Mother’s list of ages

Mother moved into a retirement village managed by the ​Hibernians. Not a Catholic Enclave. They took anyone who ​could pay. There was a small chapel on the grounds and a ​priest living in retirement. His name was Father Paul, and ​he was in the early stages of Dementia.

Father Paul took it upon himself to send a birthday card to ​Pope Paul VI with best wishes from all the Catholic ​residents of the Village. He did some snooping in the ​records of the Hibernians and found out the age of all of ​the Catholics and included these facts in his letter, sent ​with the card.

And then he notified the Village community by pinning a ​note on the community notice board. And he sent a copy of ​his letter, including all the ages, to all the Catholics in the ​Village.

Word soon got out of what he had done. Some were quite ​happy, and others were furious. Including the O'Briens, Mr ​and Mrs., whose name, it turned out, was also on the list of ​Catholics.

Mr O'Brien called on Father Paul in order to register his ​anger. Anger. Yes. For he was not a Catholic.

Father had no idea who he was; he asked him his name, ​and the reply came, "O'Brien". Father Paul shot back, "Well, ​with a name like that, you should be a Catholic."

Mother kept the list of Catholics plus their ages next to the ​telephone as she was often asked what age so-and-so was. ​And when she died, I had a request from one of the non-​Catholics in the Village if she could have Mother’s list of the ​ages.

mother AND father go to America

My Father was from the old school where the rule was Aussies don't tip. This was reinforced daily at the Bowls Club, where he ​played bowls twice a week. Tipping was not allowed.

So when my parents booked to go on a tour of America, I gently spoke to Father about the low wages of wait staff and most ​workers in the hospitality industry, telling him that there was an expectation that tips would be a necessary part of their wages. ​Americans felt quite comfortable with this.

Oh, but Jack Fay wasn't going to go along with that silliness.

So off they went, and Mother tells me that mostly they managed to avoid situations where they had to pay, as everything was ​included in the package they had already paid for.

Towards the end of their journey, they visited an LA restaurant, and Mother gently raised the issue of tipping. She obviously ​made a good case for when the bill came; it was for something and 99c. My Father left the 1c as a tip.

As they exited the restaurant, the waiter threw the one cent at them. And my Father stooped to pick it up. Once again, Mother ​dies of mortification. But what can you do?

a comedy of errors...

With my Father's Dementia getting worse, I set in motion a ​plan to have his driving licence revoked. As he was 78, it ​meant that only a doctor could certify that he was not fit to ​hold a licence.

There was a department at the Prince of Wales Hospital ​where I could have him assessed. As far as I was concerned, ​it was a laydown-misere.

Now, my Father, all his life, had avoided having anything to ​do with doctors. I don't know where that came from, but he ​managed to give them a wide berth.

I managed to convince him that the doctor I wanted to take ​him to had a new treatment for Arthritis. My Father ​suffered terribly from Arthritis, and so he grudgingly agreed ​to go and see this doctor.

The day came for our appointment; he was quite affable, ​and before long, he was failing mightly all the memory ​tests that the doctor was subjecting him to, repeating the ​three fruits mentioned earlier: who was the Prime Minister, ​the month and year, etc.

I was feeling good; I knew that his licence was going to be ​cancelled. And then came the final request: "Mr Fay, I want ​you to count backwards from 100 minus 9".

Thank god I wasn't having to do the test myself. My Father, ​though, didn't draw breath: "91, 82, 73, 64, 55..." all the ​way to zero. The stunned doctor looked at me and shook his ​head, and I knew that my Father had passed enough of the ​test to save his licence.

You have to realise that my Father did SP bookmaking all ​his life; he was a whiz with figures. As we walked back to ​the car, my Father said: "Bloody Doctor, didn't even know ​who the Prime Minister was. And he did nothing for my ​Arthritis."

the new home...decor

I often try to work out early influences that might have ​helped me to seek a life in the Arts. As I mentioned in ​an earlier blog, my Father built a house for us.

All brand new. It afforded lots of wall space, and heaven ​only knows where he sought 'things' for the walls, but we ​ended up with two prints, an etched glass mirror, and a ​wall of flock wallpaper.

The prints were Sofala by Russel Drysdale and Basketball at ​Broome, also by Russell Drysdale. It makes me think that ​Dad met a fellow at the pub who was offering ART at ​bargain prices. (Everything under the sun was available at ​the pub.

You could get a parking fine disappeared, and you could ​get a bottle of Johnny Walker Black label, you could put an ​SP bet on a racehorse, and maybe art prints too.) These ​works have stayed with me ever since.

The mirror over the fireplace was huge, and etched into its ​surface was an Egyptian scene with camels, the pyramids ​and palm trees.

I suppose the sand of the desert worked well with the sand ​of the dunes where our house now stood. I now love David ​Hockney's Egyptian-themed works, and they, in turn, bring ​back memories of that mirrored scene.

The less said about the flocked wallpaper, the better.

Christmas at the Fay's

It was the family tradition that we all gathered at Mum ​and Dad's for Christmas lunch. It was quite an ordeal ​for my Mother as she was not someone who enjoyed ​cooking. And Christmas with guests called for a ​superhuman effort on her part.

Up to a dozen people would be present. And on this ​particular Christmas, we were to be joined by three lads ​who were submariners; they were friends of my nephews ​who were also in the navy.

These lads were from Perth, but they were in Sydney for ​Christmas. And so my Mother offered an invitation for them ​to join us.

So, an extra special effort was going to be needed in the ​presence of strangers. Best foot forward. Mother decided ​that we would have a ham salad. The Christmas ham ​always came from the pub, and I have to say they were ​always beautifully cooked hams.

Now, a salad for Mother meant iceberg lettuce, slices of ​tomato, beetroot and a pickled onion. But she knew that ​places like David Jones, their food hall had entire counters ​of exotic salads, so she threw caution to the wind, and for ​the first time, garlic, walnuts, coriander, chickpeas, pine ​nuts, parmesan cheese, and chives, and on and on.

The meal went down a treat, and everyone heaped praise on ​Mother for the spread she provided.

In an attempt to stop the usual fight that always took place ​after lunch, my two maiden aunts battled to see who would ​do the washing up.

On this occasion, Mother had decided to provide good ​quality paper plates, especially as we had a large number of ​folks present.

So the table was cleared of the paper plates, and my aunts ​disappeared to the kitchen, having decided the plates were ​so superior that they could be washed up and used again ​next year. You just can't win.

When order was finally restored, my Father took it upon ​himself to make a little speech. He welcomed the three ​sailors, though he couldn't remember their names and ​wasn't quite sure why they were there. He even thanked ​Mother (or Poddles, as he called her) for the lovely spread ​she had provided. "But," he said, "I have only one criticism. ​There was no beetroot in any of the salads."

It was always thus...

Mum nearly had a heart attack

In the mid-1950s, we moved from a small apartment in ​Randwick to the newly built home (solid double brick) on ​the sandy dunes of Pagewood/Maroubra. Everything was ​brand new. Good. Best.

In fact much of the contents of the house were too good to ​either touch or walk on or sit on. So the carpet was hidden ​under strips of Feltex runner, and the lounge was covered ​in cloth (we boys were not even allowed to sit on it.) We ​had the floor to stretch out on to watch the telly. And the ​too-good crockery was locked away in the dining room ​cabinet.

Only one item seemed to be missing from my Father's ​dream home: no dishwasher. When quizzed about that, he ​replied: "No need for that. I married one." And he meant it. ​My Father was not noted for his sense of humour.

As I said, the house was designed by my Father. My ​Mother was not consulted. So, the two smallest rooms in ​the house were the kitchen and the bathroom. It did not ​come into my Father's mind that within the walls of the ​kitchen, there would be a stove, a fridge, benches and ​cupboards, a table and chairs.

And so my Mother now waited on the first visit from the ​Parish Priest.

My brother John was the No.1 altar boy, and we were all ​well known to Father Power. Days, weeks, and months ​went by with Mother on the alert for the first sighting of ​Father coming up the drive. She’d whip off all the ​coverings and mats and lead him into her pristine lounge ​room.

But Father never did appear, and Mother relaxed in her ​vigil.

One bright Monday morning, Mother was hanging out the ​washing on the Hills Hoist in the backyard. Seeing as it ​was summer, Mother was clad rather scantily in bare feet, ​little shorts, a singlet top with no bra. When around the ​corner of the house appeared Father Power.

Mother nearly had a heart attack.

And so she had to lead the priest in through the kitchen ​(washing up still in the sink) over the Feltex runners and ​sit him down on the cloth covers of the lounge. ​Mortification & hellfire, for sure.

We were packed in like sardines. It was the same with the ​bathroom: shower, bath, toilet, and basin, all crammed in. ​But we were happy little Vegemite’s to be living in our ​brand-new home.

It was the only time the parish priest did visit in the 20 ​years we lived in that house. My Father's final words as we ​left were, "That carpet is good for another twenty years."

Rarely have I stooped

to such depths...

One of the things that first caught my eye when I began to ​seriously Op-Shop came as a result of deep dives into bins ​of soft toys, hunting for that elusive treasure hiding at the ​bottom. Every now and again, I would come across a teddy ​bear or a doll that had many or various parts either missing ​or hanging by a thread: eyes, ears, hands, legs or arms.

These toys spoke to me as damaged goods, damaged in the ​rush of life, abandoned or discarded. (I am getting a tad ​melodramatic here, so please bear with me.)

And so I began to collect them...and ​all other things broken. Snow ​Domes were a particular favourite, ​especially where they had run dry, ​had parts dislodged under the ​dome, or the fluid had gone like ​urine from a seriously ill person. ​You get my drift. The photographer ​Martin Mischkulnig took a wonderful ​picture of me sitting surrounded by ​some of my broken toys (above).

So that's the background to the event that happened when I ​was delivering Meals-on-Wheels in Balmain, Sydney. In ​those days, we often went right into the homes of clients, ​putting the meals in the refrigerator or, in some cases, ​serving them up on the plate.

So, in entering people's homes, one often saw things that ​got the creative juices flowing...a picture ripe for cutting ​into collage, a quilt that was a true work of art in itself, ​studio photos of strange groupings. But I was under control ​and never mentioned that I would give my eye teeth to have ​that, what was, to me, a treasure.

All this came to grief when delivering a meal to a lady ​living alone in Balmain. She was well into her 90s and was ​legally blind. The flat where she lived was sparsely ​furnished with a table and chairs and a couch in the living ​area. And on the couch was a teddy bear that was the Ur-​teddy-of-the-lost-abandoned-and-disgarded.

Its fur had a bad dose of the mange. One eye was missing, ​and one hung on for dear life by a thread, and it was ​missing one arm. I had to have it. The client was blind. ​Surely she wouldn't miss it if I took it. It's not worth ​anything. I could replace it with a brand-new teddy bear.

On and on, my mind raced with ​these devious schemes. But ​each time, I managed to pull ​up just short of some criminal ​act or crime against humanity. ​Well, if not humanity, then ​certainly Muriel of Balmain.

So, I decided to go for broke. I ​asked her outright if I could ​have that teddy and replace it ​with a new one.

For what seemed an eternity, she just stared at me, saying ​nothing. Then, the tears welled in her eyes, and deep, deep ​sobs were uttered. And through all this, she managed to ​whisper in broken gulps of voice that that Teddy was the ​only thing she had of her daughter's. A daughter who had ​drowned at the age of 10 on Christmas Eve. And here it ​was, Christmas Eve.

I don't think I have ever committed such a low act...or ​attempted such a low act. And to make matters worse, she ​had a scratchy lottery ticket which she had for me as a gift ​to thank me for bringing her meals. Boy, oh, boy, did I ​learn a lesson that day. And never would I utter a word ​about anything in anyone's home ever again.

I just hope that Muriel was able to forgive me. She died not ​long after. May she rest in peace.

I first met the artist John Firth-Smith when we were both ​appointed to Fort St Boys' High School in the mid-1960s. ​For me, it was my first teaching appointment, and for ​John, he had been appointed to be an Art teacher.

The curriculum had been expanded, Art had become a ​compulsory subject, and there were many positions ​needing to be filled. At that time, John was involved in an ​aggressive restoration of a house fronting onto Sydney’s ​Lavender Bay just a few doors around from Brett and ​Wendy Whiteley.

John had gutted the large three-storied house, and there ​was rubble everywhere. He was looking for labourers to get ​the rubble out into the skips on the street.

He asked me and another young teacher if we would help, ​offering to pay us handsomely. "No, No, No", we said. It ​will be fun, and we were willing and able.

So we presented for labouring and worked solidly all day. It ​was hot, and the work heavy, but hey, we were young lads ​and were not going to admit that we were 'buggered'.

When the job was finished, having refused any money, ​John said that he wanted to reward us and offered us a ​choice: we could have a dozen bottles of beer each or take ​our pick of one of his paintings that were stacked deep ​against the wall—no hesitation from either of us: “The ​BEER, please.”

Many years later, I still remember the day when I turned ​down the chance to acquire one of John's fantastic ​harbour paintings. But at that stage, my journey in the ​world of art was a long, long way from even starting.

are you still identifying

as female?

I seem to have a knack for losing my wallet every six months ​or so. After searching high and low, looking in the fridge, the ​dishwasher and the washing machine, checking under the bed, ​and even checking in the freezer, it usually happens that the ​wallet miraculously turns up, having been hidden in plain ​sight all the while.

But on the last occasion, the wallet remained hidden or lost. ​And so that meant a trip to the Centrelink Office to begin the ​process of replacing the Medibank card.

The Centrelink office environment fills me with a deep dread. ​It feels as if your life force is being drained from you. But ​eventually, an operative arrives and calls your name. In the ​midst of the COVID-19 epidemic, the workstations at the ​Centrelink offices are surrounded by perspex screens, reaching ​almost to the ceiling and of a thickness that looks to be ​bulletproof.

So, when I was being questioned by the staff member, I had a ​feeling as if we were speaking underwater. She took my ​particulars, name, date of birth, and address and typed the ​responses onto her screen. There followed a long silence as ​she stared at the screen with an expression that told me that ​there was a problem.

The furrowed brow and much-troubled breathing. The ​swivelling on her chair, she leaned into her side of the perspex ​screen, and in hushed tones, she asked: "And are you still ​identifying as female?"

Now, in my lifetime, I have been asked some odd questions, ​but I felt this took the cake. I was aware of the security guard ​patrolling nearby and was cognisant of the fact that a flippant ​answer could have me handcuffed and led off to the cells. So ​"No. I've never identified as a woman." "Well, you don't look ​like one," was her reassuring response.

For the next fifteen minutes, she tried unsuccessfully to ​amend my gender status but to no avail. She told me that she ​would have to speak to her supervisor in Canberra as she did ​not have the authority to alter my gender status.

As I was about to begin delivering Meals on Wheels, I left it to ​her to set right. I did feel that as I left the building, there was ​a hesitance in my step. I can only hope that between the ​operative and the higher powers that be, my male identity has ​been restored.

P.S. ...the wallet turned up days later, hiding in the woodbox. ​Don't even ask...

Whenever someone comes over to see what I’m doing, they ​inevitably ask, “How is Artificial Intelligence (AI) involved?”. AI ​is everywhere; it's helping me write this post in Gmail (my go-​to writing App), and it assists me when I’m building Peter's ​blog pages and his website.

AI is in every software application we use ​today, lending a hand for image ​generation and editing, text creation and ​editing, search, e-mail, Alexa and Siri, ​website design and creation, and Google ​Maps, to name a few.

I spent six months earlier this year ​learning and practising with a text-to-​image App called Midjourney, where I ​created 14000 images. I know; I let out a ​little gasp when I read that in my ​Midjourney Profile as I neared the end of ​my interest in the process.

Then there is OpenAI’s ChatGPT; I loved learning about this ​App. I actually learned more than just how the App works and ​how to use it; I learned about some of the philosophy texts I ​read in new ways. New ways of looking at what I was reading ​and new forms of discussion and writing.

ChatGPT is not just an AI text editor; you can ask it very ​complex philosophical questions, and as long as you reference ​the material you are reading, for example: "Mooji and Non-​duality", ChatGPT will have read all of Mooji's writings on the ​subject, and it will answer your questions consistently with his ​teachings.

Say you want to ask the same ​question but use the Bible as ​a reference; tell ChatGPT that ​in your prompt, and it will ​answer you according to that ​reference.

You can also make your own ​writing sing in ChatGPT; just ​enter an email or a story you ​have written into the App and ​add instructions to the ​prompt like (rewrite this in ​the style of Dickens, shorten ​this or make this more ​humorous.)

The sky is the limit with ChatGPT when it comes to prompts. ​Try it, it's free to use and you will find it's quite addictive.

On Canva, the App I use for web design, the AI does all the ​usual things: image generation and editing, text generation ​and editing, and I think, though I don't know this, it aids in ​page management by automatically moving links and pages ​when I add or delete a page.

I am also finding new ways Canva is using AI to streamline ​workflows and edit so that I never need to leave the App; ​everything I need is already in Canva. Canva is free to use as ​well, and it's more than just a web design tool. It is a full ​design suite for every design possibility.

I absolutely love Artificial ​Intelligence. The internet feels ​like it's come of age now, and ​it's only just the start. If you use ​Gmail, you are already using AI, ​but I would encourage you to try ​using some of the other ​applications and programs with ​AI features.

All the images in the post were ​generated using only text in ​Midjourney AI.

TW0 EXAMPLES FROM ChatGPT

I took the final paragraph from James Joyce’s “The Dead”, and I put it through ChatGPT and asked it to be rewritten in the style of Dickens ​and then in the style of Shakespeare. Here is what I got.

The original text:

Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, ​falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark, mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every ​part of the lonely churchyard and headstones where Michael Fury lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on ​the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and ​faintly falling like the descent of their last end upon the living and the dead.

ChatGPT in the style of Dickens:

Indeed, the chronicles of the day spoke the truth: a blanket of snow enveloped all of Ireland in its icy grasp. It descended upon the vast expanse ​of the sombre central plains, enveloping the barren hills in its silent embrace. Softly, it fell upon the desolate expanse of the Bog of Allen, and ​farther to the west, it gently kissed the dark, rebellious waves of the Shannon. The snow also graced the solitary churchyard, where the mortal ​remains of Michael Fury found their eternal rest. It generously covered the twisted crosses and grave markers, the iron spears of the small ​gate, and the stark, leafless thorns.

The soul of the observer, moved by this wintry scene, felt a gradual, deep surrender as the snowflakes descended, each flake a silent herald of ​the inevitable end. This quiet downfall, echoing through the cosmos, seemed to unite the fates of the living and the departed in a gentle yet ​inexorable descent.

ChatGPT in the style of Shakespeare:

Yea, verily, the chronicles of yore did speak the truth: 'cross the breadth of Ireland, snow did reign supreme. It graced each corner of the ​sombre, vast expanse, o'er treeless mounts and plains, in gentle guise descending upon Allen's vast and barren Bog. And further to the west, it ​laid its silent touch upon the dark and brooding waves of Shannon's mutinous embrace.

Upon the solitary grounds where churchyard's silent vigil keeps, 'twas falling too, where Michael Fury rests 'neath stone and sod. It draped in a ​wintry cloak the crooked crosses, headstones grim, the gate's small spears, and thorns bereft of summer's bloom.

His spirit, in its slow and dreamy descent, felt the hush of snowflakes weaving through the cosmos with a whisper soft as death. And thus, like ​the final curtain's fall on life's grand stage, it settled, indifferent, upon both kin of living breath and those in death's eternal sleep.

Learning while playing

everywhere you go...

Welcome to a world of imagination...

A thundering silence descended

There was some excitement from the higher-ups at The King’s ​School when it was announced in October ‘75 that Governor-​General Sir John and Lady Kerr had accepted the invitation to ​be the guests at the Speech Day ceremonies set down for early ​December 1975. He would not have been the choice for a ​Speech Day guest had many of the staff been asked. But there ​it was, the Kerr's were coming.

Between the issuing of the invitation and the event itself, ​another event of some major import which involved the ​Governor General took place. On Nov 11th, 1975, Sir John Kerr ​decided to sack the elected Prime Minister.

There was some discussion as to whether Kerr would come to ​the Speech Day as there was concern for his safety, and, as ​the event was being held outdoors, further concerns were ​raised that it would not be possible to secure the venue. But ​no doubt those in authority at Government House made the ​call that the grounds of The King's School (pictured below) ​would be a safe haven from those wishing to protest.

The Speech Day dawned, and at an early time in the morning, ​undercover police and security men, armed and with things in ​their ears, took up their positions around the school grounds. ​Members of staff had been summoned to assemble in the ​Common Room, where they were to be introduced to The ​Governor General, Lady Kerr, the Anglican Archbishop of ​Sydney, Sir Marcus Loane and Lady Loane.

A large circle was formed, and the introductions were started. ​There was an immediate problem with Sir John Kerr. He was ​drunk and very unsteady on his feet, having attended earlier ​in the day at a function at Duntroon where no doubt the ​liquor flowed freely.

He made quite a sight: blood red in the face, a mop of white ​hair, all topped off by a top hat. (Gilbert and Sullivan would ​have gone to town with this one.) So he was whisked to a side ​room with Lady Kerr, leaving Headmaster Kurrle and his wife ​to introduce the staff to Sir Marcus and Lady Loane.

Mrs Kurrle accompanied Lady Loane, and as they approached ​where I was standing, Mrs Kurrle seized on the fact that John ​Bradshaw (member of staff) was standing next to me, so she ​introduced Lady Loane thus: "Lady Loane, may I present Mr ​John Bradshaw. He is a bachelor, which affords him the ​advantage of being able to ski in Europe in the Summer."

A thundering silence descended. Lady Loane drew even closer ​into herself, clutching the handbag even tighter and closer ​into her bosom and responded in a basso profundo, "I can ​think of no advantage of being a bachelor." My bacon was ​saved as Mrs Kurrle spotted another member of staff with 5+ ​children. Lady Loane was back amongst the faithful with this ​staff member.

The actual Speech Day ceremony went off without incident. Sir ​Marcus asked for the assembled parents and staff to give a ​rousing round of applause to support the actions taken by the ​Governor General in the sacking of the Prime Minister. There ​were pockets of silence from staff and parents. Sir John did ​not take any part in the ceremonies, sitting in a stupor and ​seen to be nodding off, with prods from Lady Kerr to bring ​him back to consciousness.

As soon as the event was over, the Kerrs were whisked away ​in their motorcade, and we were left to continue to argue the ​rights and wrongs of what Kerr had done to the Whitlam ​government.