Blogger Bill

Some ten days ago we arrived back home from our epic caravan tour of Central Australia and some SA wine-growing areas. It is always an easy transition from caravan life to existence in our suburban house, but back home both my wife and I have unaccountably endured insomnia and damnable aches and pains. It is a mystery why this is so, because in the caravan we have about 4 square metres of floor space, which means lots of twisting and bending into cupboards and drawers, and deft sashaying past one another. Perhaps we became fitter with all the walking entailed by desert tourism; I lost 2 kg, so that’s a bonus.

Our route has been as follows:-

• Melbourne to Bordertown (SA), Crystal Brook, then Port Augusta, lying on the edge of the desert outback.

• Drive 536 km in one day to the fabulously strange opal town of Coober Pedy, via strange town of Woomera. Do tour of Coober Pedy, seeing the opal mines, the coloured Breakaways, the Dingo Fence, your underground mines and houses, buy expensive opal pendant.

• Go to Alice Springs via overnight at Erldunda. Do tours of the township, all-day tour to points along the West Macdonald Ranges, have a spontaneous helicopter ride over Glen Helen Gorge, which was fabulous. There were no doors - yikes! See a night-time Didgeridoo show (in which I got to play the drums briefly). Stay over a week in Alice, enduring high 30s heat most of the time. Whew! We drank lots of water.

• Drive 400 km down from Alice (via Erldunda) to see Ayers Rock and the Olgas. Although seen many times on TV, these rocks are truly awesome. We walked a lot around their bases - again in high heat.

• Drive 300 km up to Kings Canyon, doing a small walk to the canyon. In the camp there are signs warning about dingos, and sure enough, one walks past our caravan, bold as brass! Next day we see another ferreting around in the belongings of a nearby camper-trailer, trying in vain to get at some foodstuffs. We have a second helicopter ride (in a bigger one, with doors) over a mountain range with fascinating domed-rock formations. We can see the cliffs, gullies and canyons with clarity.

• Drive back down to Coober Pedy (again, via Erldunda) and go down another opal mine. Then on to Port Augusta. Along the way we find one caravan window is gone, possibly sucked out by the vacuum as one of the monstrous road trains slams past! Make temporary repairs from sheet plastic and duct tape, which has to last 1500 km until home. Thence to a quaint little town of Quorn, on to Wilpena Pound, in the ancient mountains of the Flinders Ranges. Here we do a hair-raising 4WD tour into a sheep property amongst the mountains, followed next day by a flight in a light aircraft over the stunning Flinders Ranges which stretch for a hundred kilometres in undulating beauty.

• We drive down the the town of Clare, savouring the greenery of wheat fields and freshly-sprouted vineyards after the red-brown-ochre stony desert with its spinifex and saltbush. We discover the lovely Clare wine district, and spend some time visiting some of the lovely old properties and sampling the wines. We start buying bottles of wine.

• We go south to Nuriootpa, in the Barossa Valley. We savour the beauties of this region, almost wallowing in the lovely scenery, the old wineries and of course the alcoholic vineyard fare. We buy more bottles of wine to take home.

• We drive back towards Victoria to Hall’s Gap, via Horsham overnight. After several nights there, we tour another winery, Great Western, and buy more wine, and then head for home. The city smog, the traffic, and the experience of being constantly surrounded by semis and other trucks on the freeways is unpleasant.

• We arrive home after 6 weeks on the road, travelling 7,500 km, spending $1024 on accommodation, $2750 on 1611 litres of petrol, $1400 on tours and flights, and $700 on 35 bottles of good wines. Now we’re a bit broke, but recovering.

• We saw all that we had aimed to see, did even more than we’d thought to do, retained our general health throughout, with judicious, sometimes copious use of pain-control medication, discovered a great deal about Australia, and are overwhelmed by the beauty of it all, including the stark, primaeval quality of the deserts. Our car ran OK, and we only had a damage to a caravan window, which can be fixed.

And so we can truly say “Mission Accomplished”.

Back to ordinary daily life, which isn’t so bad after all.

Well, the gastroscopy gave the news that I have no more ulcers and no more damage and inflammation. Jeez I’ve been missing the dishes with chilli in them! I’m going to make up for it tonight when we go out with my daughter Leanne.

So it’s clear sailing for my gut, and after holdups with car and caravan we’ve decided to push off for Alice Springs, a unique town in the centre of Australia. We’ll be driving my 1993 Ford station wagon (6 cylinders, 4 litres), which has enough grunt to handle our modest little caravan, a seventeen foot Viscount Ambassor van that my father bought sometime in the late 1960s. It’s old, but it’s been renovated and properly sealed at all the joints to avoid leaks. We know where everything goes, and we’re quite comfy in it. It has two beds and a table and benches for the eating area. We sleep in or on sleeping bags.

I spend a lot of time in the van lying down sleeping, reading, and listening to whatever I can hear on my portable radio, and Glenyce is the same, except that she likes to sit outside more than I do. We have a gas stove, electric frypan, toaster and electric jug; these do fine for our needs.

There is no television or microwave (no room for either), and we buy newspapers very rarely - just when we need for wrapping, etc. We have a range of books to read. Mine are mainly on sociology and politics, broadly speaking. We have books on birds, flowers, trees and fungi. I also have a range of books on geology, minerals and gemstones, as the region is quite interesting that way.

I have a hammer and special rock chisel for chipping away at interesting rocks, as well as boxes to bring them back home. We have a collection of rocks from many parts of Australia, souvenirs from our travels - many of the larger ones wind up in the garden!

On the Stuart Hightway between Port Augusta and Darwin there is a gap of 256 km with no petrol available, so I’ve got a 10 L special plastic container for carrying extra petrol. We also have a 10 L container of mineral water as a spare, so we can avoid hard water, because Artesian bores are common in this area. Even Adelaide has water with more calcium ions than usual, so I understand - makes the soap lather poorly. (We’ll be close to Adelaide tomorrow night, if all goes to plan.)

We’ve had to spend a lot more money on repairs and maintenance for the car and the caravan than we expected. But we’re both getting more and more aches and pains, such that I really wonder how long we can keep caravanning with an pleasure. The Red Centre is somewhere that we’ve not visited until now, so I want to make sure that we get there before some sort of disablity or infirmity sets in!

What Glenyce doesn’t know is that when we’ve done Alice Springs I’ll propose that we’ll push on for Darwin! That depends on how our bruised budget is coping with it all. Also, during October the build-up for the monsoon season starts, and starts to get very muggy, with frequent thunderstorms. But I’ll enquire about it at the “Alice”, and try to make it, as we’re so close, comparatively speaking, even though it’s a 2-day journey from Alice Springs.

Anyway, we’ve packed almost everything, and are eating out. Then it’s just a few more things before we go off into the wild blue yonder sometime about 6am, if possible. I’ll try to keep up with this blog, just in case someone other than my friend Gaye reads it!!

Arrivaderci!!

In two day’s time I will be strongly sedated and a man will peer into my insides to check the state of my oesophagus and duodenum. Over six weeks ago he found a bunch of ulcers in those trouble spots, and part of the lining of my gullet was eroded.

I can only trust that things are looking better, or at least no worse. I have knocked off taking Nurofen, the suspected culprit, and have avoided alcohol (well - just a little bit), chilli, grapefruit juice (don’t ask me why that), and sundry other foods and beverages on the list of things to avoid. I feel OK and have had minor cases of gastric reflux, but no real pain.

Unless there is bad news I will take myself off, together with Glenyce, caravanning to the Red Centre. Today we went to a map shop and bought up big on maps to help us along the way. After driving the Western Highway, etc., from here to Port Augusta we’ll aim to travel along the Stuart Highway from Port Augusta to Alice Springs. We’ve been inspecting it visually. It seems that via Google Maps we can see it all the way by Google Street View. Yep - they’ve taken multiple pictures every few metres all the way to Alice springs and beyond! Amazing!

It sure looks boring, but that’s what we initially thought about the Nullarbor when we did it seven years ago. But we were relieved that we found all sorts of things to notice in even the most desert-like country. There’s the land-forms, the rocks by the side of the road, the vegetation, the salt-lakes, the little mysterious roads off to somewhere isolated, the traffic, the occasional wild-life, the weather and - oh - all sorts of things. We’re never bored, and I think we’re lucky that way.

Anyway, I’m entering the busy stage of getting all of our personal details, web sites, passwords, banking and such-like together in an orderly fashion for our trip. It’s handy having most of our bill-paying done automatically via the computer.

But firstly there’s some minor repairs next Friday on our caravan, then some more minor work on our car next Tuesday, then we’re off. I won’t be able to blog, but I’ll try to set up for emails and Facebook. My Facebook name is Bill Leithhead, and you can become my “friend” if you register for Facebook and look for me.

Stay in touch!

Just when I was looking to caravan with my wife Glenyce up to Alice Springs for a 4-6 week tour, our car started using up water. So I booked it in for attention. Upshot is that it had a blown head gasket. Off came the head and away for machining. Meanwhile they found a broken timing chain guide. Off came the front of the engine as well.

Luckily I had the use of a loan car; it was manual so I had to relearn using a clutch, which went OK. Then the head came back after 3 days, was fitted on, but now car’s missing on one cylinder - needs new rotor button, and head’s taken back off. The car also needs a new valve guide along the way!

By the time they installed two new rear door hydraulic struts on my station wagon, and investigation of a water leak into the boot carpet, all of the cost adds up to a total of $2,920!! All those parts and labour really added up.

But as always, we didn’t quite aspect all that expense. A friend of mine suggest that the fitting of a new reconditioned short motor might have cheaper. But, of course, all of those expenses occurred gradually, and by the time the bill was totalled up it almost three grand. There was not really any point at which we could say that it’s going to be cheaper to get a new motor.

This leaves a big hole in my budget. But we figure that because we’re developing lots of aches and pains, we might soon have to taper off on caravanning. Getting to Alice Springs, Uluru, Flinders Ranges and a good look at Adelaide might be our last gasp, so we’ve decided we’ll run up a little on the Visa card if we have to.

We plan to leave some time after Tuesday, September 23th.

The yearning to find one’s roots has been the subject of much written work as well as films and even art. The assumption seems to be that the yearning to make sense of one’s origins is more or less universal, but it seems to be very weak or absent in myself. I find that curious. Perhaps it’s because I do know quite a bit about my genealogy, or perhaps it’s that I have visited the places where I grew up. But whatever the cause, I’m perfectly happy just as I am.

You see, I’ve done a lot of delving into my psyche over the years. In encounter groups, in human relations courses, and, importantly, with several psychiatrists, I’ve come to know pretty well how this bag of bones captained by my unique grey matter works. I pretty well know how I tick, what are my issues, my past-driven foibles. There is little suspicion that I have hidden maladjustments driven by past traumas. I’ve spilled my guts so often that it’s all been out there to be picked over and teased apart by other eyes, expert and otherwise. I’m still a depressed neurotic but I’ve got a pretty good idea why.

That’s what I think, anyway: perhaps I’ll surprise myself yet.

An only child from Danish-Scottish-English-Welsh stock, I grew up in dry dusty-red Kalgoorlie, Western Australia, but at age 14 a sudden change to Melbourne bayside suburban Carrum precipitated me into an alien environment. It’s here that I have my family, my career, my life. but I just happen to be here.

I don’t “belong” here; I do not embrace this pleasantly green city as my home. Driving around the place, I do know my way, but I feel that I’m here just for now - it’s not really “home”. There isn’t really a home. I suspect I don’t need one; not in the sense that I hear other people talking about it.

I used to have nightmares linked to a couple of houses I grew up with in Kalgoorlie. Seven years ago I caravanned across to there and found them both. I stood in the street and thought about it all. As I did so, those demons of the past evaporated, and I became free. Turning on my heels, I climbed back in the car and thought “That’s it - there was nothing to it after all!” I don’t “belong” in Kalgoorlie - it’s just a place.

School and life in Melbourne wasn’t good and it wasn’t bad, either True, I did have some excruciating, humiliating experiences at school and at home - most people seem to. My teenage and twenties years were chequered by darkness and light; the need for brevity precludes details in here. But in general my city of Melbourne is OK, but it could be anywhere. I don’t “love” the place. Here is where my house is; here are my belongings; here are my children and their children; here are my friends. When I’ve travelled afar I come back here and embrace it because of familiarity.

But, the thing is, perhaps it could just as well be in any other modern, middle-class Western city in the world. Perhaps some some strange change in my circumstances would test me and make me realise that my roots are here. But I think not. I am an entity right here in my environment imprinted with my past, my present and my hopes and dreams. I like to think I’m adaptable to a dramatic change of circumstances.

Such as old age and infirmity. That will be the test. I’ve had tastings of that already and I think I might not be up to it.

Perhaps then I might pine for my roots. But not yet.

I sat at the loaned laptop hooked to a digital projector which on the screen behind me showed the fungi photos, coming from my trusty 4 GB flash drive. Watching were my fungi-foraying friends from the Field Naturalists Club of Victoria - all 12 of us! Not a hugely popular past-time, but we like it.

I’d set up the memory stick back home. I didn’t want to show all of my 100-odd images, and had had no time to sort through them. But with the aid of a written list of suitable image numbers, I could select the right ones, avoiding those that were out of focus or just boringly repetitious.

My favourite image viewer is Irfanview. This is free, and an excellent viewer: I strongly recommend it to all of my readers. I had it on the memory stick, so could fire it up at will. I’m quite a whizz at using Irfanview back in my study, on my modern desk-top machine, and I can navigate well through all of my folders using Windows Explorer.

We’d just enjoyed a talk about hunting fungi on Kangaroo Island, South Australia. As befits the current secretary of Fungimap, Paul George, the images were excellent, accompanied by an expert commentary on the unusual fungi appearing after the bushfires last summer.

Now it was my turn. I had quite a few puzzling images, and was looking for help with identification. All was set to go.

Suddenly my brain went to mush. Why? Because I looked for the mouse that wasn’t there! I don’t have a laptop yet, and haven’t learned to navigate with those pressure pads.

Then I looked for my favourite speed keys for navigation and viewing. The key layout was different, and the numeric keypad was missing! In the darkened room I fumbled around, and finally called for help, so someone came and got me into the correct folder.

It would have been alright if I had just wanted to show a series of pre-arranged shots, all in sequence. But I needed to pick and choose from my written list.

Glancing backwards at the screen, I needed to fast forward to skip over some shots. So I did a series of Spacebar taps to do just that. My next glance at the screen confused me - there was some sort of time-lag as the images showed on the screen!

I got all mixed up. That’s because most of these images were straight off the camera, and over 3 Mb in size. The laptop was so slow in rendering each of those large images that I became confused as to what I was seeing. I started to mumble to myself and again asked for help, making excuses because I wasn’t used to a laptop’s slowness. I felt embarrassed, too, because I was unable to afford my own laptop.

On top of all this, I was fuzzy headed because I had a dose or two of Panadeine Forte in me for back and leg pain. What’s more, when I started to discuss my fungi photos, my voice was croaky from the dry throat caused by the codeine.

Mortified that I was muffing it all in front of my peers, I struggled through my shots. Here’s a nice fungus I found on Mt Drummer, East Gippsland. Paul was able to help identify it as one of the cup fungi, Peziza tenacella. Strangely, it was growing on charcoal left over from a camp-fire; it’s one of the few fungi that populate newly-burned forest litter:-

Cup fungus Peziza tenacella on charcoal, Mt Drummer, Vic.

Here’s another one that I found growing in the lawn of the Orbost Caravan Park. As I suspected, it is the Spring Agrocybe, Agrocybe praecox. I’ve seen this before, with the tissues cracked on the cap as it dries out, growing near shrubs in a suburban carpark. For some reason it likes disturbed ground, just like various other fungi:-

Crazy-cap Agrocybe praecox in Orbost, Vic.

As I drove home, I felt annoyed and embarrassed that my plan had gone somewhat pear-shaped. I had been on top of many technical aspects of my fungi pictures, and was eager to share some of what I regard as my best photos, only to be shot down (as it were) by being somewhat baffled by the computer.

Annoyingly, with the best intentions of not letting it worry me, I did lose some sleep that night as my mind kept on reliving those moments of discombobulation, seated at the laptop in the semi-darkness, struggling to engage my friends in some of my fungi pictures.

Damn damn damn!

Yep, I saw the GP on Friday and she gave me the gastroscopist’s report last week.

(a) I have a moderate hiatus hernia - a newie for me. I’m told it helps if I lose weight. Hah!

(b) I’ve got an ulcerated oesophagus and an area where there is sloughing. Help! I’m coming apart!

(c) I’ve got a duodenum that has a ‘distorted cap’ and multiple ulcers. Jackpot!

(d) I have no signs of the bacterium Helicobacter pylori. Now what do I do?

(e) I have no signs of cancer, and that’s confirmed by the biopsies. Whew!

So! That’s all good news, in the sense that I know what’s going on down there. That explains all the severe pain in my binjy, and all that damnable gastric reflux and pain that’s been spoiling my life for a long time.

I was kind of hoping that they’d pick up bacteria in there, then I’d do a course of strong antibiotics, and then I’d be fixed up. Wrong! Now I have to take medication called a proton pump inhibitor (PPI), which inhibits the proton pump mechanism making the acid in my stomach. So welcome back to Somac pills, which I’d knocked off when I stopped taking an anti-inflammatory called Mobic (for arthritis back and leg pain).

And I have to change my diet to minimize those foods that produce the reflux. Farewell chilli. Au revoir alcohol. Sayonara grapefruit juice. Auf wiederseh’n coffee and chocolate.

Chocolate? Oh no! Yep, it’s on the lists of foods listed on the info sheet from the quack, together with peppermint and sundry other things. Same from the internet sites. After extensive reading of good medical internet sites, I’m inclined to be a bit skeptical of some of those lists.

I’ll just take those PPI pills. Religiously, with bent knee at the altar of pharmacology. I’ll drop back to a blander diet, and try various suspect foods in small amounts now and then to see what happens.

But in particular, I’ll stop taking Nurofen tablets to control my back and leg pain from spinal stenosis.

I’d started those over-the-counter analgesics so I could take less Panadeine Forte, which has undesirable side-effects. Little did I realise that the side effects from the Nurofen could be worse. I ought to have realised that the active ingredient, iboprofen, is an NSAID, which stands for non-steroidal-anti-inflammatory-drug. These can cause stomach and duodenal ulcers, and that’s what’s happened.

So - I knock off the Nurifen, go back onto Panadeine Forte, take my PPI drug, Somac, watch what I eat, wait, and stay relaxed. After 6 weeks I have another gastroscopy and cross my fingers that all these things have gone away.

This sort of buggers up my plans to caravan up to Alice Springs, Uluru, Coober Pedy, Flinders Ranges, and Adelaide in late winter/early spring. Oh well, we might just go a bit later and put up with a bit of Central Australian heat.

I have my fingers crossed that one of these bloody little ulcers doesn’t drill down into a blood vessel and start bleeding. Been there, done that in 1975! Blood transfusions aren’t much fun.

Well, for those who are interested in my mildly varied life, quite a bit.

1. During May I assembled a 6-piece jazz band called the Jazz Travellers, rehearsed it, and performed successfully at the Merimbula Jazz Festival in early June.

Jazz Travellers, Merimbula, June, 2008.

With me at the piano, I was joined by a Bb tenor sax (doubling on clarinet), a trombone, double bass, drums and vocalist. We played pretty well, it seems, and enjoyed ourselves immensely. I stayed in our caravan with my wife, Glenyce.

2. I also played with another jazz band, Jazz Therapy - piano sax/clarinet, drums, and that went well, too.

2. My wife and I caravanned back home, and then I was involved in playing in three jazz bands during the following week. By then I was feeling pretty worn out, and glad of a rest.

3. But before long, at the urging of my musical friends, we continued regular rehearsals on Saturday afternoons at my house. We’re still doing that!

4. Meanwhile, Glenyce and I have been attending the fortnightly Fungi Forays of the Field Naturalist’s Club of Victoria, where a bunch of us venture out into the forests to study the fungi.

Stropharia aurantiaca, Merimbula, June, 2008.

This involves moderate exercise, close-up photography, and friendly chat with intelligent and knowledgeable people.

5. This week I’ve had a gastroscopy examination, showing that I have a couple of duodenal ulcers and an eroded oesophagus. That explains the severe pain and reflux I’ve been experiencing. This will be at least the third lot of duodenal ulcers I’ve had! I’m about to start treatment, which I trust will be successful yet again.

“Priscilla, Queen of the Desert”

On Tuesday night my wife and I saw the marvellous stage show “Priscilla, Queen of the Desert”, and then the next day, together with our grandchildren, we saw a performance of “The Frog Prince” as a pantomime. They were all enjoyable performances ranging from the spectacular to the cute. There’s a common theme of winning through and overcoming obstacles, from which I take some object lessons for my life.

In Priscilla, three drag queens travel in an old bus from Sydney to Alice Springs for a season of their stage show. On their epic journey through the desert they meet prejudiced yobbos, accepting aborigines, physical violence, kindness, and the blossoming of love and acceptance. This is a twentieth century traveller’s tale of the genre of “Pilgrim’s Progress” where there are personal and societal obstacles to be faced and overcome. Not all the hope comes to fruition, but the seeds of hopefulness are sown to give a happy note at the end.

One man finds the love of another man, a mechanic who repairs their old bus, which is called Priscilla. Another man finds acceptance from his young son, aged about nine. But for these gay men, rejection and ridicule are always there from others. And as one man says “You’d think we’d get used to it, but it still hurts.”

That stage show was spectacular beyond expectations, and some of the time my eyes were brimming with tears and I was choking back sobs, so happy I was to share in the spectacular, glitzy, funny show full of music and light. The occasion was Glenyce’s seventieth birthday, and together we’d shared a delightful pre-show Thai meal of Red Duck Curry, Grilled Barramundi Fillet and a little excellent wine. We loved it all.

In my own life, there are things that I do and ways I think that can and do lead to rejection or ridicule, but I never get used to the prejudice and non-acceptance by others. It can still hurt to realise that others view me as “different”. But I cannot change my underlying personality, even though someone might view me a “fruitcake” because of my behaviour, ideas and view of life.

The “Frog Prince”

The next day, Wednesday, we took our granddaughters (7 and 8 ) to a small suburban theatre to enjoy the pantomime “The Frog Prince”. Although it was a contrast to the big professional show, nevertheless it had its own charm. The story involves a young princess who wishes to marry a handsome young prince. But an evil witch wants the young prince to marry her own daughter, a repulsive brat.

Rejected, the old crone casts a spell on the prince, who becomes turned into a frog. He can only be released from the froggy spell by the kiss of a maiden. Of course that eventually occurs, and everyone lives happily afterwards, except for the witch and her horrible daughter, who both get turned into frogs.

For me, the underlying theme of the panto is one of being cursed with some burden which prevents one from leading a happy life. From my own point of view, my own body and mind present certain obstacles (curses) that, unless properly dealt with, prevent me from having a happy, fulfilled life. Although these cannot be wished away by the kiss of a maiden, there are things I can do to, as it were, lift their “spell” upon me.

These ways of thinking can be faced and handled. For me the spell has been faced with the aid of my wife and family, my psychiatrist and doctors, my friends, and my own thinking processes. The struggle is ongoing, as my “curses” are always hovering in the background, but my resources are also available for me help life my life more fully.

The Show Must Go On

Held in a small suburban theatre called the Tivoli, the show was about to start, packed with kids, grandparents and parents, when there was a large bang, then a zzzzzzzt of electricity, and the lights went out! Much consternation as we sat, illuminated only by dim emergency lighting. The owners tried to phone the power company, but it was engaged. There was no telling how long this would last, but I suspected some time, because Melbourne was being hit by winds of cyclonic rating one!! Directly outside, we later discovered, a large tree had been blown over, bringing down power lines. There were to be extensive power cuts all over Victoria, and other wind damage.

In the Tivoli, they opened some front curtains to let in some daylight onto the stage, lit candles to place in the toilets, and found several torches. Terry, the owner, came on stage and chatted with us. With our permission and our approval, he asked us to be patient, and suggested that the show would proceed. And so it did! With the aid of dim light, and with some torches as spotlights, we enjoyed the show even more than usual owing to the unique circumstances!

And so it is for of each and every one of us. We must all continue living our own pantomime of life.

My wife Glenyce turns seventy years old tomorrow. The family had us out to a Thai restaurant yesterday (Sunday), and we all had a very good time, the whole ten of us!

Here’s what I’ve written on her birthday card for tomorrow:

We are not wealthy, but nor are we poor,
We’re not really ill, but often painful and sore.
Our children love us, it seems more and more,
And are happy to come home and ring at our door.

I have a good wife, who’s really the best
Companion in life: our love pass’d the test.
We have had our troubles and often been stressed,
But we’re here together and really are blest.

Today is your birthday: We’ll take in a show;
“Priscilla the Desert Queens” from near the back row.
But first to eat Chinese we’re going to go
Drink up some wine - just go with the flow!

In our life we seem to be doing alright,
Mustn’t let things worry us ‘wake half the night.
We’ll trust and we’ll try to hold our hearts aright
Hand in hand together to a future that’s bright.

Well, it’s been a long gap since I blogged, but here’s a summary:

Success at Inverloch Jazz Festival

My band the Jazz Travellers were included and successfully played two sets in the Inverloch Jazz Festival, but I came down with a moderately debilitating case of physical and mental exhaustion after-wards. I was done in by a combination of the hot days I spent in the caravan there, and medication for severe back pain originating from the caravanning. That and driving back to Melbourne and then taking my digital piano out to the other side of Melbourne for a one-hour gig in a nursing home.

My psychiatrist baldly stated that I had over-reached my self yet again. I didn’t think it was going to be too much until it actually happened! I seem to have settled down now.

Merimbula Jazz Festival

I have registered two bands to play in the Merimbula Jazz Festival in early June. We have ample time to prepare, and I am taking on board a singer, Ann Smith for the Jazz Travellers.

Colonoscopy

Today I had a “colonoscopy”, a medical examination of the interior of the large intestine. I haven’t had any symptoms like bleeding or real pain, but I can’t resist the temptation of the pun to say that let’s just say that I had a gut feeling about it. No nasties were found, but I do have diverticulosis, a modification of parts of the internal structure of the colon. This can give rise to pain and “discomfort”, and infections or even an abscess.

I remember talk that my father had something the same. I can’t see anything on the internet about the disorder other than it’s not uncommon in people my age, and probably not hereditary. The remedy seems to be lots of roughage, fruit, vegetables, grains and so on. Well, that’s been more or less my diet for many decades - we’ve always eaten healthily in this family. Perhaps the damage arose from my diet in my youth? Who knows?

But it’s nice to know I don’t have polyps or cancer of the bowel down there.

I get periods of constipation arising from pain relief from paracetamol/codeine combinations, but I do my best to minimize that usage. It’s a fine balance of pain relief over against constipation.

Well, I decided to apply the simple basic rules of Rational Emotive Therapy to myself, and seem to be climbing up out of the emotional trough. A reminder of false, ineffective beliefs to be avoided:-

(1) I must perform well to be approved of by others who are perceived significant.
(2) you must treat me fairly—if not, then it is horrible and I cannot bear it.
(3) conditions must be my way and if not I cannot stand to live in such a terrible and awful world.

To the extent that I can counteract those false beliefs, I can then live a healthier life.

And so, accordingly, I’ve conferred with my muso mates and registered the Jazz Travellers for the Inverloch Jazz Festival, which runs over the weekend of 7th-10th of March. The documents were sent by high priority mail, but we will not know if we are accepted until during this week.

We needed a bass player, and fortunately I managed to find someone at last Monday’s Showbiz Club, to which I belong. Unfortunately she is just shifting to Wonthaggi, a couple of hours drive from here, so it’s unlikely she will be able to rehearse with us.

In the meantime, yesterday I rehearsed all of our numbers with Rob Milligan (drums), and Colin Garrett (tenor sax and clarinet). We’ll do OK if we can get into Inverloch. But I’ve decided not to cry myself to sleep if we miss out. We’ll find places to play around here.

As well as that, we are planning to play at the Merimbula Jazz Festival, 6th-9th June, 2008. I’ve been twice to this large festival. You get a range of good bands from Sydney,
Melbourne, Canberra and Adelaide, and my players are keen to go. I just need to find a bass player who wants to travel that far, and preferably is prepared to rehearse with us here in Melbourne. I’ve phoned around, but so far anyone who’s going is already in several bands. There are restrictions on the number of bands to which a musician can belong; this is to make clash-free programming easier.

But we plan to get there in June, and enjoy the ambiance of a beautiful seaside town with an excellent jazz festival, in the South Coast of New South Wales. In the meantime I’ll try to get hold of a bass player, which is essential for the mainstream style of music which we play.

Let the good times roll!

This very date last January I had just come out of a 5 1/2 hour long operation in which my prostate gland was removed by robotic surgery. Results since then show that I am free of cancer cells.

What’s more, my waterworks has recovered almost (but not quite) completely, so that I am almost fully continent. I just have to watch it at night after having a few alcoholic drinks.

However, my sexual functioning is pretty well moribund, which is a great pity - although I haven’t given up all hope yet.

So you’d think that having had a potential death sentence removed from hovering over me, that life would be hunky-dory. Not unexpectedly, it hasn’t always been so. I always find some things to get upset, angry, anxious or depressed about.

I suppose that makes me a normal human being after all, instead of some sort of saint.

But yesterday I found that two jazz bands of mine that I was scheduled to play with at the Grampians Jazz Festival are not mentioned in the program. What’s more, the organizers say they never received my registration forms.

This means that the Jazz Travellers and Jazz Therapy apparently do not exist, and that my wife and I, and my fellow musicians, and their partners and a friend, having booked accommodation and made travel arrangements, are inconvenienced for the weekend of February 8-10th. Three of those musicians are in other bands, and so are not left out, but four other people are highly inconvenienced. To go to the jazz, they would have to pay $50 each, instead of much lower prices as friends of musos.

I know I mailed the forms, plus the cheque, because Glenyce watched me do it. I know posted it all on 26th November. But the cheque hasn’t been cashed, and the first I knew of the situation was a phone call from a friend to say we weren’t in the draft program, sent by mail.

I don’t know what went wrong, but I know it wasn’t something I did incorrectly.

This has hit me very hard. I wish it didn’t but it did. I wish I was tougher, but I’m not. In the last few years I have become more emotionally labile; tears are apt to come over little things, usually when watching the news or a show on TV: something touches my heart unexpectedly and the moisture comes, along with the quivering lip. I hide it because it makes no sense and I can’t explain myself. I have sometimes left the room because I don’t want my wife to see it. It’s a nuisance.

After my friend phoned to tell me we weren’t on the draft program, realization of the true import swept over me like a cold, white, rigid cloud that froze my soul and clutched at my heart. In a dream I walked in to Glenyce to give her the news. Oh, I went through the steps needed to find out the truth; scanning my computer banking records (cheque not cashed); phoning the organizer (nothing received); jogging my memory of events (Glenyce saw me assemble the paperwork and make up the envelope).

It availed nothing. By now, the coldness had invaded my body. I felt faint and weak. I had trouble speaking.

It felt so bloody melodramatic!

I sat down to phone my fellow musicians. My mind was clouded. I asked my wife to sit by my side as I dialed Rob the drummer, who with his wife Fay is booked into accommodation at Hall’s Gap, together with their friend Mae, who will be $70 out of pocket. Then I rang Colin, our saxophone and clarinet player. He’s just separated from a wife who disliked his practising at home. He’s keen to get out and play jazz, and I’d given him this opportunity to get back into the scene. Then there’s Charles, our bass player - he’s OK, because he’s playing in two other bands. I rang Russell (reeds player), bearer of the bad news in the first place, and he’ll phone up Marshall (drummer) from Geelong. They’re OK, because they are in other bands, too.

Everyone was just as incredulous as me, and very understanding for me. But it’s a very hard thing to do.

Right now, my stomach is knotting up, there’s a pain in my chest and a lump in my throat. I feel weak and have to break off typing this.

Why is this important to me? Well, back in 1988, after some years battling serious depression, I had to retire very early from my career as a chemistry lecturer - something I loved doing. It was necessary at the time, but that loss took a lot of getting over. I’ve never really recovered, unfortunately. I just have to accept that that’s what’s happened to me - and and is still affecting me. I wish I could let it go, but it doesn’t happen easily.

One thing I did then was to improve my piano-playing skills.

In 1994 I took some lessons from a well-known jazz piano player, Stephen Sedergreen, and 9 years later some from his father Bob. I’ve practiced thousands of hours. When I felt ready I got myself into a starting jazz band playing “traditional” or Dixieland jazz. I branched out and got to play with other bands, playing at country jazz festivals such as the Grampians, Inverloch, Merimbula, and other places. I’ve also played at quite a few paid gigs and done plenty of freebies. It’s quite hard to get paid work, and there’s competition from extremely good musicians.

A few years ago I started my own band called the Jazz Travellers to play a more modern style called mainstream, plus Latin, and various ballads. I’ve worked with singers, too, and played for a couple of amateur theatre shows.

Playing good quality jazz is something I aspire to, and I think I’m reasonably competent. I’ve become known to many around the scene here in Melbourne. I just want to play the music I like with competent, enthusiastic musicians who are prepared to rehearse. With a reeds player, Colin, and a drummer, Rob, I’ve been rehearsing, and we’ve have picked out the 16 tunes needed for the two sets you need to play to take part in a jazz festival. The reward is that you get to perform in public before discerning audiences, and can enjoy seeing all the other bands.

Glenyce and I have been looking forward to parking our caravan in the Hall’s Gap caravan park, enjoying the unique ambiance of that beautiful place, meeting all of our friends, and listening to some good jazz during the 3 days. It’s a place to play and be heard and judged by your peers, and to make new friends. We’ve been going on and off about for about 9 years.

But last year I had to pull out because of my prostatectomy in January.

So you can see that I’ve a lot of emotional investment in appearing in the jazz festival. I have to try to be philosophical about it all. But I can do all the Rational Emotive Behaviour Therapy (REBT) positive self-talk that I can manage, but my autonomic nervous system has a mind of its own.

Actually, it is a mind of its own.

And no matter how cool I try to be about life’s little dealings with me, on this occasion I feel absolutely knocked for a row.

Here are the main tenets of rational emotive therapy that I need to apply to my present circumstances - these are the irrational beliefs that will prevent me from having a good life:-

(1) I must perform well to be approved of by others who are perceived significant.
(2) you must treat me fairly—if not, then it is horrible and I cannot bear it.
(3) conditions must be my way and if not I cannot stand to live in such a terrible and awful world.

To the extent that I can counteract those false beliefs, I can then live a healthier life.

I’m working on it!

And Now - Grizzle Time!

I alternate from full-on activities to feeling ill, headachey, with strong persistent back and leg pain. That seems to be my lot in life - my vitality (good word) - seems to have decreased markedly, I’m afraid.

And I am afraid: afraid of becoming an old man. I’m 69 and people often tell me I don’t look it - I suppose I don’t - but I’m feeling it more and more. The back pain is there like a permanent spasm which affects the way I bend, twist and lift things. Even just when making some coffee and tea I feel the restraint in my actions.

I don’t really know what to do about it: I’ve had all the operations they’ll do. My specialist says walking is excellent for back pain, and we do go for walks, but never at the recommended level. Why? Because these suburban streets bore me shitless, and because it’s been very hot, and I have headaches, and because there’s something far more interesting when I read a book or surf the internet.

Somehow I need to break out, but I’m not sure how. Otherwise I feel like I’ll subside, slump, as it were, into some sort of pile of flesh and bones, waiting for death.

A Museum Outing

That’s the feeling always in the background. But I’ve done a lot of things to make life interesting. We went into the city and picked up some specs that had been made for us - that was the occasion for a coffee together, and a look around the swanky Collins Place. The freeway goes straight into city from near our place, and I enjoy driving.

Last week I had an afternoon of playing with a saxophone player with whom I’m going to play at the Grampians Jazz Festival. That was fun, and we did some hard work on arrangements.

Glenyce and I also took our granddaughters (7 and 8 ) to the Melbourne Museum, which was excellent. In some earlier years I’ve dreaded taking those kids somewhere because they were very manipulative and very exasperating. In the last year or so they seem to have been socialized, due to natural maturation and the influence of school.

It was a day of 42 degC heat, and the air-conditioned museum was chock-a-block with children and Mums with prams. I didn’t mind at all, even though I am not a person who naturally gravitates toward children. We found millions of interesting things to see, including an excellent Bee Circus, for which we had tickets (via the internet). This was put on by members of the National Institute of Circus Arts, who gave us an entertaining, enlightening and very satisfying show about the life of bees, using all sorts of circus skills such as juggling, tumbling, rope and trapeze work. It really made the day.

I could really enjoy just going to the Museum on my own, and just enjoy looking closely at the exhibits that really interest me, such as the mind and brain, minerals and gemstones, the history of surgery, and things to do with the history of science.

As we drove our little girls home, they fell asleep in the car, as they often do. But eight year old Chelsea woke up just in time to direct us into their home through a maze of back streets; she knew the street names and whether to turn left or right. Bless her little heart!

A West End Musical Sparks Me Up

A highlight of last week was going with our daughter Leanne to see the stage show “Spamelot”. From the pen of Eric Idle, one of the Monty Python gang, this show was replete with the absurdist humour characteristic of the best of British comedy. You either get that humour or you don’t; if you don’t, you usually prefer American humour, although, paradoxically, Monty Python did well in the U.S. Before the show we ate at a nearby Chinese restaurant; the food was quite nice, although the Malaysian Gado Gado had a horrible gluggy peanut sauce all over it.

“Spamelot” was simply stunning. We don’t get to many stage shows, because of the expense, but this was worth every penny of the $115 for tickets. It was extremely funny, with a lot of Pythonesque “in” jokes, the dancing, singing, costumes, and lighting and staging was absolutely world class, and we laughed ourselves silly. God it felt good!! I appreciate such performance quality very much - I loved it. I’m the person that often laughs at something that few others do. I have an ear for the ridiculous, and nothing is more ridiculous than one’s self. That’s why I can never really take myself seriously. but often use self-deprecating humour.

The Absurdity of Life

We came home with a couple of sets of coconut shells (at $25 per pair!), as a souvenir. This is because at the centre of the tale there is a ridiculous King Arthur character, looking for the Holy Grail, together with assorted knights. He is accompanied by a faithful servant with a pile of luggage tied onto his back. As they “trot along”, the servant bangs the coconut shells together to make a sound just like horses hooves. Life is like that!

The whole thing is adapted from a successful film made many years ago by the Monty Python comedians, called “Monty Python and the Holy Grail”, in which many such comedic features abound. The coconut shells are just one example of that. Ourselves and our three children are avid fans of Python humour, and we got the shells so we can muck around with them, and show our granddaughters how to do it. I hope they like Monty Python and similar humour as they grow up!

Hard Yakka With Rooting

Today I started to renovate a garden area ravaged by heavy flooding rain a month ago. We have an area covered by wood chips, because we can’t afford to pave it yet. But the flood-water floated all the wood chips all over the place, and we have to redistribute them and add some more. I discovered roots just under the exposed soil surface, and started pulling them up. They turned out to be fanning out in all directions just under the wood chips. They come from a couple of nice creepers which afford us shade and privacy. But I had to chop them out to redistribute and renew the wood chip cover. I Hope the creepers survive this.

It was very hard work. I find it painful to bend over and pull things out, but it had to be done. By the time I’d got rid of the roots and raked the old wood chips and disturbed soil even, I was sweating and out of breath. My muscles tend to go into spasms, and I just have to stop. I’ll do the rest tomorrow, which unfortunately will be a hot day. Today was a beautiful day - a welcome relief from series of 40 degree days we’ve had over the holiday season.

It did me good to get some exercise out in the fresh air.

I vary so much in my moods, it’s not funny at all! Actually I don’t - vary that is. I’m mostly kind of struggling. In the last two weeks Glenyce and I have really battled against common head colds. Nothing grandiose like “flu”, as some folks mostly like to call colds. Just colds that fill the nose and throat with mucus, a body feeling sapped, and a mind that’s full of cotton wool. Been going over two weeks. Add to that the festivities, season with some days over 40 here in Melbourne, stir in constant niggling pain from the arthritis/sciatica and garnish with dull headaches from I don’t know what - prolly Codeine poisoning, I’m told.

Anyway, last week I got really pissed off at not being able to copy music CDs (let alone a DVD) with my gee-whiz computer with two DVD read-write drives. This has been going on for 12 months. Oh I could copy files onto CD OK, but Windows sort of didn’t really invite me into its interstices and offer to do a straight disk copy. I could copy music off a CD as .wav files or others with CDex. Not game to try to write data to DVD in case it fails. Then I’d get all depressed or morose or pissed off. Silly, I know - but I’m neurotic - if that helps to explain it. I had this computer built, added a second DVD drive I had, and later a second 250 GB hard drive. I can do a few things, but I’m not really expert.

Nero and Me

I used it have Nero CD Burner for the copy task, on the previous computer, but it vanished along the way. So I finally bit the bullet and hit the nail on the head, nose to the grindstone - funny position to work in - and purchased Nero 8, for $199. This is a suite of a couple of dozen programs to handle everything to do with sound, images, CD and DVD writing, maintaining your computer, feeding the cat and - oh yes - copying disks!

Day before New Year’s Eve I installed it, latish. Went fine, it registered OK, and went to look for updates on the net. Found them. “Download and install?”, it asked. “Sure, why not?”, I said. but first it had to un-install the programs it had just installed. OK, why not? Then off it raced off up the internet, and downloaded. For over an hour!

Meantime, Windows Update pops up and wants to download and install critical updates. “Why not?”, I thought. Off it went, too. Then it installs said critical updates and wants to restart my computer. “No way!”, said I, “I want to get this friggin’ Nero going.” Windows update reminds me about every ten minutes that I really ought to restart, y’know! I hate nags.

By now my night time pills are working, I’m dying to lie down, I’m having coughing fits, a headache, and I can feel gastric reflux setting in. Off to drink some warm milk, take some Duro-Tuss Forte (good cough suppressant - but double the dose is needed), some more back pills, head pills and another half a Temazepam. Nero 8 does its business again into my machine, so to speak, sets up with all updated files, but wants to restart. It’s past 1 am. I give up ’til next morning.

I sleep in thoroughly, have brekky, get human, and then tackle the machine. Startup brings in some more fiddling by Nero 8, which wants to take over most of my file types. I prefer image viewing with Irfanview, and image manipulation with Paint Shop Pro, and I don’t really know how good Nero 8 will be for me. Well, it’s OK, but will take some getting used to. I try it all, get confused and wait until my mind is clearer - if ever again! Its over 40 today - again! It will be tomorrow, too!

New Year’s Eve we go to my son’s place, where we watch TV (grrr - I hate Elton John and avoid Andrew Lloyd Webber if I can). Then it’s nibblies and a glass’a two of champagne, fireworks on telly, party poppers for us, and a bit of pavlova and chocolate cake. “Gastric reflux tonight”, I think. It didn’t happen! Hoo-bloody-ray!!

Happy New Year

New Year’s Day I discover that I cannot send emails!! The Outlook Express settings have been changed by something!! Nero? Windows Update? (I suspect the latter.) It takes a while to find out what to fix, and I swore out loud a few times. One email account still doesn’t work… I wind up with this real sense of frustration that while I’m doing all this fucking around I can’t get onto some creative writing.

But I can do a simple smooth CD copy now!!

I tried to go to an older Restore Point, but something different had done Restore Points I didn’t recognize - probably Windows Update. If I went further back in the Restores, I’d muck up Nero 8 and have to go through their whole blasted install, un-install, update, re-install, and so on. I’d had it! What in God’s name did something secretly, unilaterally change my email settings??

Yaaaaaaaaaah! There, that feels better.

Then I got suspicious of a few programs running in the background that might have come in with aspects of Nero. Or something - I dunno.

Fishing around Googling on stuff I can see happening in Windows Task Manager, I Google off looking for info. I notice a good site called Answers That Work. I see advertised a program called The Ultimate Troubleshooter which can help to figure out what some tasks and services are doing. I buy it! now for over 50 bucks I’ve got a tool to figure out whether there are things that interfere with the smooth running of the computer - perhaps it will help.

It certainly chews up my time poring over this stuff. The hours go by like the wind. One reason is that years ago I adopted the practice of taking very careful notes of what I do in a Log Book. This valuable practice I acquired when studying chemistry, but it takes time.

Now, here I am, flapping around my computer, making some progress, but appalled at the time it takes just to keep it functioning properly. I can do the real stuff with CDs and DVDs, I can see what the hell’s happening in my machine, perhaps I can get onto doing some more productive tasks.

At least I finally got to write in my slightly neglected blog.

Just a diary entry - no nice prose, but it records where I’m “at”, as the modern saying goes. Better then nothig.

Would you agree?

OK, you have a jazz band, playing good old standards, doing some great solos, nice audience. What’s a fan supposed to do to show his appreciation?

Some sit at the bar or at the table, unmoving, cool as a cucumber. No tapping feet, no body movement, no finger moving with the beat sully this cool Joe. When the band finishes, this guy gives polite, restrained applause. He’s heard it all before, spent countless hours listening to live jazz and recordings. He has standards, he’s a critical listener. If I play the piano he’s comparing me with Fats Waller, with Oscar Peterson, with Bob Sedergreen, with Graeme Coyle or some such star.

He doesn’t give unearned applause. He doesn’t applaud just any old solo - oh no! - you’ve got to be good. He’s jaded, casts not his pearls before swine. When others go wild with appreciation, he holds back. The milk of human kindness oozeth not from his dugs. Such constipated audience members are always there. Because they feel superior they get their kicks that way, there they sit, casting a kill-joy pall all around.

Damned Enthusiasts!

At the other extreme (I plead guilty, m’lud!) is the Enthusiast!! Fingers and feet virtually flailing, he lets it all hang out, the devil take the hind-most. Unabashed at his bodily excesses, he wants to show his appreciation every which way! Jazz must be not only enjoyed but must be seen to be enjoyed. Tabletop or bar is enthusiastically tapped, ankles are wiggled, a broad grin lights his dial, and bon-homie exudes from his soul.

Tapping spoons on glasses, though, is beyond the pale!

Musos notice it. I once saw reeds player Alex Hutchinson step down from the stage, stride across the floor and offer a fiver to a highly animated mate of mine, so embarrassed was he by the antics! A good joke, but it made the point.

About Jazz Solos

What do you do about solos? Do you applaud after each one, no matter how good, just to encourage the hapless soul? Purists adopt the classical music approach - clap only at the very end of the concerto - not even between movements - and then the applause must be wild, even extravagant, perhaps with muffled “bravos” interspersed.

But this is jazz, most of which cannot even remotely compared with classical music; the raison d’être is quite different. The essence of jazz is improvised solos - it’s made up on the spot, and on a good day, it can be brilliant, on a bad day forgettable. Improvisation is very rare in classical music - it’s essence is in the delivery, the virtuosity, the rendition.

Some say that clapping only spoils the entry of the next soloist. They do have a point, but - nyah! - really good solos are rare. It’s just that every dog deserves his day.

Well, I sp’ose most folks are in between. Most tap along a bit, or just nod their heads and smile - in time with the music, of course. The day has long gone when I worried about how other listeners react to however I enjoy my jazz. I just kinda let it all hang out - in a sophisticated way, of course. Wouldn’t wanna be taken for one of those - shudder - Enthusiasts!!

Let the good times roll!!

It came to be that last Tuesday I went to the funeral of a trumpet-playing friend of mine, Royce Charlett. Ten days earlier, he had suddenly collapsed at home and died, to be found by his partner Christine, poor girl. He had had no previous symptoms of heart disease, so when she found him dead on the bedroom floor it was a huge shock.

It’s not as if I played regularly with him, but we played some gigs at the Grampians Jazz Festival, 2002, plus a couple of well-paid commercial jobs about the same time, at Xmas luncheons of the Brain Research Institute, at the Austin Hospital. The thing is, I came to realize that it’s not so much how often I play with a musician, or just listen to them, but it’s the fact that a friend or acquaintance is just there, doing their thing in a way that I enjoy or admire. I suppose that even if I dislike someone they still have a part in the warp and weft of my life’s fabric!

His death left a hole in my life. I came to realize that my grasp upon the world I inhabit comprises a matrix of connections with people like Royce. My connections range from intense to casual, from right now to way in the past, or even just some connection from even my earliest years; but each has its place in my being.

Way back about 1999 I formed the first band of my own. Until then, from 1997, I’d been playing with various bands playing what is called, variously, “trad jazz” (traditional jazz), or Dixieland, or New Orleans jazz. Before then I’d just played some solo piano in a few places, and much earlier in my life I’d played the drums for thirty years with my mother’s dance bands - but that’s another story!

My new band was called the Jazz Travellers, to play the style of music called “mainstream”. I was looking for a drummer. Royce at that time was running the Monbulk Jazz Festival, and I phoned him for help to find a drummer. He was very helpful; I did find a drummer and in due course that band played at Monbulk and several other festivals. This year I’m playing with my Jazz Travellers yet again (after some years’ break) at the Grampians.

Trumpeter Royce Charlett playing at Merimbula, June, 2007.

I took the above picture at Merimbula Jazz Festival last June. Like many jazz musicians he plays with his eyes shut. Sometimes I do that while playing the piano here at home, and I don’t quite know where you go to, but it’s somewhere where the good jazz comes from. It must be an altered state of consciousness, because it’s similar to times that I meditate. I don’t meditate enough these days - should do it more often.

I happen to be an atheist. I find no advantage in my life in trying to believe in a non-existent deity, and do not believe that I will exist in any way after my death. But I do know that there is a lot not known or understood about the brain and the mind. I have had many valuable experiences whilst meditating, and I think it’s a healthy thing to do.

Now, I don’t know where my good mate Royce has gone to now, but I’d like to believe that he’s gone to wherever he was when he was playing his beloved trumpet in that picture that I took. That’s a nice idea.

My best-laid plans for regular blogging have (not unexpectedly) taken a nose-dive already, so here’s a summary of this week.

Last Sunday we had the family over for a BBQ lunch. I had trouble with the gas fittings, then in the hands of my son it came good: I don’t know what he did differently, but all of a sudden it worked properly. Now I have to return $70 worth of replacement gas plumbing that I’d bought, unnecessarily so, it seems. Still haven’t got back to Bunnings with that.

Monday I recovered from Sunday.

Tuesday I went to the funeral of a jazz friend of mine, where I shed tears. Then we went to a wake afterwards, and I managed to play the piano for an hour or so with some of the jazzies there. That was good practice, as well as a little exposure to other guys. Several took my details. We’d left home at 9:25 am, and arrived home about 4:45 pm. so it was a long day.

Wednesday I saw my psych on the morning, then played with a trio at the Monash Uni Staff Club for 2 hours before whizzing off to Bentleigh to play with the same musos for about 30 min at a large retirement village/nursing home. Then I shot back to Glen Waverley for an appointment with my urologist. He said my prostate PSA level is zero, so the January surgery can still be called successful: no cancer left. I was pretty tired after all that!

Thursday I wrote letters in some Xmas cards, to get the 6 pm mail in our street (cutting it fine for deliveries). But in the afternoon, nature intervened in the form of a torrential downpour that caused serious flooding and damage in our suburb, plus others. Our back yard was flooded to 9 inches (do your own conversion). The cards missed the mail!

Friday I posted said cards at the Post Office, dropped in 17 prescriptions to get them paid for on the safety net which expires next week. Then I picked up Chelsea and Victoria (grandkids) from school, it being the last school day, all getting caught in yet another brief torrential downpour while we were at it. It rained hard all afternoon, and the underground car parks at The Glen (big shopping centre) were still flooded from yesterday, so the medicine I’ll pick up on Sunday, when we can park properly.

Tonight I have insomnia and have the head cold Glenyce already has. But I did get to cook some Thai red curry and rice for tea.

Now it’s going on 5 am, and I’ll go back to bed. Have to go early to my daughter’s place to be there when the electrician comes to inspect her light fittings which were damaged by water leaking from the ceiling during Thursday’s amazing rainstorm.

I’ll be very tired, but that’s life.

In a previous life I taught organic chemistry at RMIT University Applied Chemistry Department for 25 years, until I needed to retire because of ill health. Although I left 20 years ago, I regularly attend the department’s Xmas luncheons. As the years have rolled by, I meet fewer and fewer of my old colleagues. Some just don’t come any more, others are in ill health, and some have died.

They always seem glad to see me, which is heartening, because I left suddenly, leaving some of them with an increased work load. I am often assured that they missed me. With the passing years, student numbers have dwindled, money has tightened, and no doubt well-meaning “managerial types” have made many changes. Staff have been reduced, and work-loads have increased.

Each year I am usually greeted by remaining staff saying: “You’re well off out of here, Bill. It’s just getting worse!”

Receiving this opinion with mixed feelings, I nevertheless go on to have a jolly time chatting over food and drink, hearing how things are going for each friend, and swapping old stories with lots of laughter and camaraderie.

Last Thursday at the restaurant I spoke up: “You wouldn’t believe it, but last January I had my prostate gland removed by laparascopic surgery.”

Hugh (77), to my right, said: “That’s interesting. So did I!”

We laughed at the coincidence, comparing notes. Turns out mine was slightly enlarged but cancerous, but his was grossly enlarged, preventing urination, but not cancerous. His was by manual laparoscopy, and mine was by the new-fangled Da Vinci Robotic laparascopy. We joked about catheters and pelvic floor exercises.

Ann (younger than me), to my left, said: “I know all about pelvic floor exercises because I’ve recently had a hysterectomy!!”

And so we all laughed, acutely aware that we’re all of an age where these things, operations and health “events”, are par for the course.

Then I remarked that I’ve had hearing tests and it’s recommended that I would benefit from hearing aids - rather expensive ones - up to $4,000 per ear!!

“Like these?”, said my mate Tom from across the table, adding: “These cost a couple of thousand per ear!”

Wryly, I nodded, and had a chat about hearing aids. Yep! Definitely all of a certain age.

The meal dishes came and went, and wine was imbibed. In no time we got into some humorous awards, jokes, and carol singing (with chemically altered words). After enough drinks I soon found myself out the front, part of a quartet leading the songs. I’m not much of a singer, but I even sang harmony!

Finally, after a four-hour lunch, we made our way walking the kilometre or so down towards the RMIT Uni, on the edge of the Melbourne CBD. They were going for more drinks and Xmas cake in the department, but I’d had enough: I had to drive through peak hour traffic back home, ready to go out to a music concert. I know my limits these days!

I had a bloody good time! What a great bunch of people to have known and still know.

I wonder who’ll be missing next year?

It’s not as though I’ve stopped living my life, but it’s just that I’ve stopped recording it or commenting on it, here in this blog.

My last blog item was early in September. The year just dribbles by. Since I enjoyed the last few outings of the fungi season with my Field Nats friends; I have dozens of excellent photos with with I’ve done nothing. I’ve played jazz piano at monthly outings of the Showbiz Club I belong to, and started rehearsing with several musician friends. We’re playing really well.

In early February I’ll be playing in two bands at the Grampians Jazz Festival. (Don’t expect much from that web site because the bounders don’t keep it up to date at all!) I was going to play in two at this year’s at the Grampians, but I had a radical prostatectomy instead! This time last year I had no idea I had prostate cancer, but glad I had the tests. It’s wrecked my sex life, but for years that was pretty abysmal anyway. A sore point with me, that is. Musn’t dwell!

Since last writing in an act of hopefulness that I could be of service in a fine organisation, the Victorian Jazz Archive, I got involved with learning to be a tour guide and also help them update their web site. But this week I resigned from that endeavour because I am finding too many fuzzy-headed, painful days. When that happens, I can’t be of value to anyone and just an embarrassment to myself.

I’ve learned from the past to restrict myself to just my core activities, namely, being a good companion to my wife (42 years married yesterday), playing my jazz my way with my friends, and attending to my internet activities here and in my elfram.com site.

And…Oh yes!…In mid-October we went away for a month in our caravan, touring the south coast of NSW from Lakes Entrance to Nowra. God, this country’s beautiful in springtime, regardless of the drought. We did a lot of things, saw many sights, and went on three boat cruises. The first was out to sea from Two-Fold Bay, Eden, watching for humpback whales. We did see them, but they weren’t very spectacular.

What was spectacular was a fall by yours truly, smack down on the deck of the cruise catamaran, bucking around in rough seas! To add injury to the loss of dignity, that solidly sprained my ankle. I hobbled around for the rest of the month, dosing heavily all the time on Panadeine Forte and Neurontin for my normal pain in the back and legs, exacerbated from holiday exertion, plus the sprained ankle.

I came back an exhausted mess, then dried out over a fortnight from the analgesics, but have never really recovered. I’m up and down, but continually depressed, very tired, fuzzy in the head, and with unpredictable bursts of back and leg pain. Some days I can barely utter a coherent sentence - or so it feels.

But this is a new start to my blogging. I turn 69 on Saturday, am feeling my age, but resolve to keep enjoying what I can. I’m better off than a younger musician friend of mine, an excellent trumpet player and nice fellow all round. Last Saturday Royce Charlett dropped dead from a sudden heart attack, with no prior warning and no previous illness. I’ll miss him, and I’m going to live as though this could happen any time to me!

Vale Royce! A true gentleman, trumpet player and entertainer.