Blog:

For many years, I was pretty busy going around the galleries ​in Sydney and Melbourne, just looking at what was on the ​walls......and making a few purchases. (But that's another ​story for another day.) I decided that it might be instructive ​to see, as I was looking at art, then to have a go at learning ​some of the techniques so that I would be better informed ​as to what I was looking at.

And so, I enrolled in the Willoughby Arts Centre to do a ​course in etching. There were about ten in the group, and ​some of them had been enrolled for years and were still ​working meticulously on the one etching plate that they had ​begun on evening one. A tad too anally retentive for this ​would be etcher.

Very soon, I was breaking all the rules, even taking a ​hammer to the plate, dipping plates in acid that would cut ​through steel, and scratching the plate with a nail. In other ​words, I wanted results in an instant. But it was not long ​before a couple in the group became devotees of the ​hammer and nail.

The teacher was, if not enthusiastic, then encouraging us to ​follow our own paths. I knew that I had to have at least one ​work ready to show in the end-of-term exhibition. And so ​when I see a Picasso etching with his signature printed ​backwards, I smile to myself and know that in that moment ​of signing, Picasso forgot that everything has to be done ​backwards.

As far as I was concerned the course taught me much about ​the art of etching. It can get terribly technical, but there are ​those who make it a special technique to work their magic. ​Fred Williams and John Brack are two of my favourite ​etchers.

During this period, I was a friend of Salvatore Zofrea, an ​artist with a long studio practice, and as he was living just ​down the road in Kurrajong, I spent many hours in his ​studio watching him paint.

I must have got on his goat telling him that I was keen to ​start to paint that he went out and bought me a ​rudimentary set of oil paints and some stretched canvases ​and told me to stop talking about it and to do it. And I did.

I jumped in with no idea....well, some idea but no way of ​being able to make the paint do what I wanted it to do. ​Though maybe they were being polite, friends who visited ​said they liked what I was doing. But believe me, it was a ​most unpleasant experience standing with a brush in hand, ​and I knew that I was kidding myself. A big bonfire (of the ​vanities if ever there was one), and that part of my life was ​well and truly over.

By a stroke of good luck, my dear friend Ann Lewis asked ​me if I would like to drive with her to Canberra, where she ​was having lunch with Rosalie Gascoigne. So that was day 1 ​of a long friendship with Rosalie.

I would often return to Canberra and chat with Rosalie. ​There were many wonderful works of hers in the house, and ​I made a promise to myself never to ask if any particular ​work was for sale.

On one visit, I sat in her living room, absolutely mesmerised ​by a table piece, "Down to the Silver Sea." (Pictured above) ​And suddenly, I saw that rather than moving a paintbrush ​with the full arm levered at the shoulder, I could feel my ​fingers twitching as I knew that the way to go was delicate ​manipulation from the fingertips.

Focused and small. This was from observing the way Rosalie ​had attached a doll's leg to the sculptural work that was ​before me. All the way I drove back to Sydney, I could not ​take that work out of my mind, and, on the next day, after a ​sleepless night, I broke my rule and rang Rosalie and asked ​if the piece was ever to be sold, then would she give me first ​refusal. I had determined to raise the funds no matter what.

Rosalie said that she would give me the work. I was ​speechless, muttering about payment, etc. etc. But she said ​it was to be mine. I crashed to the ground when, in the next ​breath, she said that it was one of Ben's (her husband) ​favourite works.

Rosalie had initially offered the work to James Mollison, the ​Director of the National Gallery of Australia, to thank him ​for the support her gave her in the early years of her career, ​but James had said no as it was unethical for someone in ​his position to accept gifts from artists.

And so it gave me much pleasure some ten years later when ​I gifted the work to the National Gallery of Australia. But ​thank you, Rosalie, for through that work, you showed me ​how I might move forward with my explorations in art.

Something told me that yellow ​plastic might be the way to go. ​Over the next five or so years, I ​filled my studio with anything ​made in yellow plastic and just ​loved making assemblages in ​that material. And somehow I ​also managed to gather huge ​quantities of white plastic, but ​it didn't speak to me in the ​same way as did the yellow.

Until one day I was driving ​with Ann Lewis from Paris to ​the south of France when, ​suddenly, Mont St Victoire ​loomed large on the horizon. It ​was early morning, and the ​brilliant sun was making the ​geological aspects of the ​mountain dance and shine.

No wonder it challenged Cezanne all his painting life. And ​suddenly, I knew it was to be white plastic, and I would ​make my responses to Mont St Victoire. The next year's ​work was laid out before me.

But all the while, I was ​busy making collages. Lots ​of Nolan influences in the ​subject matter and ​references to some early ​photos that my mother had ​taken of me. Then we ​moved to Hobart, and I ​thought that I had said ​goodbye to the art world.

For the first five years, I did nothing...no studio work, no ​gallery visits (MONA as a tourist): my time was filled with ​building a garden and reading books for hours a day. Totally ​fulfilling.

One day, a friend was visiting from out of state, and she ​wanted to do a bit of op-shopping, so off we set. And it was ​in a St Vincent's shop here in Hobart that I found a studio ​study photograph of what looked like a young Italian man. I ​knew immediately that I would make a collage using that ​photo as a base.

For the next five years, I did that work in my head as I was ​too afraid to cut up the photo as I knew that I would get ​only one 'go' at it. Until it dawned on me that I could make ​photocopies of the original photograph and cut the copies ​up in any way, shape, or form I wanted. And so, once again, ​I was away.

I started to work on the dining room table, but in all ​seriousness, I was only tinkering at the edges. You have to ​be able to make a mess, to have 'stuff' all around you as it ​is in the things that you see in the periphery of your vision ​that often the work takes shape.

Robin could see that I was ready to go again, and it was his ​suggestion to turn the guest bedroom into a studio. I was ​not enthusiastic. I felt it was a bit selfish. Guests would ​have to sleep on the couches. But hey, I could use the room ​eight hours a day.

Productively. And yes, the guests, few and far between, ​could have the couches. So out went the bed, up came the ​carpet, the floor was sanded and polished (came up like ​gold), and I moved in.

In the three months I have made just over 550 works. Many ​are duds....many ok...some I think aren't too bad...and every ​now and then, I stand back and think,' That's bloody good. I ​feel so chuffed when that happens. Makes everything that ​came before worthwhile. The agony and the ecstasy, if you ​like.

Robin has built me a fantastic website & blog, and I know ​from the responses that my work is going out into a wider ​world and is receiving much praise. My garden is getting a ​little untidy, and there are books piling up everywhere, but ​they will be there for another day.

For the moment, my life is to be found in that studio with ​my scissors, glue and a sprinkle of creativity. That will do ​me. So, thanks to Ann Lewis, Rosalie Gascoigne and Robin. ​In huge measure. Always.

I'll call her Fifi...

She was a teachers' aid at one of the schools at which I ​taught and she uttered two of the funniest retorts I've ​ever heard.

Imagine the scene: it's lunch hour in the staff room, and ​conversations are happening all over the place. Fifi has ​half an ear on one such conversation where two ​members of staff are talking about a colleague who had ​told them that he had had oral sex for half an hour. ​"Whatever would they talk about?" chimed in Fifi.

The other occasion involved a member of staff who ​taught senior English and was also the School ​Counsellor. Fifi would often see this member of staff ​carrying files containing details of the students she was ​counselling in manilla folders with the student's name ​on the cover.

On this particular day, the teacher was going off to an ​English class and was carrying a folder bulging with ​notes on Othello: Othello was written in large caps on the ​cover of her folder. Fifi spotted this and said, "You must ​know more about Othello than his mother."

Fifi brought much joy and amusement to us all.

Designed by the Fuhrer Himself

When I returned to Australia after teaching in Canada and ​the UK, one of my first purchases was a brand-new VW. ​Previously, I had always had second-down 'bombs' or hand-​me-downs from my Father, usually cars well beyond their ​used-by date.

The excitement was palpable as I jumped in and took off. ​And plenty of room in the VW despite my large frame. ​(Years later, I was to ride in a friend's Rolls Royce, and I ​found the front seat rather cramped. But not a problem with ​the mighty VW).

And for the next eight or so years, the little beetle went like ​a dream. Never a problem. Until one morning, it did not ​start. Now, I know absolutely nothing about car mechanics, ​but my experience with earlier cars told me, from the sound ​coming when I turned the ignition key, that I had a flat ​battery. And then it struck me that in the previous eight ​years, I didn't recall ever seeing a battery.

Frantic searching failed to find the battery. Maybe these cars ​don't have batteries. They seemed to run on air anyway. And ​as I knew that they were designed by The Fuhrer himself, ​then maybe he had done away with batteries. Could they be ​powered by some Hunish device?

So I had to make the rather humiliating phone call to find ​out where the battery might be hiding. UNDER THE BACK ​SEAT. You've got to be joking. But sure enough, here was ​the little bugger, and all my problems were over.

Or so I thought. They say troubles come in threes. Some ​three weeks later, I had my first puncture in the VW. Easy ​peasy. Up with the bonnet and out with the gadget to ​remove the nuts on the wheel.

“Bugger.” Couldn't move them an inch. Wasn't it a part of ​the Aussie male macho image that any man can change a ​tyre, with the ladies having to rely on the NRMA? As much ​as I tried, I couldn't get any traction with the dinky little nut ​remover. I had no option but to call the NRMA.

The friendly NRMA man soon arrived, and I was rather ​embarrassed as I showed him the device that was useless. ​"Stand aside, Sir," he said."That's not the nut remover. It's ​the spark plug remover."

And so I had to stand and watch as he did the job. And he ​left me with a bit of advice."Go straight to a car service and ​parts place and buy a wheel brace. Don't buy a cheap one. ​Buy the best. The cheap ones are no good and will let you ​down as they snap in two."

So, off to the shop I went and was confronted with two-​wheel brace models—one for about $90 and the other for ​$35. With the words of the NRMA man ringing in my ears, I ​bought the $35 model. I left feeling I could now take part in ​the Redex Round Australia trial.

Not two weeks later, another puncture. No problems. Out ​with the brand new wheel brace, I took my grip, deep breath ​in, extra grunt, and suddenly I had a wheel brace in two ​separate parts.

Call to the NRMA. And, with the tyre replaced, straight to ​the automotive shop to buy that super-duper, top-of-the-​range, stronger-than-steel wheel brace.

I never had another puncture in that little bug. Still can't or ​won't change a tyre. Leave it to the good old NRMA or, now, ​here in Tassie, the RACT. Bless 'em.

Breaking my

Dad’s heart

My father played representative ​football, so there was always a ​hope burning deep in his heart ​that his firstborn, me, would one ​day follow in his footsteps.

His hopes no doubt rose that I ​was on the path to glory when I ​told him that I had been selected ​to represent my school in an ​Under 10s Rugby League game.

The game would be played in Queen's Park on the ​coming Thursday afternoon. I did not mention that I ​assumed that I was picked for the team as I was a ​big lad and tall for my age, and that was about the ​only thing I had going for me at the time—a case of ​brawn-over talent.

My father didn't tell me that he was planning to take ​some time off work and come down to the park to ​watch me play. Upon arriving at the Park, he soon ​located the field on which my team was playing, but ​he couldn't see me out there in the fray.

A few quick questions to a lad on the sidelines soon ​established that he had the right day and the right ​ground."But where's Fay?"

"Oh, he's only a reserve today. There he is," pointing ​to a lad sitting under a large tree. And sure enough, ​there I was, sitting with my back to the game ​making a daisy chain.

The Horror. The Horror. ​My Father beat a hasty ​retreat, no doubt to the ​pub to drown his sorrows.

It was years later when ​my Father told me that he ​was there that day, a day ​when he first realised, no ​doubt, that I was ​marching to a different ​drum.

Strangely, I have no memories of ever playing any ​code of football as a child.

26 November 2023

This is the time of the year when mention ​of roses moves out of the book ("Truth and ​Roses have thorns about them." Thoreau. "A ​rose is a rose is a rose" Gertrude Stein. "A ​rose by any other name would smell as ​sweet." Shakespeare) and into the garden. ​This year, they are blooming in a ​tremendous profusion.

Young bushes have come to their maturity ​and are just dripping with blooms. The good ​winter rains have sent moisture down deep, ​and thus, the garden is showing the ​benefits.

The Mr Lincoln Rose is filling the garden ​with wonderful perfume. Many of the new ​varieties have little to no perfume, having to ​make up for that with blooms of outrageous ​size and a deep density of colour.

Most of the poppies that grow in the garden ​are now self-sown, and they, at times, get ​to weed proportions. They fill in any gap in ​either the garden or the cracks between ​bricks in the path.

We have a fine variety of poppies. There are ​the traditional red poppies of Flanders field ​fame, a tall blue/black one growing to over ​6 feet, and a rare salmon pink one with a ​flower head the size of a side plate.

The Californian poppies come in yellow and ​pale cream. Overall, they make for a ​wonderful display, and what is even better ​is that they do it without any help from me.

I'm not very good at remembering botanical ​names. But when I tell you that the ​Chincherinchee are currently doing their ​thing, it would be fantastic if I could have a ​go at saying the botanical name. It's ​Ornithogalum Thyrsoides (sounds like a ​ghastly medical condition). They are ​wonderful as a cut flower and last for ​weeks.

In a general roundup of other bloomers at ​this time, there are the lupins, the bearded ​iris and several native shrubs (I can't ​remember their names).

The rhododendron has put forth a ​magnificent display this year, making up for ​last year when it did not flower. I came ​within an inch of taking it out. But hey, it ​has just gone and shown me out to be a ​bully when it comes to plants in the garden.

I have kept the good wine till last. Every ​garden demands a plant or shrub or tree ​that, if it were the only thing in the garden, ​would be worth all the effort that a garden ​demands.

In my case, the show-stopper is just about ​in full bloom. It's the Pachystegia Insignis... ​or its common name - Marlborough Rock ​Daisy. There is nothing common about this ​plant.

It is native to New Zealand and seems to ​thrive in poor soil and dry conditions. But ​here in my garden, it has found a place ​away from home where it thrives. Slow ​growing at the best of times, we have had ​this one growing for just ten years, and if ​anything should happen to it, I would be ​devastated. I just hope that there is enough ​of the New Zealander left in Robin to ​nurture and nourish this magnificent plant.

Saturday morning used to be compulsory listening to the ​garden show when listeners would ring in to ask the ​resident gardening guru, Miss Swaine, to solve their ​particular gardening problems.

She had a take-no-prisoners approach to her listeners' ​problems. A Mrs. Zep was a regular caller, and in an ​accent that could cut through, I know not what, she ​would say things like: My Rhodendron has all leaves and ​no bloomers. She was hilarious.

On another occasion, a distraught listener told of his ​efforts to resuscitate a dying tree. He told of his many ​efforts to revive it, giving it enormous feeds of manure ​and dynamic lifter, all to no avail. Miss Swaine shot ​back: "Would you give a dying man a baked dinner?"

When a listener asked about how to go about feeding a ​Jacaranda tree, Miss Swaine told him to make friends ​with the neighbours three doors away.

And when someone asked how best to transplant a large ​Camellia that was too close to the house, Miss Swaine ​told him he was foolish to have planted it there in the ​first place and that he should leave the tree in peace.

She was truly a legend in her own lifetime and had a ​huge listening audience to her rather acerbic take on ​garden problems.

Job Interviews with

Headmasters

Over my teaching career, I have taught in eight schools, which ​means, you would think, eight interviews. Not so. Here's how ​they worked out.

My first teaching position was at Fort Street Boys' High School, ​a state school in Sydney. There was no interview for this ​position. I was notified of the job by telegram, though I suppose ​there were reports made about my teaching during the Dip—Ed ​year at the Sydney Teachers' College. But I did luck out with this ​first job. Wonderful school.Wonderful Staff, and the boys a ​delight. Mostly.

Wanting to get away from Australia and to experience the world ​I applied, by letter, to a school in Alberta, Canada and got the ​job by return post. When I arrived I was in no doubt as to why I ​got the job. It is quite possible that I was the only candidate. I ​quickly saw this as a staging post and was out of there after six ​months.

My appointment to the University School in Victoria, British ​Columbia, Canada, was straightforward by conventional ​standards. I wrote an application, I was flown over to be ​interviewed, shown around the school and left wanting the job. ​A letter came a week later to say that I had been appointed.

But Canada was only a stop off to England, and after two years ​at The University School, I headed to England. On arrival, I ​bought a copy of the Times Educational Supplement and ​searched for job vacancies as an English teacher.

It was only weeks before school started for the academic year, ​and there were not many positions vacant, but there was one ​for a school in Yorkshire, and as I intended to head off to the ​Lakes District in a week or so, I applied to Ashville College in ​Harrogate, Yorks.

An interview appointment was made, and I was keen to get a ​position. I sat in the headmaster's study in a scene reminiscent ​of President Putin and his long, long table, him at one end and ​me way down the other end. A semaphore was almost needed.

The Headmaster was a man full of bluff and bluster and I was ​quickly of the opinion that I had the job as I had all the ​necessary requirements: two eyes, two ears, two arms, two legs. ​But what was a little concerning was that all through the ​interview, the Headmaster kept calling me Mr Kay.

And so, when it came time for me to sign a contract of ​employment, which had been typed up by his secretary, I decided ​that this was the moment to tell him my name was Fay, not ​Kay. "Quite right, Mr Fay", he blurted, "my secretary's error." A ​real Decline and Fall moment.

After two years at Ashville, my next appointment was at Clifton ​College Prep School. A standard procedure for this one: ​application followed by interview followed by appointment. All ​according to Hoyle.

Returning to Australia, I applied for a position at the King's ​School, Parramatta, where a short-term position was available ​to fill in for a member of staff who had to take emergency ​leave. I was a tad nervous about taking a job in this school that ​boasted so much pomp and circumstance. But hey, give it a go. ​Interview day came, and I was all done up in a newly acquired ​suit and all lick spit.

After initial introductions, the Headmaster, a Reverend, held up ​his hand to show me a finger in an enormous bandage: "I have ​been savaged by a sheep." It left me, for once, speechless. But ​on we plunged with the interview. And when it got to my ​particulars, I could see roadblocks ahead, for this was an ​Anglican school in the Sydney diocese, and my lapsed catholic ​status was not going to cut me much slack.

I was already thinking about an exit strategy. So when the good ​Reverend Headmaster asked me my religious affiliation I ​suggested that he could leave that line empty. "Oh, no. I have to ​put down something." Silence. The Headmaster, seeing my ​predicament, came to my rescue."Most just say C of E." And so, ​that day, I became a C of E. I was thinking of a special place in ​Dante's Inferno for such as me.

During my time at King's, I spent one year teaching English and ​Theatre at Phillip's Academy, Boston, USA. I had been ​recommended to this school by a colleague from King's who ​himself had been on the staff at PA. I was very excited about ​this opportunity and I arrived in good time before school began. ​In fact, I was a day earlier than anticipated as I had not taken ​into account the change of dates when you pass the ​international dateline. So I arrived unannounced and unmet—my ​fault.

I was wandering around the school, looking to make myself ​known when I was approached by a man wearing what I took to ​be his gardening clothes. We got into conversation, and he ​offered to take my bags and show me where I was to live in one ​of the cottages that dot the school estate.

The apartment lacked furniture, and he said that he would ​arrange for me to get what I needed. Nothing was too difficult ​for this chap. Later that day, I met the Head of the English Dept. ​I was telling him about the way I was made to feel at home by ​someone on the garden dept staff. "That's not the gardener. ​That's the Headmaster."

Although my appointment was only for one year, I had a ​memorable experience and worked under a Headmaster without ​a peer. He was a scholar, a gentleman, a colleague and always a ​man who did all that he could to make me feel a part of the ​school. He was, he told me, only repaying to me, an Australian, ​the kindness that had been shown to his father, who had spent ​time in Melbourne during the Second World War.

So I returned to the King's School, but I felt that my best ​teaching days had been done, and when an opportunity came to ​go and grow flowers in the Blue Mountains, I jumped at the ​chance. Now, I could be the master of my own destiny.

Things I wanted as a child

but never got... and some parental replies...

• A dog. But seeing as we always lived on busy roads, a dog was out of the question.
• A bicycle. Again, “The busy road...”
  
• A scooter with pump-up tyres. "But you have a perfectly good scooter. Just peddle faster."
  
• An electric train set. "You’ll tire of the wind-up one you've got."
  
• Biggles and Just William books. "Why not just borrow them from the library?"
  
• A Connie Agate Marble.
  
• A tin of Derwent Lakeland Coloured Pencils. “Don’t even ask”
  
• An engine for my Meccano set. "You'll soon grow out of playing with that."
  
• Pegged pants. "Not something a man would wear."
  

This litany of denials might cause you to draw the conclusion that life as a child was pretty bleak and ruled by ogres. Far from ​reality, we were happy in our lives with just the odd grumble, as this list should show. A long way from the kids of today wanting ​tattoos, nose piercings, mobile phones, computer games...the list goes on and on. BTW My boy Bill features in the background of ​this post, proving that “all good things come to those who wait”

THC & CBD Cannabis Sativa Oil?

guest blog by Robin

Recently, a dear friend who knows that I smoke Cannabis for ​pain suggested I make an appointment with Doctor Tom, ​affectionately known as the Cannabis Doctor of Tasmania ​among his friends and patients.

Initially sceptical, I agreed to make the call. Peter also joined ​(I was disabled by a stroke early in life, and Peter looks ​after many of my physical needs like helping with ​showering, dressing, medications, etc.). Dr Tom was ​charming and reassured both of us that I could try the ​Cannabis product he offered with no strings attached.

So, the prescription was sent to the pharmacy. Peter ​arranged payment and delivery, and the next day, two little ​bottles arrived in the mail.

The first was a jar of CBD Cannabis Oil, intended for ​inflammation and requiring about a month of use to reach ​full effectiveness. The second was the THC Cannabis Sativa ​Oil, which I started right away; my suspicions evaporated as ​the oil took effect.

I had a lot of anxiety about purchasing and storing illegal ​Cannabis at home. Its use was frustrating due to my limited ​hand mobility from the stroke, and the constant coughing ​and respiratory issues were bothersome.

The expense, up to $700 a month, not to mention the ​tobacco and endless pipes I bought because I never had the ​hand dexterity to clean them. It was a financial and legal ​anxiety trap. The only alternative was a return to narcotic ​pain relief, which we both wanted to avoid at all costs.

The change in my life has been profound. The experience ​with Cannabis oil is consistent; I don't get dry-mouth or ​munchies, I can work all day on my websites without any ​loss of concentration, and I sleep through the night without ​needing to puff on my pipe, which I never enjoyed.

The anxiety over illegality is gone, and though I still ​experience some pain, it's controlled more efficiently than ​when I was smoking Cannabis.

I go 10 to 12 hours between doses, without the previous ups ​and downs requiring pipes all day long and half the night. ​Now, it's just a few drops under my tongue twice a day, ​morning and night before bed.

As for the cost, Cannabis Oil isn't covered under Medicare ​yet, so it's still expensive, but $200 a month is far better ​than $700 plus the cost of paraphernalia and tobacco. Oh, ​and BTW, I've also stopped smoking tobacco, so I don’t stink ​anymore.

The THC Cannabis Sativa Oil works just like smoking ​Cannabis leaf but lasts 10 to 12 hours and doesn't affect my ​memory or body as the smoking did. I also credit Cannabis ​with controlling my epilepsy, which used to land me in the ​hospital every time the seizures were so severe. I've ​managed to live almost completely seizure-free without ​damaging anti-seizure medications for many years now.

Obtaining THC & CBD Cannabis Sativa Oil yourself is just ​a phone call away. If you need it for anxiety, sleeping issues, ​pain, or anything else, call Doctor Tom Kaczor at Cannabis ​Doctors Tasmania for a telephone appointment or visit ​their website here.

His Maiden Speech to

Parliament

Just recently, Alderman Simon Behrakis of the Hobart City ​Council was made a member of parliament to fill a vacancy ​in the Liberal ranks. When he was interviewed for the ​evening news, he uttered four sentences, each one ​containing a cliche. Here is his maiden speech to Parliament, ​courtesy of the Hansard:

Mr Speaker, I'll leave no stone unturned to bring closure to ​my constituents at the end of the day. In a nutshell, it's not ​a problem, and I'll hit the ground running because it's the ​journey and not the destination.

I'm always thinking outside the box, going above and ​beyond to find the clouds with silver linings. And as there ​are plenty more fish in the sea, I'll leave no stone unturned ​to ensure that my constituents have my undivided ​attention.

So, without more ado, have an awesome day, and I’ll make ​every post a winner.

‘time limit - 5 minutes’

I have devised a little game that helps me get my fingers ​nimble and the brain alert, both vital aspects of a good ​collagist (?).

The rules can vary depending on one's mood, but I usually ​give myself a time limit of 5 minutes and get extra points ​for using stuff retrieved from the wastepaper bin.

The serendipity is refreshing and thrilling as pictures are yet ​to take shape. The background pages I tear from a book, ​either Painting by Numbers or Joining the Dots, eventually ​revealing the images.

‘Money Talks’

We had only been living here in Hobart for a very short time ​when we joined a protest on the Parliament Lawns at ​Salamanca to protest against the logging of old-growth ​forests.

Bob Brown's name is synonymous with this protest ​movement. He rose to national recognition when he was a ​leader of the campaign to stop the damming of the Franklin ​River in North West Tasmania.

Sprinkled through the crowd on this occasion were a number ​of people holding signs that simply said, Free Sue. Robin went ​to find out what this was in reference to and soon learnt that ​these people were protesting the jailing of Sue Neill-Fraser.

We were determined to find out more about this injustice, ​and when we got up to speed on the relevant issues of the ​case, we signed up to become members of The Support Group.

This case rivals the Lindy Chamberlain case: Sue Neill-Fraser ​was convicted of murdering her husband on board their yacht ​and sentenced to 26 years in prison: no body, no witnesses, ​no motive, no murder weapon, no nothing.

The police even found the DNA of a homeless person on the ​deck of the yacht. Sue is now out of prison, having served 12 ​years, but she still has the charge against her standing.

We have had some success in our protests, as the proposal to ​build a cable car to the top of Kunanyi/Mt Wellington has ​been defeated in the Hobart City Council and again in the ​Court of Appeal.

But still, the Liberal State Govt plan and scheme to flout the ​wishes of the people, they talk about removing the proposal ​from public scrutiny and ramming it through Parliament as a ​Project of State Significance.

It is a case of ‘Money Talks’. We need to be ever-vigilant as a ​community. Strong bodies have mobilised to protect the ​Mountain from being ravaged by developers.

Richard Flanagan's book Toxic had alarm bells ringing as he ​exposed the way in which the Salmon Industry had destroyed ​so much of the aquatic environment of the harbours and ​coastline of Tasmania. We protest against this industry by ​refusing to buy or eat any salmon taken from Tasmanian ​waters.

Quite simply, the salmon from Tasmania is toxic and filled with ​chemicals and hormones; it is totally unsustainable. Read ​Richard's book, and you won't be left in any doubt just how ​destructive this industry is in putting under threat the once ​pristine waters of the rivers that flow through Tasmania to the ​oceans that surround it.

And now we are gearing up once again to fight the State Govt ​as they kowtow to the bully boys of the AFL and plan to dump ​a stadium onto Macquarie Point at the Hobart waterfront. The ​cost to be borne by Tassie’s taxpayer is an eye-watering nearly ​1 billion dollars.

It's pretty rich when you consider the parlous state of the ​health system here (daily Ambulance Ramping, critical staff ​shortages, and the closing of mental & women’s health and ​support facilities without proper replacement plans), Not to ​mention the poor funding of State education and the chronic ​lack of social housing...

There is no public transport to or from the proposed Stadium ​and a poor road system that struggles to handle even day-to-​day traffic. And you can be sure that, like all such projects, the ​final cost will be two or three times the initial costs.

The next State election will see this as a major issue as opinion ​polls record a majority is opposed to the stadium either being ​built or built on our magnificent waterfront.

Now, all this might sound as if we are living in a state of siege, ​pounding the streets waving placards, writing to our local ​members, and feeling that the place has gone to the dogs. But ​despite all the political, legal, and policy dramas, we still love it ​here in Hobart, and there is much to celebrate.

However, as we have all witnessed right here in Australia in the ​recent years of fire and flood, our environment can be ​damaged irreparably. Our voices need to be heard now loudly ​and clearly.

A Cup of Tea and

a Home-Baked Biscuit...

A dear friend, Anne Thompson, now sadly deceased, worked ​in a voluntary capacity two days a week at the National ​Trust Property, Lindesay, on Darling Point, Sydney, for well ​over 40 years. She would travel by train from Killara to ​Darling Point, a journey taking well over an hour.

There was a standard entry fee to visit the heritage home, ​which also included a cup of tea and a home-baked biscuit. ​Anne's role was to move about those having their cup of tea ​and inquire if they would like another cup.

Many assumed that there would be no charge for the second ​cup and were keen to go again. At that point, Anne would ​demand $2.50, telling the by-now startled visitor that the ​entry fee covered only one cup of tea. Anne had achieved ​legendary status in this regard.

Now, that's the background to the story that I want to tell.

A group from Newcastle had made a private booking for a ​tour of the property and had paid an all-inclusive fee, so ​their cups of tea were already paid for in their booking fee.

Anne had been asked to be a hostess on this occasion, and ​she agreed but was rather miffed that these visitors had ​been given unlimited cups of tea. There was no way she ​could grab those extra $2.50s.

During the tour, a woman entered the vestibule and shared ​that she had witnessed a dog being hit by a car in the ​street. As this occurred prior to the widespread use of ​mobile phones, she requested assistance in calling the ​RSPCA.

Mountain Retreat

General Practice

We have not been terribly happy with the doctors we have ​seen here in Hobart. When we moved from Sydney into a ​city where we did not know a soul, one had to begin to ​put together a register of essential services: dentist, ​doctor, podiatrist, barista, vet, plumber, firewood supplier, ​framer, electrician, handyman....the list goes on.

And for all of those, we hit upon wonderful people, except ​for the doctor. And so yesterday was a red letter day as ​we followed up on a lead from a good friend (who ​happens to be a doctor herself) and went for our first ​consultation with the doctor she had recommended.

The receptionists were thoroughly professional, and it ​only got better from there. The doctor's rooms were a ​delight to the eye, looking out through a beautiful glass ​wall onto a well-manicured hanging garden.

For the first time, we found a doctor who was interested ​in us and did not give the impression that the patient ​was lodged somewhere inside his computer.

He listened, he gave appropriate advice, and he even took ​our blood pressure and listened to our hearts. Basics, I ​know, but not standard practice at our former doctor's ​office.

And then, to top it all off, he demanded that I do a squat ​to test my core body strength. So, without hesitation, ​down I went, and then up I rose, stately as a galleon. Our ​new doctor then pronounced that I would live to 100.

We left the surgery two happy little Vegemites. It looks ​like we have finally found a doctor whom we can trust.

“darn new-fangled stuff”

Despite it being a small island covered in a large tree ​canopy, Tasmania has many rural shows, and we have ​found two that we visit nearly every year.

Whereas the show that comes to Hobart is a poor poor ​imitation of what a show should be serving a major capital ​city, the smaller shows in the rural hinterland are gems that ​reflect the community and have no pretensions to being ​what they are not.

To give but one example of how the Hobart show fails, on ​our one and only visit, we thought we would make a beeline ​for the featured animal display, which happened to be the ​ferret. It was an unusual choice, we thought, but worth a ​look. We eventually found the place where the ferret was on ​show. It was in a mobile garage with a sign hung on the ​door: Ferret exhibition CLOSED... Say no more.

But two shows are a continued delight: Bushy Park and ​Bream Creek. The Bushy Park show features most of the ​events that we city folks flock to agricultural shows: wood ​chopping, sheep dog trials, snake handling, arts and crafts, ​livestock, horse events, and stock parades. But all in a scale ​that fits nicely into the oval that doubles as the ​showground. And there are displays that feature the local ​produce.

I want to tell of a hilarious display we witnessed of a lady of ​many years demonstrating how to make bread from hops. ​(Bushy Park is the centre of the hops growing in Tasmania.) ​She had prepared well and had all the stages of the bread-​making ready to go. And her commentary was as if she ​were channelling her mother/grandmother.

Along the way, she was having difficulty removing the glad ​wrap from one of her bowls ("darn new-fangled stuff"), but ​she soldiered on to finally reveal the loaf of bread she had ​baked yesterday. Slices were cut and offered to the audience ​of about a dozen, FREE. There was a noticeable hesitancy ​for the whole operation from start to finish, accompanied by ​a slow drip drip drip from her nose, often into the bowls of ​ingredients, and sometimes wiped away with a vigorous ​flick from the back of a hand.

And, at Bream Creek Show, the event features the ​competition to grow the heaviest pumpkin and giant ​vegetables. Last year, the winning pumpkin weighed in at ​over 550 kgs. There is a keen determination to grow a ​pumpkin at over 1000kgs. Competitors hold the secrets of ​their gardening strategies close to their chests.

Trees

Today, I am having a few thoughts about the role trees have ​played in my life. And as so often is the case, my story starts ​in a landscape devoid of trees.

Not only were there no trees on the sandy flats where my father ​built the family home, but he devoted his life to keeping the ​backyard a tree-free zone, where lawn reigned supreme.

But there was little that he could do to prevent the neighbours ​from planting trees along the fence line until one day, it dawned ​on him that if he dug under the pailing fence, he could attack the ​roots of the trees that so offended him. One particular white gum ​tree stood in open defiance, even surviving the attack on its root ​system.

Another tree, which not only shaded the lawn but dropped leaves ​onto said lawn, came in for another form of attack from Dad. He ​took his ladder and climbed up into its tree canopy, and armed ​with his saw, he proceeded to cut down the branches.

Mum was in the kitchen, oblivious to the attack, until the ​neighbour phoned to tell her that her husband was caught up in ​her tree. He had managed to knock the ladder down, and so he ​was stranded. Ladies to the rescue.

The melanoma that eventually took his life was no doubt started ​as a result of the hours and hours he spent hosing the lawn, ​wearing practically next to nothing.

Tree Books

Two books that I love have tree references that inform part ​of the narrative: Patrick White's Tree of Man, which ends:​ "So that in the end there were the trees. The boy walking ​through them with his head drooping as he increased in ​stature.Putting out shoots of green thought.So that,in the ​end,there was no end."

Trees by Percival Everett. ​Set in the deep south of ​America in the 50s and ​today it's background ​narrative is set in the ​period when lynchings ​were common and well ​attended by white folk who ​often made a picnic at the ​site of the lynching.

And of course trees play a vital role in any successful ​lynching.

Queensland Trees

Queensland is home to two ​quite famous trees......The ​so-called Tree of Knowledge ​at Barcaldine, where modern ​mythology tells us the ​Australian Labor Party was ​formed under its shade.

What can be read into the ​fact that in 2006, it was ​poisoned and killed. I have ​never visited this site.

But I want to draw your ​attention to a tree in Townsville. ​I stumbled upon it when on ​holiday with my good friends, ​the Quattlebaums from Boston, ​USA.

Their two very young boys, Gus ​and Hughie, fathom why we ​grownups were becoming so ​physical with a tree.

Let your imagination go to work. We still talk some 40 years ​later about the time when we got physical with Marilyn.

The mighty Bunya Pine

The mighty Bunya Pine that grew at my home ​in Kurrajong Heights.

The folks at the Botanic Gardens in Sydney often ​came to examine this wonderful tree that ​loomed high on the skyline and could be clearly ​seen from 30 miles away.

There was some conjecture that the tree in its ​location predates white settlement. The cones ​that the tree makes have played an important ​part in aboriginal ceremonial activities, as the ​flesh of the seed pods makes for a tasty meal ​when boiled.

The first time I experienced the cones falling, I ​thought I was under some form of bombing as ​the ground literally shook as the cones (head ​size) hit the ground.

National Trees Park

And here in Tassie, we live with Reece Tong's ​great painting National Trees Park, which ​hangs in my garage and is the first and last ​thing we see as we exit or enter the property.

Styx Valley Trees

And an hour's drive from Hobart brings you to the ​Styx Valley Trees, where the mighty Eucalyptus ​Regnas rise up over 90 metres into the heavens.

These are the tallest trees in the southern hemisphere ​and second in height to the Californian Red Woods.

This is a place we visit, especially when we want to ​show visitors what is such a special special place, and ​it never disappoints.

Finally, give a thought to the old tree standing by the side of the road, which ​becomes a part of a tragedy that so often plays out under the headline;

Car impacts sole standing tree, killing the occupant.

We know the shorthand for that description....someones taken their own life.

Flowers are laid at the base of the tree to fade and rot in the passage of time.

To all our faithful followers, I am so chuffed by the ​responses and the constant daily hits on the site and the ​new Blog (First day, over 100 visits.) It makes all our ​hard work worthwhile.

Today saw us inching toward 400 images on the website, ​and plenty more still to come. I seem to be moving into a ​social dynamic in my work, but I am sure that the sly, ​good humour is not far beneath the surface.

Robin designed a business card for me, and today, we ​took delivery of the cards. They look very professional. No ​backing down now.

Just because you have picked some works for your ​collection, it doesn't mean that that's your limit. So dive ​back into the site and go again. I get a kick each day ​posting off my 'babies' to you. So don't be shy or hang ​back.

It goes without saying that all this is possible because of ​the great work and the skills that Robin has, and that ​can be seen in the beauty of his website and blog design.

Without him, my work would be sitting on plastic sleeves ​in a folder in a cupboard. Now, it can go out into the ​world. So a great big thanks to Robin.

That's enough from me. Back to the studio, and let's see ​what will eventuate.

P S more tomorrow