Gratitude

Concert Party (Egyptian Base Camp)
-- Siegfried Sassoon

They are gathering round....

Out of the twilight; over the grey-blue sand,

Shoals of low-jargoning men drift inward to the sound—

The jangle and throb of a piano ... tum-ti-tum...

Drawn by a lamp, they come

Out of the glimmering lines of their tents, over the shuffling sand.

O sing us the songs, the songs of our own land,

You warbling ladies in white.

Dimness conceals the hunger in our faces,

This wall of faces risen out of the night,

These eyes that keep their memories of the places

So long beyond their sight.

Jaded and gay, the ladies sing; and the chap in brown

Tilts his grey hat; jaunty and lean and pale,

He rattles the keys ... some actor-bloke from town...

God send you home; and then A long, long trail;

I hear you calling me; and Dixieland....

Sing slowly ... now the chorus ... one by one

We hear them, drink them; till the concert’s done.

Silent, I watch the shadowy mass of soldiers stand.

Silent, they drift away, over the glimmering sand.

***

Still dashing around not getting anywhere fast.  Right from the word go in the morning the race is on.  Trudging over hill and dale in a most undignified fashion to walk to work from a distant car park.  I found a raised mound over a gully/drain to teeter over instead of the usual hazardous uneven tussocks of grass.  I'm forging my own goat track.  It's a twice daily adventure.  I hum as I walk.  Those old piano medleys glide about in my head.  I suspect this derelict public site will be ripe for development one day and Canberra's skyline will become a dense thicket of highrise buildings.  I should enjoy it while it lasts. The children's piano tunes will also be a distant memory one day too.  So while I grumble, I also pause in gratitude. 

Photo. St John's Anglican Church, Reid, Canberra, Australia.  By me.

A Fine View

A few tin strips of fleecy cloud lies long

And motionless above the eastern steeps,

Like shreds of silver lace: till suddenly,

Out from the flushing centre to the ends

On either hand, their lustrous layers become

Dipt in all crimson streaked with pink and gold;

And then, at last, are edged as with a band

Of crystal fire.

 ~ Charles Harpur, Dawn and Sunrise in the Snowy Mountains ~

***

My latest hobby is collecting library fines.  We seem to live among a pile of borrowed books and audio books with no idea when they fall due.  Yesterday in a mad dash to mall while Little Wanna's ballet lesson was in progress, we bought a few new books including yet more Lego collector series and The BFG by Roald Dahl. So now we have our noses in brand spanking new books while time is ticking on the borrowed ones. 

I love putting on the squish-diddly voice of the BFG.  But I was beginning to think he wasn't suitable fare for a bedtime story with his imposing height, scary old face and big ears. He comes across as a formidable figure in the first two chapters. Thankfully, as it transpires, he doesn't eat people.  Not like library officials (nah, kidding). 

On our regular trip cross suburbs, we rise and descend over Hindmarsh Drive with astounding views of the Brindabella Mountains in the distance.  It really makes me gasp sometimes and forget all the outstanding fines and hundred-and-one other tasks awaiting me at home and in the office.  It's one of Canberra's redeeming features ... in the absence of a beach.   Mr Harpur has captured the magic accurately in his ode to a sunset over the Snowies.

Lights

 

The property in the Canberra suburb of Forrest in Australia is illuminated with 331,038 fairy lights making it the Guinness World Record holder for the Most Christmas Lights on a Residential Property.

Crazy!

We were there.

In the queue.

Local Places of Learning

I keep six honest serving-men

(They taught me all I knew);

Their names are What and Why and When

And How and Where and Who.

I send them over land and sea,

I send them east and west;

But after they have worked for me,

I give them all a rest.
 I let them rest from nine till five,

For I am busy then,

As well as breakfast, lunch and tea

For they are hungry men.

But different folk have different views.

I know a person small –

She keeps ten million serving-men,

Who get no rest at all!
She sends ‘em abroad on her own affairs,

From the second she opens her eyes –

One million Hows, two million Wheres

And seven million Whys!

***

We called in on the National Library of Australia (NLA) on the weekend to see the new exhibition, Handwritten Ten centuries of Manuscript Treasures from Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin and the permanent exhibition featuring Treasures from the library's own collection.  Both were excellent, but a bit of trial to enjoy thoroughly with three children in tow who were more eager to get to Questacon next door.  Congrats to the NLA for the online booking system too.  It worked a treat.

When finally we made it to Questacon, we marvelled at the new exhibition space called QLab.  It features a laboratory with microscopes and other hands-on activities which really get to the pointy end of science.  Very exciting.  But the good old sideshow exhibition with its simulated roller-coaster ride is still hard to beat for my superficial lot.

Both these national cultural institutions have significantly improved their interface with the public over the past year or so, and we are very grateful beneficiaries.   The landscaping around these national institutions has also undergone a transformation, so if you need a place to gather for a BBQ / picnic / rest on a lake walk, we heartily recommend the space between the NLA and Questacon.  With bonus grassy knolls for rolling down.

Poem: from The Elephant’s Child, Rudyard Kipling (1902)

Cinderella

We feasted on ballet yesterday.  It all began with a magical matinee performance of Cinderella by the West Australian Ballet Company.  It was my littlest ballerina's first-ever viewing of a professional ballet and she thought it was terrific despite the fact that interpreting the mime was a bit challenging at times.  "Are they going to speak?", she asked.

Japanese dancer Anna Ishii played the lead. But the two comic step-sisters really stole the show. There was no misinterpreting their expressions, gestures and characterisation.  A very clever, modern depiction of these traditional roles. The 1920's inspired costumes were also refreshingly different.

Here's what the company has to say about the production:

Choreographer Jayne Smeulders spins a tale of magic and delight in her first full-length choreography for the Company, whilst Allan Lees, designer of the spectacular 2010 production of Don Quixote, has created sumptuous new costumes and a beautifully restored and re-imagined set for this family ballet classic performed to Sergei Prokofiev’s evocative score.

Later that night, our budding Dame Margot participated in the National Capital Ballet School's end of year show which had the theme "Romanticism".  It was a thrilling experience for her and a credit to the teachers and management.  We were completely blown away by the talented young people, the magnificent costumes and clever sets.  Our little preparatory dance class performed a piece based on a Madeline-inspired group of children visiting an art gallery on a school excursion.  Cuteness abounded. The audience sighed. We applauded loudly.  Bravo.  Encore!

#aubama

Lincoln

~ Vachel Lindsay

Would I might rouse the Lincoln in you all,
That which is gendered in the wilderness
From lonely prairies and God’s tenderness.
Imperial soul, star of a weedy stream,
Born where the ghosts of buffaloes still dream,
Whose spirit hoof-beats storm above his grave,
Above that breast of earth and prairie-fire—
Fire that freed the slave.

***

Well, what a blast. President Obama on a whirlwind visit to Canberra. Since 3.30pm yesterday we've been transfixed with the unfolding narrative. It's been non-stop entertainment with Air Force One and the Beast, choppers and F-18 hornets overhead, high rhetoric and corny gags in Parliament House.  (We'll be looking out for the introduction of 'ear-bashing' into the vernacular in Washington.)

Speculation was rife, starting with conversations in the sandpit on the school oval and reaching fever pitch in the corridors late yesterday, that #aubama would visit our school but it was not to be.  He called on Campbell High School instead, dash it.  But I'm so glad it was a public school warts 'n all.  You've got to admit that BO is mighty charismatic.  We've been swooning all day in the office following twitter feeds and ABC news. Tragic isn't it! And now he's gone, it's all a bit flat.  Imagine if the First Lady had accompanied him.  We'd have been completely starstruck ;)

Still, he dedicated a white oak tree planted in grounds of the American Embassy so there's evidence it was not a mirage, and here's what he wrote in the visitor's book at Parliament House. 

"To the People of Australia, with whom we have stood together for a century of progress and sacrifice. On this 60th anniversary of our alliance, we resolve that our bonds will never be broken and our friendship will last for all time. Barack Obama." 

Poem: From General William Booth Enters into Heaven and Other Poems | 1913

Painted Nymphs

Haste Thee, Nymph
~ John Milton

Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee

Jest, and youthful Jollity,

Quips and cranks and wanton wiles,

Nods and becks and wreathed smiles

Such as hang on Hebe’s cheek,

And love to live in dimple sleek;

Sport that wrinkled Care derides,

And Laughter holding both his sides.

Come, and trip it, as you go,

On the light fantastic toe;

And in thy right hand lead with thee

The mountain-nymph, sweet Liberty;

And, if I give thee honour due,

Mirth, admit me of thy crew,

To live with her, and live with thee,

In unreproved pleasures free ...

***

We are gearing up for the end of year ballet performance with lots of rehearsals on the next few weekends. Unlike Charly's short-lived ballet career (and my own), this time we have stuck it out for a full year.  The show this time is a bigger affair too with paid seating in a proper theatre and costumes with make-up.  I'm not so sure about the need for foundation and mascara for girls under ten -- even for performances and under stage lighting.  I queried the necessity of this (not to mention the accompanying $30 price tag) with the Ballet Administration and the clerk looked at me like I was deranged.  Perhaps I am.  But honestly, we propel children towards adulthood so early, and we are a long way from signing on to a professional dance career at this stage.  Why not keep it fun and light-hearted?  We will no doubt bow to peer pressure and end up pirouetting in with a little face fully painted. 

Ro-Ro is also having group dance classes at school.  A source of much wincing and cringing when it comes to the partner dances.  The thought of make-up would be too much for him to bear.   Charly would also look like a doll in a horror movie wearing make-up.   It doesn't match her tomboy personality and wardrobe of shorts and leggings (worn together). 

So glad it's the weekend. I can even see beyond swimming lessons tonight and the bucket loads of laundry -- a gallery visit and a bike ride perhaps?  Walk 'round the lake? A few episodes of Glee Season 2?  Very excited about President Obama and Princess Mary of Denmark coming to town this month.   Mary is off to the National Arboretum I see.  Must put that on the agenda too. 

Oops.  Must dash.  As Charly would say, "Out".

  

Soft boiled googie eggs

The Man from Ironbark

~ Andrew Barton "Banjo' Paterson (1864-1941).

Poet, ballad writer, journalist and horseman.

It was the man from Ironbark who struck the Sydney town,

He wandered over street and park, he wandered up and down.

He loitered here, he loitered there, till he was like to drop,

Until at last in sheer despair he sought a barber's shop.

`'Ere! shave my beard and whiskers off, I'll be a man of mark,

I'll go and do the Sydney toff up home in Ironbark.'

The barber man was small and flash, as barbers mostly are,

He wore a strike-your-fancy sash, he smoked a huge cigar:

He was a humorist of note and keen at repartee,

He laid the odds and kept a `tote', whatever that may be,

And when he saw our friend arrive, he whispered `Here's a lark!

Just watch me catch him all alive, this man from Ironbark.'

There were some gilded youths that sat along the barber's wall,

Their eyes were dull, their heads were flat, they had no brains at all;

To them the barber passed the wink, his dexter eyelid shut,

`I'll make this bloomin' yokel think his bloomin' throat is cut.'

And as he soaped and rubbed it in he made a rude remark:

`I s'pose the flats is pretty green up there in Ironbark.'

A grunt was all reply he got; he shaved the bushman's chin,

Then made the water boiling hot and dipped the razor in.

He raised his hand, his brow grew black, he paused awhile to gloat,

Then slashed the red-hot razor-back across his victim's throat;

Upon the newly shaven skin it made a livid mark --

No doubt it fairly took him in -- the man from Ironbark.

He fetched a wild up-country yell might wake the dead to hear,

And though his throat, he knew full well, was cut from ear to ear,

He struggled gamely to his feet, and faced the murd'rous foe:

`You've done for me! you dog, I'm beat! one hit before I go!

I only wish I had a knife, you blessed murdering shark!

But you'll remember all your life, the man from Ironbark.'

He lifted up his hairy paw, with one tremendous clout

He landed on the barber's jaw, and knocked the barber out.

He set to work with tooth and nail, he made the place a wreck;

He grabbed the nearest gilded youth, and tried to break his neck.

And all the while his throat he held to save his vital spark,

And `Murder! Bloody Murder!' yelled the man from Ironbark.

A peeler man who heard the din came in to see the show;

He tried to run the bushman in, but he refused to go.

And when at last the barber spoke, and said, `'Twas all in fun --

'Twas just a little harmless joke, a trifle overdone.'

`A joke!' he cried, `By George, that's fine; a lively sort of lark;

I'd like to catch that murdering swine some night in Ironbark.'

And now while round the shearing floor the list'ning shearers gape,

He tells the story o'er and o'er, and brags of his escape.

`Them barber chaps what keeps a tote, By George, I've had enough,

One tried to cut my bloomin' throat, but thank the Lord it's tough.'

And whether he's believed or no, there's one thing to remark,

That flowing beards are all the go way up in Ironbark.

***

Marvellous eggs from the backyard chooks of my friend J.  We lopped their humpty-dumpty heads off and enjoyed the brilliant, sun-orange yolks; looking and tasting unlike any supermarket googie.

I've noticed that chooks are the new 'trampoline' for backyards in Canberrra (as in, a popular feature).  A decade ago it was pergolas.  Now every-one is getting a chicken coop.

Nigel Featherstone, a Goulburn-based author, columnist in The Canberra Times and blogger, recounted having heard them described as 'just like having an open fire in the backyard' - as mesmerising to watch - which I thought was beaut.  The SSO, however, does not agree and our clipped garden would not lend itself to having hens scratch up the lawn.  So it looks like we'll be sticking with the trampoline and badminton set.

No Hens Allowed.

Bikes in History

Mulga Bill's Bicycle

~AB (Banjo) Patterson

'Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that caught the cycling craze;
He turned away the good old horse that served him many days;
He dressed himself in cycling clothes, resplendent to be seen;
He hurried off to town and bought a shining new machine;
And as he wheeled it through the door, with air of lordly pride,
The grinning shop assistant said, "Excuse me, can you ride?"


"See here, young man," said Mulga Bill, "from Walgett to the sea,
From Conroy's Gap to Castlereagh, there's none can ride like me.
I'm good all round at everything as everybody knows,
Although I'm not the one to talk - I hate a man that blows.
But riding is my special gift, my chiefest, sole delight;
Just ask a wild duck can it swim, a wildcat can it fight.
There's nothing clothed in hair or hide, or built of flesh or steel,
There's nothing walks or jumps, or runs, on axle, hoof, or wheel,
But what I'll sit, while hide will hold and girths and straps are tight:
I'll ride this here two-wheeled concern right straight away at sight."

***

A while ago we had a weekend excusion to the Australian War Memorial which has a marvellous children's section complete with replicas of whirring helicopters, smelly submarines and life on the home front.  It is a very worthwhile place to visit but I do need to remind my son of the horrors of war rather than the Boy's Own excitement of all the battle dioramas and display cases full of dashing military garb and real artillery. 

Here we are peddling away on a stationary bike in one of the social history displays - a rather spindly affair which reminded me of my own trusty, childhood steed; back in the days when bikes had front and rear mud guards, skirt guards and a levered contraption above the back wheel on which to strap your school bag, in addition to a snazzy wire basket on the handle bars and a bell.  There were no gears or hand-brakes and we seemed to get around quite fine without them. 

We hardly ever go cycling these days.  The children don't ride to school and as we are at the top of a hill with busy roads nearby, we don't allow them to ride unaccompanied.  It is usually a big production to strap the bikes onto the car and drive to one of Canberra's spectacular bike paths for a short ride.  A quite unfortunate predicament.

Welcome Your Majesty

Queen Elizabeth II is in town.  It is her 16th visit to Australia.  I'm a bit sentimental about the Queen; not so the institution she represents, but the woman herself.   I'll also confess to having soft spot for official visit programs for Heads of State and Heads of Government, with each item on the itinerary listed in impeccable detail -- every step accounted for, the security protocols, the gift exchanges, speeches and hand-shakes.

She'll be visiting Floriade and taking a boat ride along Lake Burley Griffin today.  She has picked a fine day for a bit of sightseeing.  Perfect Canberra weather.   I wonder if we'll catch a glimpse of her entourage at some stage over the next week or so?

Photo:  By me. Dress-ups at the Museum of Australian Democracy, October 2011.

Ode to Birds

Ode to Bird Watching

~ Pablo Neruda

Now

Let's look for birds!

The tall iron branches

in the forest,

The dense

fertility on the ground.

The world

is wet.

A dewdrop or raindrop

shines,

a diminutive star

among the leaves.

The morning time

mother earth

is cool.

The air

is like a river

which shakes

the silence.

It smells of rosemary,

of space

and roots.

Overhead,

a crazy song.

It's a bird.

A little while ago, we trekked off to the Jerrabomberra Wetlands to investigate the walks and bird-watching huts.  There's a bit of re-vitalisation work going on to remove willow from the waterways which is not so attractive, but there is also a charming bike path connecting the suburbs of Russell to Kingston which threads its way though prettier sections.  It turned into a scout's adventure.  We did spot a few birds but, alack and alas, we did not have our copy of John Gould's Birds of Australia and cannot recall what they were.  

I'm on a mission to take the children on similar exploratory ganders around Canberra especially now that the weather is warmer and the days longer.  Just an occasional short walk beyond our usual orbit to make us appreciate how much open space we have in the Bush Capital.   I'm inspired by Tim the Yowie Man who writes a highly informative column about local places roundabout these here parts in the Panorama magazine which falls out of the Saturday edition of The Canberra Times.  He also tweets.  Heh, like a bird (sorry).  We also admire his hat.  Check him out and get walking.

Idleness

Against Idleness and Mischief ~ Isaac Watts (1674 - 1748) How skilfully she builds her Cell! How neat she spreads the Wax! And labours hard to store it well With the sweet Food she makes. In Works of Labour or of Skill I would be busy too: For Satan finds some Mischief still For idle Hands to do. In Books, or Work, or healthful Play Let my first Years be past, That I may give for every Day Some good Account at last. *** Sweet Spring weather has arrived with its raw, green smells and increasingly crisper afternoon light. Soccer training has finished for the season so Wednesday afternoons can be re-claimed.  Right now, we are listening to The Railway Children being read on an audio-book from the library and lolling about waiting for finger bun dough to rise.  The children have settled on the couch in a row, school shirts pulled up, scratching each other's backs.  Too bad there's music practice and a bit of homework to break the idle spell.  But not just yet.  Photo: By me. Molongolo Reach, Lake Burley Griffin. Mid-Winter 2011,

Waxing gibbous

The Freedom of the Moon

~ by Robert Frost

I've tried the new moon tilted in the air
Above a hazy tree-and-farmhouse cluster
As you might try a jewel in your hair.
I've tried it fine with little breadth of luster,
Alone, or in one ornament combining
With one first-water start almost shining.

I put it shining anywhere I please.
By walking slowly on some evening later,
I've pulled it from a crate of crooked trees,
And brought it over glossy water, greater,
And dropped it in, and seen the image wallow,
The color run, all sorts of wonder follow.

***

The weekend.  Hurrah. Swimming lesssons as usual.  Soccer, ballet and a sleepover for the rest of the time.  Weather permitting we might go for a bush walk or cycle somewhere new. Endless possibilities plus a bit of Daniel Deronda by George Eliot (BBC TV series, 2002); the next period piece on my list. With Hugh Dancy - also a classic romantic hero of mine.

Have I mentioned that we are trying our hand at cooking confectionary?  This week we prepared coconut ice to take to school to share in the classroom to celebrate Charly's birthday, and next up we might try fudge just for the fun of it.  I've consulted my faithful Day to Day cookery book from high school home economics classes and see that I may need to purchase a packet of Cream of Tartar. It seems to be in everything.  Charly and I came up with the meme: add 'with cream of tartar' to the end of every recipe in Day2Day.   Fruit Flummery 'with cream of tartar'.    Anna Potatoes 'with cream of tartar'. Boiled custard 'with cream of tartar'.  Ok, you had to be there, and be about 11 years of age with a zany mother to appreciate the humour.  We had a good giggle.  Just the two of us.  Sweet girl. 

Tonight the moon in the southern hemisphere is 98 per cent full and waxing gibbous.  We shall be looking out for it as we walk from the pool and do a little bit of start-gazing as usual.

Photo: The Royal Australian Mint, Canberra by me.

Well it's a nice place to bring up children

Come and Join Us in Canberra  and rescue me.

Net-Set-Go

Good old Netball Australia.

We have been participting in the Net-Set-Go junior netball training program on Saturday mornings.

The structured program provides participants with the opportunity to develop netball skills, physical fitness, social skills, sportsmanship and an understanding of the game of netball.

Our eight-week course at the lovely (but sometimes chilly) outdoor courts in Deakin, Canberra, are run by two amazing young women - one in her gap year and the other still at high school.

I cannot tell you how much I admire their skill in organising games with ten little girls.  They are enthusiastic, patient and thoroughly professional.  Perfect role models. 

Having not ever played or followed netball, I have also benefitted by being exposed to the game's culture.  It is totally girly which suits Little Wanna right down to the ground.  So very different in feel to the macho and muddy soccer club.  I sorta like it, and I'm not into organised sport all all. The only trick will be choosing between it and Minkey Hockey next Winter. 

Business as usual

PLANS

"'Have you invented a plan for it?' Alice inquired. 'Not yet,' said the knight." Through the Looking-glass. Busy down the coal mine and a bit exhausted at the moment.  Hardly had time to check what has been happening in this virtual space.   We took a bush walk recently on the Deakin side of Red Hill.   Met up with some pooches, passed a reservoir, took in stupendous views of the surrounding hills and stared back at some lazy wallabies.  Charly is obsessed with making pom-poms and is asking for advice on knitting scarves.  Eek!  Little one is gearing up for her 7th birthday party this weekend.  Bigger eek!! Ro-Ro is angling for a Nerf gun and continues to plough through Biggles and Lemony Snicket -- all derring-do and intrigue -- as light bedtime reading.   I wonder what he dreams?  No particular plans are being hatched.  School holidays are looming in a month and we have a few friends visiting from afar.   The old -- well actually not that old -- Electrolux washing machine burst a valve and the brand spanking new Miele is humming like a luxury BMW engine in a glassy showroom.  There are no virtues attached to hand washing and patronising laundromats.  I took the Choice consumer survey at its word and went straight for the top scoring brand based on dirt removal,  rinse performance, water efficiency, spin efficiency and gentleness.  After a week without a machine, I plan to wallow in fresh-smelling, crisp laundry every night this week and sort the whites and colours with a smile and gleeful skip instead of the usual scowl.  Sounds like a {tragic} plan after all.

Noiseless Patient Spider (with cough)

A Noiseless Patient Spider

~ Walt Whitman, from Leaves of Grass, 1867.

A noiseless patient spider,
I marked where on a promontory it stood isolated,
Marked how to explore the vacant vast surrounding,
It launched forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself,
Ever unreeling them, ever tirelessly speeding them.

And you O my soul where you stand,
Surrounded, detached, in measureless oceans of space,
Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing, seeking the spheres to connect them,
Till the bridge you will need be formed, till the ductile anchor hold,
Till the gossamer thread you fling catch somewhere, O my soul.

***

Well, we survived the school holidays at home.  The rubbish skip is full of garden waste, a few old pieces of furniture have been sanded back and one side table and stool have been half-heartedly painted Dulux Magnolia to match the walls. I can't bring myself to distress them in order to achieve a 'shabby chic' look and I'm not sure what to do about the rest.  I'm uncertain about following photo tutorials and the briefest of blogger instructions about the use of diluted French Grey paint, walnut stains, polyurethane, sealers and Danish Oil.  How do they know which to choose and what effect will work best?  Ah well, I'll go by trial and error, I s'ppose.  Some other time though.  I've been tentatively rooting about in the Strong Silent One's shed and it's in a diabolical state. I can't find a thing I need (like fine-grade sandpaper for example) but there is no shortage of the most extraordinary pieces of hardware, tools and tins of dangerous-looking fluids and pastes.

I'm also staring at old dining chairs which need recovering and am resisting the temptation to attempt amateur upholstery.  There are some very clever people in Canberra who could do it more professionally than I, armed as I am with only with the old fabric as a pattern and no experience with a staple gun at all.  It would surely end in tears if I tried.  We moved our sticks of furniture around over the Easter break and dragged the hired digital piano upstairs again so lessons could be better supervised. We are still procrasinating over a decision about buying a piano for the children to learn on.  But the more alarming development was that I seriously considered buying a cowhide rug to put in the sitting room where a piano might reside.  Apparently PROIN leathers in the US is the place to go via Ebay and with the Aussie dollar rising high against the greenback, I was tempted until good sense prevailed.  The children were terrified at the prospect of a dead cow on the floor, and some of the hides were a tad confronting, legs and all.  It would have been a brave decorating decision.

While the children have gone back to school for Term Two, I've been at home these past few days with laryngitis and bronchitis curled up watching Pride and Predjudice and Mansfield Park, like a noiseless patient spider.  I recently purchased the DVDs of Persuasian and Sense and Sensibility from a heavily tatoo-ed salesman at JB Hi-Fi which made us both smile.  An early Mothers' Day gift to myself.   Bring on Sunday.

Illustration: IM Lowry, Flickr

Autumn

Autumn Fires

~ Robert Louis Stevenson (1913)

In the other gardens
And all up the vale,
From the autumn bonfires
See the smoke trail!

Pleasant summer over
And all the summer flowers,
The red fire blazes,
The grey smoke towers.

Sing a song of seasons!
Something bright in all!
Flowers in the summer,
Fires in the fall!

I'm still having computer problems.  This time downloading from my camera.  Not happy.  The IT Help Desk is busy preparing Power Point presentations (I tell him, "No! Just talk", but he does like a diagram or two and some bewildering flow-charts as props) and travelling for meetings in airport conference facilities, so I daren't press him to investigate the problem.  

I found this terrific photo blog called Canberra Vistas which provided the perfect image of a typical autumn scene.  It's of the Japanese Gardens in Lennox Gardens, Yarralumla.   A great spot for a bike ride and an opportunity to be chased by swans.  What I'd really like to show is an image of the street trees down Monaro Crescent in Old Canberra resplendent in orange and brown tones and almost meeting overhead like a canopy.   I'm longing to go for an autumn walk this weekend and crunch in some leaves.  I'm even contemplating dragging everyone for a wander up Mt Ainslie after a visit to the War Memorial.

B-Well Report: Up National Circuit

What a week.  Again.  Yesterday was one of those days when I may as well have stayed in bed.  Technology failed me.  Or I failed it.  A document I was working on wasn't saved to the right folder, in fact wasn't saved at all.  Whoosh.  Disappeared into the greater vaporous space of the Electronic Data Record Management System.   A case of too many tabs open and too big of a rush to pay attention to detail.  I also had to bail out of a course next week which did not make the Training People happy.  Gulp.  Fortunately everyone else seemed to have a great day.  The whole school wore pajamas and crazy hair for the last day of term 1 and to raise money for Japan. Can't imagine my teachers ever wearing their pajamas to school, least of all out in public on traffic duty.  But there was Mrs X in her flannalettes directing cars like a circus clown.  Made me smile. 

I also had a leisurely walk to work one day last week (or maybe it was the week before, so lost am I in the vortex of work, home, school, supermarket I never know where I am), and took some hasty pics of familiar places along National  Circuit.  There are lots more leaves to kick these days, and with the turn in the weather it's time to bring out the coats and jackets.   On my not so leisurely pelt back at the end of the day, I have discovered that a mass of fallen acorns on the ground can be hazardous in high heels.  One of these days I'm going to twist my ankle on them.  So not very dignified.  Fortunately there never any people around.  Just as well it is Canberra.  Peak hour, major thoroughfare, opposite the national parliament and nary a soul about.  Is that good or bad?

Autumn

AUTUMN

~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Thou comest, Autumn, heralded by the rain,

With banners, by great gales incessant fanned,

Brighter than brightest silks of Samarcand,

And stately oxen harnessed to thy wain!

Thou standest, like imperial Charlemagne,

Upon thy bridge of gold; thy royal hand

Outstretched with benedictions o'er the land,

Blessing the farms through all thy vast domain!

Thy shield is the red harvest moon, suspended

So long beneath the heaven's o'er-hanging eaves;

Thy steps are by the farmer's prayers attended;

Like flames upon an altar shine the sheaves;

And, following thee, in thy ovation splendid,

Thine almoner, the wind, scatters the golden leaves!