Click...

harbour bridge arch

Living in the Blue Mountains is a fantastic natural ​environment... away from the smog and pollution of ​the city. I was living on a 20 hectare property on the ​edge of a World heritage-listed wilderness at the top ​of an escarpment which gave me a distant view to ​Sydney some 60 kilometres away.

I could see the harbour bridge arch by day, and the whole ​Cumberland Plain lay before me. There was extraordinary ​bird life as well as native animals, as I said, it was a ​fantastic place to live.

And here's the but... but there was always a constant ​danger of forest fires, and in the summer months, one ​always had an eye out for the first signs of smoke.

I had lived on this property for ten years without any ​major fires, but in 1994, I faced a doozie. The fire started ​many kilometres away in deep gullies, and it was not long ​before it was declared a Major Fire, and we were warned ​to have our evacuation plans ready.

fire was advancing

Even though the fire was a major event, I was pretty ​confident that the topography at the rear of my property ​(where the fire was advancing from) would protect me as ​it would funnel the fire away from me. For ten days, I sat ​and waited.

The fire advanced. Fireballs were spotting kilometres in ​front of the blaze, but I stood firm. The smoke was dense. ​I went to bed that night and was awakened about 11.30 ​pm by a loud knocking at the front door. I opened the ​door, and two policemen were standing there.

The policemen ordered me to leave immediately. I said I ​would collect the three paintings I had selected and follow ​them up the drive. “No mate,” they said, “we follow you.”

With the three paintings under my arm, one of the ​policemen turned to me and said, "What about your ​photos?" I told him that I didn't have any photos. He ​turned in disbelief and said to his mate, "He hasn't got ​any photos." It was as if I were an alien from another ​world. They just couldn't take on board the fact that ​someone didn't have photos.

“we missed this one”

So, up the driveway, I drove and stayed the night in a ​shelter in Windsor. The following afternoon, we were told ​we could return to our properties. There had been a ​change in the wind direction, and we were, for the ​moment, out of immediate danger.

Two days later, I received a call from a neighbour telling ​me that the police had called and told them to leave ​immediately. The police hadn't visited me, so I thought all ​was well. After a few hours, and with very dense smoke in ​the air, I decided to drive up to the top of the road to see ​what was happening.

I didn't get far when I encountered a police roadblock. I ​asked the policeman what was happening. "Where do you ​live, mate?" I told him, indicating on the map he was ​holding just where I lived. "Hey, Tom", he yelled, "we ​missed this one." I thought to myself, ‘No photos, so it's ​okay to let him burn.’

it was scary

I went back to sleep in the shelter at Windsor and then ​home again the next day. The fire had burnt out a huge ​area behind my property, and once again, the topography ​had saved the place and me.

But I can tell you, it was scary, and that fire was a big ​factor in my thinking that maybe, after 14 years in the ​mountains, it was time to pack up and leave. The city ​called, and the boy without any photos moved to ​Leichhardt.

Since I left the Blue Mountains, there ​have been two major bushfires, and on ​each occasion, my old property was not ​burnt. I am living now in Hobart, and ​still no photos. Click...

It’s not all that often that you see a film that resonates so much you are woken by it and find ​underlying themes and echoes that take you straight back to it.

Jim Jarmusch’s

2016 ‘Paterson’ is such a film.

On the surface, it is a simple love story of a bus driver ​who writes poetry in a private diary and his partner, a ​stay-at-home cupcake maker/self-taught whimsical ​interior decorator who practices in the house/fledgling ​country western singer who believes she has a chance of ​making it if she buys a Harlequin Esteban guitar, together ​with singing lessons... All for a couple of hundred dollars, ​but money she doesn’t seem to have.

So, it's a simple, perhaps trite story. Why, then, is the film ​so good? Partly because of the acting, partly the style and ​repetition of the daily sequences, and partly because of ​the simple everyday occurrences that bring order to their ​lives.

Cementing the film together is the name “Paterson”. It is ​the name of the town where the main character lives - ​and was born; it is also the route his bus, titled Paterson, ​takes. And as chance would have it, it is also his surname ​- and the only name he has in the film. (His partner is ​Laura, and he is Paterson.)

The film works through understatement: it is subtle, ​delicate, nuanced, gentle... you’ve got the idea. But you ​can’t have a better example of understating something ​than by leaving it out. The theme of WCW’s “The Red ​Wheelbarrow” is not mentioned in the film - just as it’s ​not mentioned in the poem itself. How appropriate, then, ​not to mention the poem in the film.

Ask any group of people (or classroom of students as I ​have) to read the poem a few times... it doesn’t take ​long... and then write down what it’s about. After a few ​grumbles about it not being a poem, almost everyone will ​say something like, “It’s about some chickens running​ around a red wheelbarrow in the rain”. ​

Ask them to read it a few more times and then write ​down the most important line in the poem, and almost ​everyone will say, “So much depends” - the one thing they ​didn’t think of initially. And if you ask them what ​‘chickens, wheelbarrows and rain’ are, some will think ​they belong in farmyards or backyards and that they are ​pretty ordinary everyday objects. Pretty soon, everyone will ​agree that a lot depends on ordinary, everyday things and ​that so much depends on them... as we see in Paterson’s ​and Laura’s life.

We quickly discover that the town ‘Paterson’ was the ​hometown of William Carlos Williams, (WCW,) an ​American poet. Poetry lovers know who William Carlos ​Williams was and would know some of his poems by ​heart: one of these, “This is Just to Say”, is read by ​Paterson to Laura towards the end of the film because ​she loves it so much.

The town, and in particular the bridge, is a magnet for ​Paterson and at the end of the film, we discover why in ​Paterson’s encounter with a Japanese poet who is on a ​pilgrimage to WCW's place of birth and who has WCW’s ​book about ‘Paterson’, called ‘Paterson’ of course: the ​scene they have before them is depicted on the book’s ​cover.

What isn’t mentioned in the film is WCW’s most famous ​poem and one that most people would know (and one I ​got away with reading in three school assemblies over the ​years) -“The Red Wheelbarrow”. So much depends upon a ​red wheelbarrow glazed with rain water beside the white ​chickens. It’s not mentioned because the poem is at the ​heart of the film and what the film is about.

You suspect that there have been traumas in the past. We ​know Paterson must have been in the armed forces: there ​is a photo on the dresser, which we see (quickly) a few ​times. His internal waking clock absolves the need for an ​alarm (thoughtfully so, too, so as not to wake Laura, who ​needs more sleep); his peculiar elbow greeting with an ​amateur rap poet in a laundromat; and most importantly, ​his unbelievably fast and professionally safe disarming of ​the forlorn lover with the gun.

Also, he provides gentle but wary protection for the ​passengers when the bus malfunctions and the girl is left ​to wait for her mother in an area where it looks like ​something will happen. And Laura’s ever-so-gentle, baby-​like treatment. He has protected before. Yes, there have ​been traumas in the past... but we don’t need to know ​precisely what they are. We can imagine. And that is ​precisely why understatement works so well.

It is a seriously beautiful, life-enhancing, ​and profound film...​

Film Reviewer:

Peter Rainey

We offered them money

to move out

a furnished apartment

Buying and selling property is usually a time of ​considerable stress. And we were looking to sell out of ​Sydney and buy into Hobart in one transaction or as close ​as possible.

As I have written in an earlier blog, the sale of the Sydney ​property went so smoothly, and we were done and dusted ​in a day. There was no need for the home beautiful ​treatment or the freshly baked bread wafting through the ​place to sell the house. That meant that we could focus ​entirely on Hobart.

We planned to rent a furnished apartment as a base for ​our search for a permanent home. To our horror, we soon ​learned that there was only one furnished apartment in ​the city, and it was not dog-friendly.

We persuaded the owner to have pity on us and take us ​along with our friendly pooch, Milly. He eventually ​relented and let us rent. We called the apartment 'the ​cell,' but it was central, clean and well-furnished. Tiny it ​was. But we were set on a quick turnaround.

the Hobart landscape

We had done very little research as to where we wanted ​to live in the city, but we had ruled out the two 'snob' ​suburbs, Sandy Bay and Battery Point, where you pay ​thousands for the address. And we had also ruled out ​South Hobart, as it is in a winter shadow from Mt ​Wellington. You must ensure that you find a home flooded ​with natural light; it's absolutely crucial in Tassie.

Now Hobart, when it was settled in the early 1800s, had ​the same layout as Sydney, where Governor Macquarie put ​the Sydney template over the Hobart landscape, not aware ​that as Hobart was on the slopes of a mountain, that ​might cause a few problems with hills and declivities.

As we began looking at properties, we were able to rule ​out many just by standing at the front gate. Too steep. ​And when we did enter other properties, we could see ​immediately that they were dark and cold. And there was ​often the smell of death about them.

not quite majestically

Sometimes, quite reasonable properties had been ruined ​by home improvements. I remember one where a spiral ​staircase rose, not quite majestically, from the middle of ​the lounge room. Extraordinary.

We were starting to feel that our dream home was not ​going to be found. But there was one property that we ​kept coming back to as, on two occasions, we had an ​appointment to view, only to be told by the agent that ​there was a problem with getting into the property...

a few anxious days

The tenant had a sick child; the tenant had a migraine; ​the tenant had a sore toe. (Or some other silly excuse.) ​From the outside, the property looked quite impressive. ​The price was right. We just had to get inside.

Well, that day came, and we could see immediately that ​this was the home for us. Perfect. A large flat block. A ​garage. No steps in the house. And the rooms flooded ​with sunlight.

We accepted their asking price and had a few anxious ​days as the house was owned by a divorced couple, which ​required the two of them to sign the papers. Three days ​later, the house was ours.

Or so we thought. In our excitement, we had not fully ​realised that the property we had bought had tenants, ​and they had three months remaining on their lease. That ​should not be a problem, as we needed to shop around for ​a few furniture items, and we could explore Tassie in the ​interim.

dealing with homosexuals

Then, the fun and games began. We learnt through the ​estate agent that our tenants were bible-bashers from ​some obscure sect and that they refused to have any ​dealings with homosexuals. We had spotted a dresser we ​liked in a New Norfolk secondhand store for the new ​dining room. It was extra tall, so through the agent, we ​requested the tenants to measure the wall height in the ​dining room, they refused.

We offered them money to vacate. They Refused. Maybe ​they thought that they would be contaminated by ​touching money that had been handled by homosexuals.

the Lord told them

But the day did come when they had to vacate. They had ​moved out a week earlier but refused to hand over the key ​until the last moment. They even told the real estate ​agent that they would be spending that week cleaning the ​house, for the Lord had told them to leave the place ​spotless.

I wondered, had the Lord not realised that we were having ​a building firm move straight in the next day to rip up ​the floors, knock down walls, and generally make weeks ​of mess?

And so we moved into our new home ​where we have been so happy and ​productive for the past 12 years...

I believe in Miracles

NOT!

Aunt Veronica

In the early 1950s, my Aunt Veronica (called Nock) went ​off to Europe with a couple of girlfriends. I have no idea ​where they went, though they were stationed in London, ​and they did go to Lourdes.

What good Catholic girl didn't head to Lourdes? In the ​1950s, the Catholic Church was awash with miracles, or ​stories of miracles. Cures, people taking up their beds and ​walking, cripples throwing away their crutches. We ​believed all this guff. It was brainwashing 101.

tourist bonanza

Lourdes was onto a real tourist bonanza, for so the story ​went, the Virgin Mary appeared to a young peasant girl, ​telling her to drink from the Lourdes spring and bathe in ​the still waters, and, fingers crossed, you could be cured ​from all sorts of maladies. (I have just done a quick ​Wikipedia search, and it tells me that over 7,000 people ​have claimed to have been cured over the years. It could ​make Medibank redundant.)

holy water

I know my Aunt went there because she brought back to ​Sydney a jar of holy water sourced from said spring. And ​the jar was kept in a drawer, ready to be sprinkled when ​the time came. And the time did come.

Nana, Nock's Mother, one day had a massive coronary and ​hit the kitchen floor. Dead! If ever there was a time for ​the Lourdes water to work its miraculous power. My Aunt ​went rushing for the sacred bottle and unscrewed the cap, ​only to find that the contents had evaporated. (The work ​of Satan?)

magic powers

But some quick thinking. My Aunt, obviously a believer in ​the transference of powers, filled the jar from the tap in ​the belief that the jar had magic powers. Nana was ​sprinkled. The only result from this anointing was the ​advance of rigour mortis.

So our former ex-Prime Minister Mr Morrison ​might be a believer in miracles, but my Aunt ​learnt a good lesson that day. ​Miracles'r'NOT'us...

The elephant

in the room

‘outsider' artists

Brian Kennedy, the Director of the National Gallery of ​Australia, was taking a big risk when he gave me the nod ​to put on an exhibition drawn from my private collection. I ​had approached Brian with a challenge. I showed him 20 ​images (Slides) of works and asked him to separate them ​into two bundles: one being works of well-known ​Australian and international artists, and the other, drawn ​from the so-called 'outsider' artists that I had collected.

My thesis was that there was no valid difference when ​only the work was considered. Brian was up for the ​challenge, and after a few slides, he conceded... “You have ​your show backed by the NGA.”

I had a few more must-haves... There were to be no labels ​on or next to the works, just a number that would identify ​the artist from a room sheet. The gallery spaces would ​need to be made to look like a living room: rugs, chairs, ​sideboards, lamps, and coffee tables. And the hang could ​be double or even triple-hung. And hung right up into the ​corners, as you would do in your own home. And to give ​him his credit, Brian was backing me all the way.

behind the scenes:

Home sweet Home

The two curators (Dr Deborah Hart and Glenn Barkley) ​spent about three days in my home looking at everything ​and making a preliminary selection. As I was gifting the ​entire show to the National Gallery, I had to be brave and ​to be prepared to let some of my treasures go. In the end, ​260 works were chosen: paintings, drawings, sculpture, ​photography, textiles, video and a few things that defied ​categorisation. Then, the transport staff from the National ​Gallery arrived to pack up the works, and the ​Pantechnicon transported them to Canberra.

There, the Gallery staff started the process of cataloguing ​and preparing the educational kit, cleaning, researching, ​and designing the spaces, as well as the catalogue to be ​prepared. We had many meetings as the staff wanted to ​know about the work, especially those pieces done by ​'unknowns' (well, to them, but not to me.)

rattling the bars

Over a period of about six months, the pieces started to ​fall into place, and I knew that we were going to have a ​show that would truly rattle the bars. There had never ​been such a show at the National Gallery of Australia, or ​at any other major cultural institution. There were 28 ​artists who were having their first ever show in a gallery.

A certain energy

So the Guards were assembled, and I could see that there ​was a deal of anxiety among them. The exhibition was ​taking up six gallery rooms, and the hang, placement, and ​fit-out had been going on for over a week. There was a ​good deal of talk about the show. A certain energy.

The guards had concerns about the rugs on the floor. ​They were concerned that there were chairs and couches ​that you could sit on, whereas, in the rest of the gallery, it ​was a no touch, no sit, stand well back policy. But there ​was one thing that really was giving them grief.

There were no labels on the works. Just a number that ​gave a title to the work and the artist's name. The talk ​behind the scenes was that many of the works had been ​done by totally unknown artists (well, to them and the ​general public), and some had had no training at all. How ​would the guards cope?

looking at the work

My advice to them was to tell the public that there was ​but one strategy for viewing the exhibition: JUST LOOK ​AT THE WORK. And to be confident in drawing your ​own conclusions. (It is well-known that most people take ​more time reading the label than looking at the work.)

Then one of the guards raised a hand to ask a question: “I ​have heard that many of the works in the exhibition have ​been done by people who are...” (and at this point, there ​was a long pause as the guard struggled to find the right ​word) “...imbeciles. Could you not put a yellow spot next ​to those works?” (I know where I wanted to put the yellow ​spot). The elephant in the room had been let loose. “No.”

eyes to see &

hearts to feel

The exhibition, Home Sweet Home: Works from the Peter ​Fay Collection, ran for two months in Canberra and then ​travelled throughout Australia and New Zealand. At the ​end of the run, the comments book that accompanied the ​exhibition rang with the most overwhelmingly positive ​responses. The works spoke to those with eyes to see and ​hearts to feel.

I am too close to the whole experience, but it is safe to ​say this exhibition broke new ground and challenged the ​methodology of our cultural institutions. I have to thank ​Dr Kennedy for having the courage to let me dream my ​dream and for the staff of the National Gallery who ​responded to the work without prejudice...

One of the last things to be put in place was for me to ​give a talk to the Gallery 'Guards'. They are an important ​part of the Gallery, as they field most of the questions ​from the viewing public. And often, they receive the sort ​of question that we would like to ask but dare not.

And the artists were the stars; their art ​made it all possible...

Are You a Jesuit?

By Peter Rainey

The Ancient Mariner

I retired at the end of 2010 and looked around for a few ​volunteer activities. Community gardening for four ​months led to eleven years of Thursday chicken care.

Remembering involvement with the Townsville Cinema ​Group in the 1970s led to eleven years of screening ​‘classic’ films at the Sydney Mechanics School of Arts… ​115 so far, and handouts on each, and counting. Then, I ​started reading poems or stories at Royal North Shore ​Hospital to anyone who would listen.

Reading poems or stories to an audience is a love of most ​English teachers, and where better than in a hospital ​where someone can’t get out of bed! It didn’t quite work ​out like that. I discovered that my rate of mesmerising ​was nothing like Coleridge’s Ancient Mariner, “who ​stoppeth one of three” I was lucky to find one in ten that ​said “yes.”

Some Were Embarrassed

A few said, “Why not...” I only had one who rudely ​scowled, “Why?” Initially, I found enjoyment in my ​reading, but I soon found that I got more from the people ​I talked to and listened to than what I was probably giving ​them.

I heard stories from victims of crimes, folk with incurable ​illnesses, ex-premiers and theatre directors. Sad stories, ​uplifting stories, transfixing and humbling stories. I guess ​some of the people who said “yes” were pretty keen to ​have a natter.

The ones who said “no” probably had differing reasons: ​some were embarrassed to be read to while others looked ​on; some feared religious indoctrination; some disliked ​even the word ‘poetry’ or thought the whole concept ​weird.

From a Distance

One day, I was wandering in ward 9B and used my usual ​schtick, “Hello, I’m Peter Rainey, and I’m a volunteer at ​the hospital” (showing the badge), and “I read poetry or ​stories to anyone who’d like me to. Would you like me to ​read you a poem or a story?”. I’d approached a rather ​prim, seemingly lanky lady sitting up in bed, wearing a ​white head cap.

She listened keenly, and instead of the “yes” I was ​expecting because of the interest in her eyes, came “Oh…. ​No, no, no, no, no. My daughter was trained at the ​London Speech and Drama School, and I don’t think that ​would do (meaning “you would do”). Oh…no, no, no.” I ​mumbled something and fled to another patient.

Weeks passed… The lanky lady with the white cap was still ​in the same bed. I saw her… from a distance… a few times ​but never approached. About eight weeks after the rebuff, ​I was walking past her bed with the curtains surrounding ​the alcove and a small gap at the entrance, and she ​spotted me.

Ah Solved...

“Hello, excuse me, hello….. you there, hello….. (as I ​approached) ”…Are you a Jesuit?” Many things cross the ​mind. Am I in black? Do I look like a Jesuit? Should I ​pretend to be one? She’d like a religious poem. Ah. Solved.

I said, “No, I’m Peter Rainey. I’m a volunteer at the ​hospital, and I read Poems and Stories to anyone who ​would like me …”

“Oh, no, no, no, no, no….” She said, “My ​daughter is a graduate of the London ​School of Speech and Drama… Oh, no, no, ​no, no. It wouldn’t be right”.

into a wider world

Part three

sleeping

in the ​bathroom

a residential

position

Canada had been a good first stepping stone from ​Sydney. My first appointment in Taber had given me a ​chance to assess just where I might be heading. I did not ​make many friends outside of the teaching staff. One ​good reason was that it was so cold, I did not have ​transport, and there were no distractions in the town.

So, it was just school and home. The move to the ​University School in Victoria, British Columbia, was a no-​brainer. However, I did think it strange that both these ​positions had come from chance readings of newspapers. ​I'm not at all psychic, but it did get me thinking.

The University School was a very comfortable teaching ​position. Small classes, a well-qualified staff, and a good ​mix of boys drawn mainly from Canada, the United ​States, and Hong Kong. I had a residential position, and ​that made life easy. In fact, it was all a little too easy. ​There was every possibility that, without too much ​trouble, I could slowly morph into a Mr Chips.

goodbye Canada

And now I had to face the fact that Canada was but a ​stopping off, for always, always, my focus had been on ​England. I wanted to breathe the air that filled the lungs ​of Chaucer and Shakespeare, to roam the moors in search ​of the Brontes, to climb in the Lake District in search of ​Wordsworth.

To overdose on theatre where nightly the greats still trod ​the boards, to be a part of the Proms and belt out Rule ​Britannia, to explore the great British institutions - the ​British Library, The British Museum, The Tate Gallery and ​The V&A. To take a boat to Greenwich, to explore the ​Tower of London, wander in Hyde Park and join the rabble ​at Speakers' Corner... and on and on and on.

So, what I planned to do was to get to London with a ​couple of months of free time before the start of the new ​school year. Without any difficulty, I found a bedsit in ​Finchley. A clean establishment that was close to the ​train station.

a line of gents

Everything electrical required money in the meter. When I ​emerged from the communal bathroom, there was a line ​of gents waiting to take a shower, for they had heard me ​put too much money in the meter so that hot water would ​be going for free. And so began a series of hilarious ​adventures trying to come to terms with English ​plumbing.

On one occasion, I was late arriving at my Bed & ​Breakfast and desperate to shower. I asked the landlord ​for a key to the bathroom, only to be told that it was ​being used. From my bedroom, with the door ajar, I had a ​direct line of vision to the bathroom. But no one emerged. ​And they were very quiet. After an hour, I decided to go to ​bed and wake up early for a shower, and that I did. To be ​met by the bathroom door still locked.

accommodation ​was tight

I stormed down to the kitchen, where the landlord was ​preparing breakfast. After a brisk round of questions, I ​learned that not only was the bathroom engaged, but ​someone was sleeping in the bathroom as accommodation ​was very tight... Only in England.

It was summer, and I was having a ball just wandering at ​large. I bought a Times Educational Supplement, saw that ​there was a position being advertised at a school in ​Yorkshire, and seeing as I was heading off to the Lake's ​District, I decided to apply. I did. Success.

My plan was to start somewhere, to survey the scene, and ​pick a good school where I hoped for a long teaching ​assignment.

And by and large,

that is what happened...

‘Pink’

Something For My Walls

I have a vivid memory of the first artwork (painting) that I ​ever bought. So, having come through twelve years of ​schooling, four years of University, and three years of ​teaching, I think I can say that it never crossed my mind ​to seek to buy something for my walls.

Up to this point, my focus had been front and centre on ​the written word. I remember the first book I bought with ​my first pay packet from a job I did during the school ​holidays. It was a massive book about the history of the ​Second World War. I suddenly felt a touch of intellectual ​pride in owning such a thick tome. I suppose I did read it. ​But the walls remained bare.

A Drift of Snow

Then, one day, when I was living and teaching in ​Yorkshire, I took a bus to Leeds to do a spot of shopping—​followed by a theatre matinee before catching the bus ​back to Harrogate.

Coming out of the theatre at about 5 pm, I was scurrying ​to get out of the cold. That damp cold that chills to the ​bone. And there was a drift of snow in the air—bloody ​cold. I took a shortcut through an arcade, and in the ​middle aisle of the arcade, stands were erected to hang ​the pictures from one of the evening classes of people ​learning to paint.

Not a Clue

The works numbered about 50, and they were hung in ​ascending order of proficiency, the best, with rosettes ​attached, hanging in pride of place, and under shelter. ​Down to what might be thought of as the failures, the ​could do betters, not a clue, don't give up your day job, ​have you considered taking up metal work, there's a good ​cooking class... etc... And the last, the lucky last, was ​looking ever so lonely, so unloved.

Pat Thompson

I dashed by as the clock ticked for my bus to depart. I had ​gone but a few paces when I knew that I had to return to ​look at that last-placed painting. It spoke to me. I couldn't ​let it go. I knew I had to buy it. As luck would have it, the ​artist, Pat Thompson, was lurking in the shadows where ​she was eating fish and chips. She approached me as I ​looked at the picture, and I asked her if it was for sale. ​“Oh yes. one pound.”

And now I committed one of the most, if not the most, ​dastardly acts of my lifetime. I offered her 50p. She ​accepted. Please, please seek some part in your being to ​forgive me.

Tickety-Boo

So the picture was titled Pink, and Pat told me that she ​didn't paint the faces because she was sick the night they ​did faces. I thought she might not have been quite ​tickety-boo the night they did perspective, either.

No matter what, I was in love with my picture. I look at it ​now and see so much to admire in it. It is a picture that I ​think Matisse would be happy to affix his name. It even ​has a bit of Barnett Newman... and so many others.

So you can imagine my delight when it became part of my ​collection that was chosen to be hung in the National ​Gallery in Canberra and then accepted into their ​collection.

You're a Winner

Pat Thompson. You're a winner, in my estimation. Please ​know that if ever you should turn up in Hobart, you'll get ​your final payment: 50p.

I might add that when I was facing an order ​to evacuate from my home in the Blue ​Mountains in the face of an impending ​bushfire, Pat's ‘Pink’ was one of the three ​things that I took with me...

into a wider world

Part two

Anywhere hot

would do...

BUying a winter coat

With my departure date getting ever nearer, I did some ​last-minute clothes shopping, as I knew that I was flying ​into the middle of the Canadian winter.

I went to David Jones' to buy a winter coat. I emerged ​with a full-length houndstooth number. I thought I was ​just the best-dressed lad to fight anything the Canadian ​winter could throw at me. Everyone said, "You'll be snug ​as a bug in a rug with that coat" Right!

So I left Sydney on Boxing Day when the temperature was ​101 degrees Fahrenheit. And after a few plane changes, ​we landed at Taber to be met by an arctic gale and a ​temperature of -45F.

I might as well have been naked for all the good that my ​new coat was doing me. I was met at the plane by my ​colleague in whose house I was to rent the basement ​apartment. “Straight home,” they said. “No. I need to do ​some serious shopping first.” My survival depended on it.

So we went to the clothing store to buy every thermal ​garment they had. Sox, long johns, skivvies, gloves, face ​mask, beanie and ear muffs. “Shall I wrap them for you, ​Sir?” “No,” I said, “I want to wear them.” And so I ​emerged from the store looking like the Michelin Man. ​And just a few degrees above thaw.

no liquor store

A few facts about Taber. A rural town of about 5,000. ​Mostly Mormon. So, there is no liquor store inside the ​town boundaries. My school was a regional school where ​most of the students were bussed in each day. A good ​percentage of those students were Canadian natives.

There were over 1,000 students in the well-funded school. ​Nearly half the staff were Americans in Canada to dodge ​the draft. One other Australian teacher was desperately ​trying to find a teaching post in Queensland. Anywhere ​hot would do.

The library was most impressive, and I found that I had ​staff to manage. My predecessor had taken up an ​appointment at the University of Texas. I thought that I ​could start by sharpening my pencils!

The Library Ladies

One of the Library Ladies (their terminology, not mine) ​had already done that. I was asked how I liked my ​tea/coffee and If I had any special dietary needs or ​requests. Before long, a tray with a pot of tea and a ​muffin was set before me. All I could think about was ​what the bloody hell was I supposed to do here? Order ​books for the library?

So, I sent a memo to all the staff asking for requests that ​might fill any gaps in the books required for their ​teaching subject. Not one reply. And so, with gay ​abandon, I ordered from the Publisher's Catalogues lists ​of books that I would like to read.

I was like a pig in mud. As I said, the school was well-​financed, and it was almost impossible to spend my ​budget. I kept the Library Ladies (yes...their terminology, ​not mine) busy typing, cataloguing cards, and looking ​after my morning and afternoon teas.

frostbite on my lungs

There was just one practice that I put a stop to ​immediately. Several of the teachers would set their ​classes on day one, an assignment that was due towards ​the end of the term. Then, send the class to the library for ​every period they were to take.

So my rule was no classes without the teacher. It did not ​make me any friends with certain colleagues. But it sure ​won me support from my; you name it, Library Ladies.

I knew from about the end of the first week or so that ​Taber was going to be a short stay. It was so bitterly cold. ​And without any transport, I was virtually a prisoner as I ​had to walk everywhere. It was so cold that I even ​managed to get frostbite on my lungs. Heaven only knows ​how many times I fell on the ice, I was lucky I didn’t break ​any bones.

the curvature of the earth

One night, I forgot to shovel the snow from my doorway, ​and I had great difficulty just opening the door the next ​morning. There was a general rule regarding school and ​the weather. If, on the 7 am Morning News on Radio ​Canada, the temperature reported in Calgary was below ​-40F, the school would be closed as the busses were not ​licenced to operate in those conditions. I cannot tell you ​the number of days it was -39F, which meant a freezing ​cold trudge to school.

And then it was Spring, and the temperature very ​pleasant. Taber sat on a flat, flat plain where it was ​possible to see the curvature of the earth. The town was ​surrounded by sugar beet plantations all the way to the ​horizon. Not much going for it scenery-wise.

One night, I was buying something for my evening meal ​when I saw a position being advertised for a full-time ​English teacher in a school in Victoria, British Columbia. I ​sent off an application, and I was invited for an interview, ​I liked the look of the place and accepted the offer to join ​the staff as a live-in English teacher and House tutor.

A farewell afternoon tea

This was The University School, and it wasn’t long until I ​once again, returned to the classroom. (the, yes... Library ​Ladies gave me a lavish farewell afternoon tea. They said ​that I had done a great job running the library.)

The place had a “Decline and Fall” feel about it: small in ​the number of pupils, and with a games program that ​included cricket and rugby. Many staff had Oxford or ​Cambridge degrees, several had played Rugby for England, ​and one had represented England in athletics about 50 ​years earlier.

As I said, Decline and Fall. I believe I got the position ​because the Headmaster was anxious to lead a Rugby ​Team anywhere in the South Pacific. But alas, I had no ​strings to pull. In the end, he and the team went to play ​in Bermuda. He returned with a phial of 'pink sand', ​which he showed the school at an assembly.

And so I experienced my second DUD in ​the Headmaster stakes. Many more ​were to follow...

How

Intermittent ​Fasting

Transformed

My Life

Intermittent fasting, especially following the 16/8 method, ​has been nothing short of life-changing for me during the ​COVID-19 pandemic.

the COVID-19 Outbreak

As the world grappled with the challenges brought ​on by the COVID-19 outbreak, I found myself ​embarking on a journey that would ultimately ​change my life: intermittent fasting. Over the past ​months, this dietary approach has not only helped ​me shed 40 kilos but has also led to a profound ​transformation in how I feel physically and ​mentally.

An 8-hour Window

The concept of intermittent fasting, particularly the 16/8 ​method, caught my attention early in the pandemic. This ​approach involves restricting your eating to an 8-hour ​window while fasting for the remaining 16 hours of the ​day. Despite initial scepticism, I decided to give it a try, ​and I am incredibly grateful that I did. I ate between the ​hours of 7 am and 1 pm. This took some adjustment, but ​I was chronically overweight, so I was determined to give ​this a fair go.

Most Noticeable ​Benefits

Substantial weight loss is one of the most remarkable ​advantages I've experienced with intermittent fasting. ​Losing 40 kilograms enhanced my physical well-being and ​balance and increased my confidence and self-assurance. ​The simplicity of this method, free from intricate meal ​plans or calorie tracking, made it sustainable and ​eventually effortless to maintain, even during the ​uncertainties of the pandemic. Throughout this journey, I ​remained mindful of the unfortunate reality that people ​are succumbing to COVID-19 complications. I had to give ​myself the best chance of survival should I catch Covid.

Beyond Weight ​Loss

Intermittent fasting has not only helped me lose weight ​but has also significantly improved my overall health. The ​most remarkable change has been the enhanced control ​of my blood sugar levels, which have stabilised within a ​healthy range. This improvement not only lowers my risk ​of chronic diseases such as COVID-19, diabetes and other ​age-related stuff but also gives me a renewed sense of ​vitality and energy. I am wearing my teen jeans sizes ​again, and all my physical and joint aches and pains have ​vanished.

Research Suggests

Moreover, emerging research suggests that intermittent ​fasting may have potential longevity effects. While more ​studies are required to understand the mechanisms ​behind these benefits, the idea of not only feeling and ​looking better but potentially living longer with excellent ​health is incredibly motivating.

Challenges

Of course, intermittent fasting is not without its ​challenges. Adjusting to a new eating schedule and ​overcoming cravings during fasting requires discipline and ​perseverance. However, the tangible results I've ​experienced have far outweighed any initial difficulties. If ​I’m entirely honest, now and then, I cheat, feasting on the ​odd paddle pop or other treat. I still lost the weight, ​though, and eventually, I figured out just how much I ​could safely cheat. Experiment with it, you’ll see.

Gratitude

Reflecting on my experience with intermittent fasting, I ​am grateful for the positive changes it has brought to my ​life, as well as to my friends who have supported me, ​and Peter, who also embraced intermittent fasting with ​me. Despite the challenges posed by the pandemic, it has ​also opened doors for great personal development, self-​improvement, and growth.

Readiness To ​Experiment

If you're thinking about giving intermittent fasting a try, I ​suggest approaching it with an open mind and a ​readiness to experiment. Before starting any health ​regime, it is always wise to consult with your healthcare ​provider for any underlying conditions or concerns.

Over time and with dedication, these issues may ​improve and even disappear. By staying ​committed and patient, intermittent fasting might ​be the gateway to a healthier and happier version ​of you, just like it has been for me...

into a wider world

Part one

a mass

inhalation

of marijuana

A fantastic first

teaching appointment

After 12 years of primary and secondary schooling, four ​years of University, and two years of High School ​teaching, I felt it was time to explore a wider world. ​However, I have to say that I enjoyed teaching English at ​Fort Street Boys' High School in Sydney's Inner West.

A fantastic first teaching appointment. One waited on ​that telegram that would announce just where you had ​been sent by the NSW Dept of Education. As I was a ​bonded teacher who had benefited from a Scholarship, I ​was held by a bond to give five years of teaching where I ​was told. No argument.

Many first-year bonded teachers were sent to the sticks, ​as that was where the majority of vacancies were. So I ​had the map of New South Wales at hand when the ​telegram arrived. I could not believe my great good ​fortune when Fort Street Boys' was to be my first ​appointment.

flotsam and jetsam

I had some experience with the school, as in my Dip. Ed ​year, we sat in on what were called demonstration ​lessons, and many were at Fort Street.

Fort Street had many, many advantages for a young ​teacher. Predominantly, an experienced and dedicated ​staff and pupils had been selected to attend the academic ​school. It was also a chance to witness first-hand a time-​serving Principal who had risen through the ranks like ​flotsam and jetsam to get the appointment. The staff ​ignored him for the most part.

One of the words that was mentioned when Fort Street ​was invoked was 'tradition'. The school had an impressive ​list of former students who had risen to prominence, with ​Justice Michael Kirby being the last in a long line.

spoons and knives

These former students would often appear on Prize Giving ​days. Now, it had been established as a tradition that ​when a member of staff left the school, he or she was ​given either a butter knife or a sugar spoon that bore the ​school crest.

As I said, by tradition, it had been the preserve of former ​staff, so you can imagine the consternation when one of ​the school secretaries let it slip that the Principal was ​giving out spoons and knives to, among others, the ​Postman and to the lady who headed up the Women's ​Auxiliary.

It only caused us to think of him in even more dastardly ​terms.

NO QUESTIONS ASKED

Being a first-year out teacher, I did not have any clout in ​the school, and I had to do as I was told. One of the 'jobs' ​that came my way was to organise the School dance.

Tradition demanded that the girls from Fort Street Girls' ​would be the dance partners. TRADITION. NO QUESTIONS ​ASKED. So, I made an appointment to liaise with my ​counterpart at the Girls' school, a Mrs. Anne Robson.

Well, that was her name, then. She was later to morph ​into the Lady Kerr. What a perfect match. For she was a ​snob and with her nose stuck up in the air. She did ​everything in her power to thwart me. Whatever date I ​suggested for the dance, it was "not possible for my ​girls." She would never return phone calls—quite a piece of ​work.

An old tradition broken

So, I took unilateral action and announced that the girls ​from Petersham Girls would be invited. They accepted ​with alacrity, and the best night was had by all. An old ​tradition was broken, and a new one was in place—history ​in the making.

(This was the 60s, and smoke machines were often a ​feature of dance parties. This year was no exception. And ​with the hall covered in a dense fog of smoke and ​writhing bodies, when the lady in charge of the suppers ​came running to the staff room, where we were hiding ​out, to announce that there was “a mass inhalation of ​marijuana going on in the hall.” Just smoke, Mrs. C.)

leaving the nest

And so, after two years with the prospect of many more ​happy years stretching out, I made up my mind to leave ​and set out into a wider world with an infinite horizon.

One Saturday, I noticed a tiny advertisement for a ​teaching position in Taber, Alberta, Canada. In an effort to ​attract teachers, the various departments in Canada were ​offering two years of tax-free income for teachers.

Many American teachers had crossed into Canada in order ​to avoid the draft for the Vietnam War. These were very ​troubled times. Now, there was just one hiccup with this ​appointment in Taber, Alberta. They wanted a ​teacher/librarian. And I did wonder why a tiny dot of a ​town in Alberta would be advertising for staff in Sydney.

I had a good friend and colleague, a librarian, and we ​cobbled together a letter indicating that I had some ​library qualifications. Off went the application, and in a ​very short turnaround, I had the job to start in January ​1968.

The dream could begin...

It’s Election Time in

Tasmania

The decision by the state government ​to prioritise a new AFL stadium at the ​Hobart Waterfront over addressing ​the very real issues of housing, ​health facilities, and the environment ​in Tasmania has sparked criticism.

While some argue that the stadium could ​bring economic benefits, others believe ​resources should be allocated to more ​pressing social needs. Ultimately, it ​highlights the challenge of balancing ​competing priorities and the importance ​of our input in decision-making.

REMEMBER TO VOTE