic. 

I remember seeing these signs, in the middle of nowhere. The date was 30/04/24, five days after Ray died. I guess I felt the need to get out and distract myself. 

One of the many fire sites I've seen over the years. The latest was a ripper full on black and dark grey smoke, a factory in Cheltenham, as I recall. I can't remember this one, but it wasn't far away.

Aww, poor Kombi.

What to call it? A plaza at the end of Acland Street in St Kilda. It is not really a wonderfully designed place, but many the times Ray and I sat here as we ate a take away brunch and sipped our coffee. I still visit there at times. 

A bank up of trams. There was clearly a problem with the 58 service in Toorak Road.

Which of the greats created this work? I don't know, but it is a fun bit of work.

Was this once the entrance to a gay sauna/bath house, later an English school.

A bar has opened where the furniture shop of the late Franco Cozzo operated. I hope the sign has protection, along with the mural. 

I've never been an office worker and I had no idea how to handle multiple documents from different parties as I tried to sort Ray's affairs. Sister's wife, Bone Doctor, helped me for half an hour and the docs were sorted into a logical pile which looked like a plus sign.

 

I did do a big sort out of the filing cabinet, shredding so much paperwork. There is a bit more to do. If I kept every one of letters from Mother, the stack would stand about 1 metre tall, say 3.5 feet. They were very frank, with writing about family and I shredded all the older ones, but I still have her last few letters. I will proof read them for anything too frank, shred the offending ones but keep some. Ray would ask, did you receive a manuscript from you mother? I think her record was 11 pages in one letter.