It is Friday night, once a going out night, later becoming a stay at home night, and to use a great American expression after a glass or two of Scotch, Ray and I would 'shoot the shit'. Sometimes a significant plan for the future came out of such a conversation but mostly not.

I am excited about tomorrow's Australian Rules football grand final match, because the pre game entertainment will be performed by our own Kylie Minogue and I'll be glued to the tv to see her. Say a bad word against her, you will be sent to a prison at Port Arthur. My favourite Kylie song....not sure. My favourite video clip, this one. She is enough to make a gay man straight.

West Timor

I have my reasons for checking out West Timor as a friend is there doing good works, that is volunteering. 

In the 1980s I was an activist for independence for East Timor. I lobbied, I wrote letters and attended protest meetings. Members of the Indonesian Army who controlled the island killed five Australian journalists in cold blood, as they were reporting on the battle for an independent East Timor. The five journalists became known as the Balibo Five. The Indonesian army was ruthless and lawless.

I kind of of have a personal connection to Shirley, the widow of one of the murdered journalists Greg Shackleton, who was helped in her older years by Ray in his volunteer role. She was a great activist to bring the murdering members of the army to justice, and as a advocate for an independent East Timor. 

I don't know why the island was divided. Under Portuguese rule then later Dutch rule, the island was Catholic in East Timor and Protestant in the West Timor. Indonesian independence in 1949 saw the central Indonesian government take control of the whole island, but those in the east weren't having a bit of this and fought for its independence. Many died in the battle and at one point Australian troops and others were there as a peace keeping force.

In 1991 we were living in our house in Glen Iris and with Ray at the wheel after a night out clubbing with friends, we had nearly reached home and I turned on the car radio for perhaps the 1am news, and I learnt that Indonesian troops had massacred at least 250 mostly young people at the East Timor Santa Cruz cemetery.

The massacre was witnessed by two American journalists and filmed by another from Yorkshire, England. The film was cunningly smuggled out from Indonesia to Australia and free for the world to see, and it was shocking.

It took until 2002 for East Timor to become an independent county, and later claim a share of the oil revenue from the Timor Sea.

Shirley Shackleton, widow of Greg, died in 2023 at the age of 91, and with a tribute from the President of East Timor.

After news of death came at the weekend, Timor Leste's President Jose Ramos Horta posted: "God bye Shirley. Thank you forever. Forever we will remember you. Your soul rests with us in Mt Ramelau". If you are interested, you can read this newspaper OB. 

So now East Timor, Timor Leste is an independent country, and Shirley was awarded The Medal of the Order of Timor-Leste. While she has won plaudits for her writing etc in Australia, oddly she hasn't received a government honour, such as a Medal of the Order of Australia, OAM. The Australian government covered up details of the deaths of the Bilabo Five, and still does so.

Err, this was supposed to be about West Timor, but I became side tracked with memories.

West Timor is marked as Indonesia, which of course it is. There is an odd little bit of isolated East Timor displayed on the map, and I have no idea what that is so. I will investigate when I do write about West Timor. 

Here is the location in relation to northern Australia, quite close.

Repost from 2017 (I forgot about this even after this post)

 

I know nothing

When you have been with your partner for 38 years, you would think there wasn't too much you didn't know about them.

We were watching the English tv show Vera last night. The show is set in and around Newcastle in the north of England, where R hailed from. The scene was set in a pub.

R: I worked in that hotel. It was at the base of the High Level Bridge.

Me: Fascinating dearest. You've worked in so many places, it is a wonder you can remember.

R: Yes, my brother in law to be and me both worked there as we were saving to go to Butlins (a holiday camp of the most ghastly variety, but this is with hindsight) and of course that was where I met Cat Stevens. The hotel has changed........

Me: Stop! Now! What did you just say?

R: About meeting Cat Stevens?

Me: Yes, you've never told me that before?

R: Thought I had. Cat Stevens was Irish (I didn't know that) The pub was owned by an Irishman and he was a friend of Cat and he came to visit him once at the hotel and we were introduced.

Me: How come you have never told me this?

R: I thought I had. He was only semi famous then.

I used to find Cat Stevens so sexy before he became a weird religious Moslem nutter who agreed with murder of those critical of the prophet Mohammed. I am quite perplexed as to why I did not know R had met Cat Stevens.

Life snapshot

Wednesday shopping. Phyllis drove. He is competent at driving, quite good really, but I still had my foot on the passenger side imaginary brake pedal at times.

After shopping, Kosov drove with his learner plates displayed. Kosov did drive a car in India, and has an Indian driving license, 'bought' by his parents. 

He was a left foot braker in India, which really isn't the right way to drive. I don't think our driving test people would accept that now, although I know it still happens with local drivers born overseas. It can be easy to tell as they ride the brake with their left foot as they drive and their rear brake lights are lit. I am seeing this less than it used to be. 

Kosov's driving has steadily improved. He is far from competent yet, but doing much better. I had prepared myself to compliment him, and so build his confidence.

I don't fully understand what happened, but when it came to turning into our carpark entrance, he went past where he was meant to turn and then went up onto the footpath. I yelled 'stop', and he did. I told him to get out and I would reverse the car back onto the lane and drive to our building's garage. 

I now know he confused his left and right feet, and was braking with his left foot and accelerating with his right foot. Before he should have turned, he was already getting the turn wrong. There was chatter about when to press the button to open the carpark gate. Maybe that distracted him. Look, his speed was only about 10 km/h but had someone been standing on the footpath...

More driving Thursday, and it was clear the experience yesterday had rattled him, as he drove less confidently. While at about 20 km/h, I warned he and Phyllis that I was about to test the electric handbrake It worked well enough, and I can stop the car with my intervention. He did make a serious mistake today, but without consequences, and nothing like yesterday's. I do feel preparing him for a driving test is going to be a long haul.

Naturally he was mortified, and kept apologising. Phyllis kindly said nothing at the time. What my mind was occupied with was what happened and how to ensure it didn't happen again. 

Not too much has happened this week. Ex Sis in Law and her husband flew off to Bali this morning, and had to leave home at 3am. 

This afternoon my Indonesian neighbour invited me out for coffee, he being the father of his daughter who has twice locked herself out their apartment, and called on me for help. 

He grew up in poverty in Indonesian Borneo, with an abusive father and an uncaring mother. Somehow through sheer will and being smart, and some luck, he ended up being a being a highly desirable employee, working in the tech area of public transport and other areas and became a rich person in Australia. In the last few years he spent time working in Indonesia. He is very handsome, for a fifty one year old. There came an opportunity to ask him if he had Chinese heritage. Indonesia has a population of Chinese heritage people but mostly a native Moslem population. His heritage is Chinese. Sorry if this offends you. It is the way my mind works, and I established that he is not circumcised. Wouldn't mind seeing it.

He has a house too, in an expensive outer eastern Melbourne goes up for auction today. I need to do some searching. Maybe it's a middle suburb now. What were outer suburbs seem to have become inner suburbs.

Whatever nonsense I've written, it was a nice catch up with my neighbour. He was kind to me when Ray died.

Modi Matters

India's Prime Minister Modi is visiting Australia to a hero style welcome by the Indian diaspora. He is only visiting Melbourne, probably because 40% of the Australian said Indian diaspora live in Greater Melbourne. 

Modi is a man of the people, especially if you are Hindu. He is not so popular with Sikhs, Moslems and southern Indians, the latter as I am informed by Phyllis and Kosov. India has the largest population in the world, so it is kind of important. 

I don't really follow Indian politics but I've picked up that Modi is a rather autocratic leader who has pushed through some great things for India. India now stands on the world stage, and I think that has been Modi's doing, partly by modernising the country, fixing some issues, but not poverty. And also making world alliances, as he is doing here in Australia. It seems his general popularity will ensure his party will continue to be elected to government until he retires, or is assassinated, as a number before have been. 

My workplace in my young years had many Anglo Indian staff. As time went on, there were more Indian Indian employees. I developed a friendship with a gay Anglo Indian who was educated in one of the best schools in Calcutta and spoke with a very posh English accent in a nice baritone voice. 

We were friends for some twenty five years before he had a mental breakdown (AIDS related I think), cut himself off from all his friends and acquaintances and moved to the country. Ray and I at the time felt it was a very hard rejection but in time we came to understand his mental health issues. 

Through him over those years and even after his breakdown, we became part of Melbourne's gay Indian community and also that of Chinese type Asians, and the good and bad of it all. We got to know many people, some of who I still know.

So Ray and I did know quite a number of Asian and Indian gay guys. On a whim I just thought, I wonder what an ad on GayShare might bring up? A quiet and studious Asian guy student or a young and out there white gay guy? An older white guy? My thought was to offer cheap accommodation to a gay overseas student. 

The guys I could see online were prepared to pay quite high prices. I felt financially insecure at the time, wondering if I could afford to continue to live here without Ray's contribution to half of the costs. 

Within a few hours Phyllis answered the ad and I arranged for him to visit. Renovations were soon to start, so he could not move in immediately, but before works were finished, he was desperate and had paid a substantial deposit. Then his 'straight' friend moved in too, who absolutely adored Phyllis, so not so straight. I think in less than five years, they will marry. 

Indians seem to be my destiny, or at least around for most of my adult life. Little did I know how our lives would become entwined. This is a photo Phyllis may have used on GayShare. I am not sure now. I found it somewhere. 

Musing about life and death

Twenty seven months after Ray died, how do I feel and how is my grief level?

I still  think of Ray every day. We fell into a vey comfortable relationship in our older years, unlike our passionate and adventurous younger years. We did our own things, and joint things. He cooked meals, I washed clothes. Each of us would do our own thing at home, Ray watching tv and playing on his tablet, while I composed brilliant blog posts. You might say the perfect older couple, a well oiled machine. We knew our roles and what to expect from each other.

Along with buying a new car, our apartment which became my apartment is somewhat different inside, with many things updated, and more to do. I didn't try to erase memories at home, but it seems I have done so quite a bit.

After being together for forty five years, Ray's sudden death was a terrible shock, not just to me, but to everyone who knew him and loved him.

For some time after he died, I wondered if I was grieving in the correct way. Is there a correct way? There were plenty of teary moments in the first few months, and one could not foresee what would trigger them.

Ray died in April, at the time of the year where I had just changed to wearing winter long sleeved shirts. I decided after washing my shirts, I would not iron them, but just hang them carefully on hangers to dry. Ray used to iron my shirts. I became used to unironed shirts.

Come the warmer months, it was time to change to short sleeved summer shirts. Phyllis wasn't home. "Kosov, come and look". I proudly displayed my row of summer shirts to Kosov, ironed by Ray a week before he died, and then burst into a sobbing mess on Kosov's shoulder. What an interesting but unwanted experience for a young man. I apologised the next day, and the reply was, "No problem Onnndrew".

There has only been one moment since when I almost became teary, but I am living a new life, on my own now. I have full control over my life, more confidence because I'm doing on my what both of us used to do, and doing it well enough. Decisions I have made on my own have been good. 

There are so many things I want to tell Ray, but he has gone, and I guess I have adjusted to my life without him. 

Ray's sister is a nice looking woman, with medium length straight 'blonde' hair, slim and a stylish dresser in that northern English way. Her doctor has never prescribed her medication aside from an asthma inhaler. She smokes and drinks a lot, really a lot, and I've just realised she is about to turn 75. A month after Ray's 75th birthday he died.

Who of my current readers met Ray? Obviously occasional blog commenter, our friend Bunyip who we've known for decades, and of course the lovely Fun60 in London, who we met with three times.

As is said, time is a healer.  

Catch Up

My neighbour HH's foot is healing much slower than she expected. She never asks until I offer, which I do almost daily, if she wants anything at the shops, as she can't drive and can't really walk, only hobble around. Last Thursday she asked for a loaf of Abbott's wholemeal bread when I went out shopping.

Yesterday she asked if I could get her a prescription medication, plus painkillers. 

Late that afternoon Phyllis cooked her a meal of spicy air fried chicken, a dressed salad and a fried egg, and served it to her hot at her dining table. She said it was the first proper sit down meal she'd had for two weeks.

Gratuitous photo of Jass as she waited for an answer to her question, did we think she is pretty.

Andrew, said Sister's wife, while I know you don't wear tee shirts, I couldn't resist buying this for you. Bone Doctor was right about me wearing tee shirts but I do like this one featuring different Melbourne tram models. Kosov wears it well. I've told him he must hand wash it.

Saturday morning I met up with my Sydney friend Victor for brunch before he went to see a local performance. He was only in Melbourne for the day, and jetted home later that day. 

Once home, we three went off to the big green shed to buy cat grass, grass for cats to eat. It was absurdly expensive for a tray of a bit of grass, but we bought a tray. So far, Jass has shown interest but not eaten any.  

Saturday night we three met up with a couple of my friends, the Fijian Indian heritage guy and his Hong Kong born partner at a Pakistani restaurant in St Kilda. It was very popular with South Asian community and locals. It was quite good, and I wanted to take the very handsome waiter home with me. Noooo, Ondrrrrewww. You cannot, I was told. This catch up was to celebrate Phyllis' 23rd birthday. 

Come the day, Sunday, gifts were unwrapped, one wrapped by about 20 metres of cling wrap, and gifts spread all over the place.

I had said ok to visitors Sunday afternoon to help Phyllis celebrate his birthday. I think five people came. I left them alone, taking with me half a meals on wheels sandwich, a strange Asian small cake and a couple of chocolates. At Albert Park Beach I sat on the bench where Ray and I so often sat during Covid lockdown and consumed my food with a takeaway coffee.

Sitting on my own on a bench, eating and and drinking my coffee as I stared out to sea and a stormy sky, just as old people do.

I went on to Port Melbourne shops to buy something, then to the Mazda car dealer to look at a a new car, but it was closed. I did walk around looking at cars. I found my way to Westgate Park to look at the salt water lake and lean back my car seat to untenion my body. 

I returned home while the afternoon party was in full swing with all guests sitting at the dining table consuming a feast. I went to my bedroom to play on my tablet while fun went on until I was called out for the birthday cake. Last year Phyllis bought Kosov a sword online. So much for our strict weapons laws. 

The cake was cut with the sword, but later divided by a proper knife, and at my suggestion, served by a cake slide, on side plates, with a dessert forks and serviettes.  

2nd anniversary

As posted on FaceBook.

It is hard to believe it is two years since our Ray died. I did admire his adventurous spirit, from having elephants walk over him, to kite flying behind a boat strapped to a Thai man, to zip lining in Canada and South Africa, and riding an ostrich in the latter country.

Everyone misses you Ray. Here he is holding an ostrich chick. He loved our South African holiday so much.

The English visitors

They were a delightful couple to keep company with. We visited Sister's on the Bellarine for a barbeque lunch. We dined together at Gentleman George across the road, at Gourmet Curry Hut and at Rosco's at the old Chevron Hotel. 

They visited the Grand Prix on three days of the event. They wandered the city and St Kilda. They caught trains, trams and walked. without help from me aside from giving them a Myki card each with one day's public transport credit. We visited the Dandenong Ranges on the Labour Day public holiday, firstly visiting Mount Dandenong, having some tucker then driving on to Grant's Picnic Ground, where we could surreptitiously and illegally feed some birds with seed, but  we could not find a parking space. The best laid plans...

I had a thought, and we journeyed on to Belgrave. Ray's nephew is an excellent driver, and he did all the driving while he was here. We arrived at Belgrave and for the life of me, we could not find parking at the Puffing Billy Railway Station. Later I think I worked out that you use the suburban train car park, I think. We eventually squeezed the car into a space and illegally walked across the railway line. 

There was a train full of people and ready to depart but it didn't have an engine. But we had seen an engine being loaded with coal.

View of Melbourne from Mount Dandenong. Exciting, not.

There is more than one dangerous tree, so an apostrophe must be inserted.

Mustang!

The train reverses in to collect its cars full of passengers.

Ready to depart.

I thought it was quite a feat of the platform staff to walk upside down on the platform.

Puffing Billy sets off, full of happy and waving people. I was waving to them too.

They departed Melbourne to journey on to Bali for a few days, and then via Dubai, they were home and ready for work on the Monday. Don't ask me how they went via Dubai. I have no idea. 

Remembering Agnes

Agnes emigrated to Australia from Scotland in the 1970s. She was single but she had been in a relationship with someone called Bob. She knocked several years off her age and obtained work as a chambermaid at the Windsor Hotel, yes a posh Melbourne hotel and it still is. 

Mid 1970s she joined the tramways as a conductor at South Melbourne tram depot where she and Ray met and they became life long friends.

She spoke with what I now know as a posh Scottish accent, and it was magical to hear her speak. 

She lived in a rented flat in a block called Cremorne Court on the extremely busy Punt Road, Richmond.

She and Ray eventually became assistant conductors, boarding busy trams to assist with collecting fares, but they managed to sneak time off for coffee and shopping, never being discovered missing by their supervisors Misters Jekyll and Hyde, as they called them. In the afternoon they would be stationed in Russell Street to sell tickets to the queues waiting to board tramway buses towards Doncaster and Templestowe.  They carried a machine that dispensed tickets with the wind of a handle. This meant the buses could quickly load as the driver did not have to take fares, and the bus would be smartly away. Rinse and repeat for the a couple of hours.

She retired at government pension age, then perhaps 63 for women and at the urging of the union, received compensation for her chest and breathing issues caused by inhaling diesel fumes from the the buses, never mind that she smoked forty cigarettes a day. Along with the then retirement gratuity scheme, she had enough money to buy a modest flat in Murrumbeena. 

We helped Agnes move, and she was a hoarder and a voracious reader. There were even books stacked in her toilet. We got rid of so much of her hoardings, but I can't remember how. 

She was very happy in her Murrumbeena flat, and unless someone invited her out, she was content at home with her cigarettes and books. She did stop hoarding once she moved. She had less opportunity to do so where she now lived as there weren't all the Richmond shops nearby. 

At our home in Prosper Parade, Glen Iris, we were hosting a family barbeque, with us all sitting out on the timber decking under the shade of the massive jacaranda tree, growing in our neighbour's back yard.

We had to come together to celebrate my birthday. Simultaneously, the fat in the barbeque caught fire with flames a metre high and the telephone rang. Ray answered the phone while I and my step father dealt with the fire. 

The phone call was from a neighbour of Agnes, who remarked that he hadn't seen her around for a couple of days and she wasn't answering her phone. Ray called the police, who forced an entry and Agnes was found dead in a lounge chair with a book on her knee. 

Ray had met Agnes' sister, who lived on Bribie Island off the Queensland coast.  The sister immediately cranked up when informed and said, Agnes has a will and her money and property are left to me. I know Agnes had a sister still in Scotland, so I am not sure why she wasn't due something. But isn't that just so sad that it was the first thing the sister said, and she was very aggressive towards Ray, as if he was going to steal from Agnes.

I think that would have been about 1991.

Along with her friend, Pat O'Haire, who lived in a lovely flat overlooking Hedgeley Dene Gardens in Malvern, Ray and I scattered Agnes' ashes in the rose garden at Springvale Crematorium. Pat was a very funny woman and there was much hilarity as Agnes' ashes were thrown into the wind, rather than downwind.

So here's to Agnes, and wouldn't you like someone to compose almost an OB about 35 years after you died. I found all these when sorting through Ray's stuff after he died. 

With George Harvey, a Mormon and not gay as the church would have disapproved, but he was as camp as a edit: row of tents.  

On my own

I expect no sympathy from people who have lived on their own for a long time. But, you know, it is a bit hard when you've been with someone for forty five years and suddenly they have gone. 

There are the very practical things, like feeding yourself, cleaning your home on your own, shopping on your own, and spoilt as I was, having your ironing done for you. Lunching on your own is different. It all takes so much time and visiting places you used to visit together can make you feel very alone. 

I know many of you will at some point lose your beloved life partner. You don't know when. It could be instantaneously, as it was for me, or it could be long and lingering. 

I don't have advice about how to deal with grief. I am not sure that I have really dealt with it yet.The hardest thing is that everything you do is down to you. You have no one discuss decisions with. It is all totally up to you. The quite wonderful expression in America is 'Shooting the breeze'. Or more crudely 'Shooting the shit'. Yes, family and friends will step up to help, but there is nothing quite like talking about nonsense with your partner, along with the incidentals that happen each day. 'Ah, that shop has closed down.' 'Did you see how old Mrs Kafoops is looking'. No one but your late partner will be interested.    

But what you can do NOW, hopefully long before the event, is ensure you know everything about your joint lives so far as documents go. Titles to property, where are they? Passwords, pins for devices and bank accounts, logins for various sites. There is really nothing quite like having these in printed forms. Whether you are proactive and do so yourself or your partner does it, no matter. 

Harsh reality is around the corner one day. Sort it. 

I'll try to post something more cheerful tomorrow. 

Mural update

Well, that got me. I've only just realised my late partner Ray is in the photo, striding up Barkly Street, St Kilda with some shopping to the tram stop. He was used to me dropping behind to take photos. 

Your favourite accent

I am still working on my next Sydney post.

Ray arrived in Australia in 1970, just at an age when he would not be called up for war service in Australia. He made the acquaintance of one Jock McGregor, whose Scottish accent was so broad and thick, he was unintelligible to me, and almost everyone else.

Ray also met Agnes Peaston when he arrived Melbourne, and Agnes went on to be our friend. She lived in Punt Road, Richmond and when we helped her move to her first Australian property she owned in Anzac Street, Murrumbeena, we realised she was a terrible hoarder, with trees of books stacked next to her toilet. Agnes, older than us, had certainly lived an interesting life, which I might expand on in the future, but Agnes was very well educated and spoke with what I describe as a posh Scottish accent. Her diction and voice were perfect, in spite of being a heavy smoker. Yet she still had strong Scottish accent. Is there such a thing as a posh Scottish accent? A genuine question.

That would be my favourite accent in the world. What is yours? 

Mount Macedon Part 1

Last Saturday, Phyllis drove myself and Kosov to Mount Macedon. I discovered Mount Macedon was not actually the mount of Mount Macedon. I had forgotten that there was a town of Mount Macedon. Along the way we stopped off at Organ Pipes National Park. 

Ray and I visited the Organ Pipes in about 2015. In 2013 we visited Mount Macedon and the mount itself.

Here are photos of our visit to Mount Macedon many years ago Part 2 will be of last Saturday's visit with Phyllis and Kosov. 

The memorial cross, large enough to be visible from many metres below on the road at the base of the mount. 

The walkway to the mount is very nice.

The cross up close. 

Evidence of the terrible bushfires ten years earlier. 

Oh, there is some spooks equipment up there.

Meanwhile back in the township of Mount Macedon there were terrific street scenes. 

My Wednesday

Phyllis went off to work before ten, carrying a new broom. He had taken a new broom to work two days ago, and of course I made the dad joke, is that your transport to work today? He wanted the first broom for use at work, and his boss' wife was so impressed with the broom, she wanted one. 

Phyllis and Kosov have both being working hard, and Kosov studying hard too. No time for housework at home. They were in bed early Tuesday night, and both slept long, with Kosov waking up with a still sleepy look that can only be seen in young people after 11 hours of sleep. 

I wanted to buy something for Sister, a commemorative pack of coins and a pin for the 100th anniversary of her AFL team, Hawthorn. For some reason it was not listed on the Australia Post website, who was selling it among other such overpriced memorabilia. I tried two city post offices and they only received one each and both had been sold. I am not sure if I will persist. Maybe I can order it over the phone, or fill in a form and order it by mail. Dear oh dear. What a backward step that would be.

In frustration at our Logitech keyboard, a few years ago we bought a new one. The old one kept not connecting with the computer via the wireless system. The newer one was no better. We returned it and bought a more expensive one of the same brand. It too would disconnect from the computer. If I moved it closer to the computer, it would work. If I inserted a USB stick, that drove the keyboard and mouse crazy. Once in frustration, I picked up the keyboard and banged it down on the desk, metaphorically hitting it with a hammer, and it worked. 

So maybe every second day, I would bang the keyboard on the desk. This greatly amused Phyllis and Kosov. I told them I would buy a new one. On a whim this day I did. Rather than the flashy bells and whistles Logitech wireless keyboards, I chose a simple HP keyboard and and mouse, and it just works, without having to bang it on the desktop. The keyboard is quieter than the old one too. Happy.

Boi!, as Phyllis addresses me at times, you are having chicken noodle soup with an egg. Is that ok?

Yes Phyllis. 

It was not a packet of chicken noodle soup with a fried egg on top, as I imagined. It was packet of crinkly noodles in a delicious soup, with some chicken and a drumstick, along with some spicy chicken pieces on the side. The egg was boiled and sat in the soup. 

While looking at old photos, I came across photos of the Brighton Antique Dealer's 80th birthday party. That was in 2015, meaning this year 2025, BAD will be 90. I contacted her daughter to see if there were plans, and there is a plan, so a couple of friends and myself will attend. The official invitations will arrive next week. BAD was quite emotional on the night of her eightieth, so it isn't a great photo of her, with Ray.

BIts

As they cooked me Mexican barramundi fish tonight, 'The Children' were also playing with their growing collection of model cars. A New York City hop on hop off double decker bus is the newest addition. 

There are bad floods in New South Wales. One of the most stupid pieces of advice I've ever heard was, if you have not evacuated your home and you are under threat from flooding, move to the highest point in your home. Nah, not for me. I'll just stay at the bottom as I slowly go under water and drown. Even small brained animals know to go to higher ground to avoid flooding.

Speaking of home safety advice, at least this one seems to have stopped now. At times there are factory fires and what can be released into the air can be very toxic. Good advice, keep your doors and windows closed. Stupid advice, turn off you air conditioners. This may have been appropriate decades ago when people had in the wall or window air con units that could bring in a minor amount of fresh air, but nearly everywhere now has a split system, used for both heating and cooling and the internal part does not bring in outside air. I don't consider evaporative cooling to be air conditioning. 

Phyllis is trying to pass his learner driver permit, which is all online now with some rather impressive graphics. You are given thirty on road situations and the pass level is 27 out of 30 correct. His first attempt ended with a score of 26/30, so just a fail. He sought my help for his second attempt and his score was 24/30, a worse fail. A fat help I am.

I was taken back to school days where the question wasn't phrased clearly enough. I think Phyllis clicked one choice that he didn't mean to, but where did I go wrong? Illegal parking, one in a loading zone, two cars in a bus lane, and I missed the fact that the nearest car was too close to an intersection. Twenty metres is apparently the limit.

Bicycle laws, and I am not up to speed with those. I thought it was a one metre distance to pass by, but we got something wrong in the multiple choice.

Now this to me is very odd. The question was can you drive through a red light to allow a police car with flashing lights to get past. Apparently yes. But recently I heard the question asked of an ambulance worker, and the paramedic spokesperson said the opposite. That is, no. Don't do anything illegal or dangerous. We are trained to deal with traffic and congestion situations.

Later edit: What the law says: You must give way to emergency vehicles with flashing lights and sirens and may proceed through a red light if it's safe and the only way to make room for the emergency vehicle.  

Today was shopping day. Unlike when Ray was alive, the shopping is minimal. I now shop nearly daily for a few things when I am out and about, and aside from staples, Phyllis and Kosov buy most of the food. Nevertheless I was instructed to buy from the supermarket delicatessen a kilo of basa fish for no more than $10. I don't know the fish.

Basa fish, also known as Mekong catfish or Vietnamese River Cobble, is a farmer white fish native to Southeast Asia. It's popular due to its mild taste, firm texture and affordability. Basa is a good source of protein and healthy fats, but it's important to ensure it's cooked properly to avoid potential food poisoning risks

The supermarket didn't have basa so I bought a kilo of barramundi for $9. That sounded incredibly cheap to me. You can book a boat trip in Queensland to go barramundi fishing for a fortune. I assumed it was an expensive and prized fish.

I don't take my reading specs with me when shopping, and so I asked the obliging lad to read out the barramundi small print. "Sourced from Vietnam and Sri Lanka", the label said. Oh well, it tasted nice, and no ill effects yet.

Centrelink sent me a letter, our social security government organisation, asking me to update my financial situation. I wanted to reply, I am still living in poverty and I need more assistance.

Instead I handed the letter over to company who deal with Centrelink on my behalf, and charges me a fortune. Now that I do receive an old age pension and my affairs are now simple, I wonder if I couldn't just do it myself. This is the first time I've considered this. I will see what the company wants to charge me next year. 

I keep hinting to Phyllis that I and they need more green vegetables. Beans, peas, broccoli, broccolini, cauliflower, silver beet, spinach, but to no avail. I will keep going on about that. They barely eat anything green. Are onions considered green?

One year on

One year ago on the 25th of April my love and life companion died. I am a little grateful that is was quick, even though it was such a shock. Everything I knew about how to live day to day had gone out the window. 

I cried for my loss, and for what he was missing out on in life. His absence hung over family gatherings.

My sister and my Hair Dresser Friend Al were so helpful to me in the two weeks after, whereby we had to organise his cremation. In a state of shock, I just got on with everything.

Family crowded around me initially but not many asked me later how I was doing. I don't blame them. I give the appearance that I am fine and getting on with things. Apart from a few crack ups, I was mostly ok. Kosov with the victim of the last one, when I changed from winter shirts to summer shirts, the summer shirts all beautifully ironed by Ray in the autumn before he died. That must have been when Philip had returned to Chennai. Poor Kosov, as he held me while I sobbed away. 

I miss Ray everyday. I miss his company. I miss his voluble speech. I come across as reserved. Ray was much more out there and talkative, even if he was talking rubbish, full of inaccuracies such as dates, people and places. 

I learnt not to correct him unless it was important, but he knew I was always listening to what he was saying with a critical ear. I would say nothing, but he knew I was listening.

Ray died intestate, so that made the wrap up of his life less complicated and I did not need solicitor help. But gosh there was a lot to do, and it is still not over yet. The hardest was his superannuation company. It wanted so much information, and then asked for the same information again. As I was named as a direct beneficiary, it was not part of his estate. It was less money than I thought, but very helpful. Around the same time my inheritance from my mother who died the year before at 89, came through.

I have stayed away from home, once for two nights in Geelong, five days at Sister's to look after her cats, and two nights with my friend in eastern Victoria. I keep thinking of local holidays and things I could do but I feel so impotent about making travel plans on my own. 

I am not sure if guilt is the right word, and let me explain about my relationship with Ray. He said I would always get my way. That is not true. I would put forward my thoughts and opinions and it was an agreed decision. Yet, take the kitchen tap. It was wrong. I should have researched more. It is ugly. Always looking at price, we chose the wrong one. That was my fault, even though it was a joint decision.  

Now I live without anyone standing over my shoulder, looking at how my hands might be ready to spill something, waiting for me to make a mistake without constant supervision as if I was disabled client, his field of work. 

Ray was a cupboard door slammer, to the point where a drawer once fell apart. It drove me crazy, yet WWIII would have broken out if I said anything. He would have said, "Fine. I'll stay out of the kitchen then. Cook your own food". Phyllis was doing the same, but I felt free to say, 'Phyllis, can you stop slamming cupboard doors', and he obediently did stop.

I've come to realise that I repressed myself to not have arguments, yet still we did have arguments. In spite of what I've said, we loved each other deeply, with a most amazing history of life together. 

I've said before, but not so precisely. It was like almost Ray had a premonition. On Anzac Day, a war commemorative day here, we sat at Port Melbourne bakery having brunch. Ray opined that he didn't think he was doing badly for his age, still driving, cooking meals, cleaning our home and keeping connected socially and with family. Of course I agreed, and he was doing well for his age. Yet by around 11pm that day, he was dead.

We both made the mistake of not really speaking about how much we meant to each other, or loved each other. It was understood but unsaid, I really wish I had said it much more. Partners are rarely perfect, but don't you make the same mistake. Don't be precious. Don't point score. Love and forgive the forgivable.

There is a link about what happened that night on my blog, but to remind you, https://fromthehighrise.blogspot.com/2024/04/anzac-night-life-changing.html 

Your comments on the post and all posts of the time when I felt so lost were so helpful to me, and I thank you all so much.

But cry not for me. As happens, the grief reduces over time and I've made somewhat of a new life. As some of you pointed out, the poignant photo of Ray's shadow tells me he still walks beside me.  

A train west

It's not the first time I've been to Werribee by train. Once I even took Ray by train to Wyndham Station by VLine, we caught a bus to Werribee and then home by train. Naturally we had something to eat in Werribee, as we and I always do. Ray only complained about the hard seats on the train home. 

I am trying to be polite but generally Melbourne's western suburbs are a less desirable part of Greater Melbourne to live, but there are some very nice areas in the west. 

I like the main street of Werribee. It's very racially mixed and has a nice atmosphere.

I took a few photos to share with you.

Werribee is a suburban train terminus with the high level platforms accessible by what I guess are disability compliant ramps. Lifts would be nice for we older people. 

You have to look a bit before seeing what a good effort has been made to make it attractive.

Exiting the platform ramps you are confronted with an old train carriage, in the livery of the time, and a cafe within the carriage.  

This tiling along the walkways to ground level is just lovely and if you embiggen the photo, you can see a lovely bird picture on the glass. 

I have no idea what these sculptures in Watson Street are about, but no matter. I like them. 

Lovely. I did find a nice mural or two as well for later use. 

The algorithm

No, Face Book algorithm, I do not want to join the Gay Illinoi Farmers group and the guy in the teaser photo does not appeal to me. But where in Illinois does he live? Contact? Do you know him Kirk?

Face Book is not just for Boomers. 

Ray left a stack of his English family's photos in my smart leather 1978 valise and over the past few weeks, I've scanned hundreds of them, that is all of them. There is anything between three and six photos in each scan, depending on the photo size, with 122 scans. The photos were sent to Ray with letters from his Mam in the 1970s,1980s and 1990s. 

I've set up a private Face Book group and invited something like 25 of Ray's family to join and view the photos, some 55 years old. 

I have a history of showing or sending people history and it has generally been a fail. No matter, I will continue to do what I do to preserve history. 

An argument sorted too late

Ray: Where is the jar that was in the glove box that contained money for parking meters?

Me: I don't know.

Ray: Why do you have to answer so defensively?

Me: I've learnt to. You sounded like you were accusing me of doing something wrong.

Ray: I did not. Anyway, what have you done with the jar.

(At some point during lockdown, all parking meters became either pay by card or using a phone app.)

Me: I have a vague memory we did do something with the parking money when we bought this car. 

Ray: What?

Me: If I could remember, I would tell you. You clearly can't remember either. 

Ray: You always have to have the last smartarse answer.

Ain't love grand? There was always an underlying issue when he spoke like that. It was curious where the money jar and its contents went, and all too late, a few months ago the matter was resolved, but too late for Ray to know. What's this pocket thing here, I wondered. Voila! And I've only been reminded again that the pocket is there when I came across the photo. Did I leave the coins there? I will check the next time I am in the car, probably not until Christmas Eve, if I remember. 

It is very dark down there, and you can't see what is on the buttons without the car running or the lights on, and so the buttons illuminated. I know what all the buttons do, excepting the top far right button.