It's Curtains.

The King's Ring

by Theodore Tilton

I.

Once in Persia reigned a King,

Who upon his signet ring

Graved a maxim true and wise,

Which, if held before his eyes,

Gave him counsel, at a glance,

Fit for every change or chance:

Solemn words, and these are they:

“'Even this shall pass away!'”

II.

Trains of camels through the sand

Brought him gems from Samarcand;

Fleets of galleys through the seas

Brought him pearls to rival these.

But he counted little gain

Treasures of the mine or main.

“What is wealth?” the King would say;

“'Even this shall pass away.'”

III.

In the revels of his court,

At the zenith of the sport,

When the palms of all his guests

Burned with clapping at his jests,

He, amid his figs and wine,

Cried, “O loving friends of mine!

Pleasure comes, but not to stay:

'Even this shall pass away.'”

***

This week I seem to have been pacing through my working hours waiting for the factory siren to signal knock-off time.  It's been tediously slow, and just as well, because we've been captivated by the Machiavellian twists and turns in federal politics.   Good old ABC 24 News live broadcasts have been keeping us informed as we gather around wall-hung television sets to watch the succession of media conferences. 

Lyndall Curtis has been t'rrific on the telly and Latika Bourke unstoppable on Twitter.   There's no waiting for press clips as we've been able to hook-in minute-by-minute with online coverage and social media commentary.  I'm no political junkie, but the outcome of the ballot on Monday will have direct repercussions on my paid employment, being a loyal public servant and all.  So I come at it from the perspective of a Canberra insider (which makes it all the more gripping) and a voter (which makes it all the more tedious). 

But what is really bothering me this weekend, getting down in the micro-world of my daily life (!), is the choice of blinds for the "side room" (pictured). I never like the fabric samples I bring home to suspend from the window sill on their coat hangers. They looked so promising in the show room. I don't know whether to go custom-made with exquisite Warwick materials or buy ready-made from BQ Designs. The proprietor of the local curtain shop must despair of me as I've been on her books since 2008, unable to make a decision.   Like the Labor Party, I just need to get it over and done with, make a choice and accept the consequences.  There seems to be a strangely apt analogy here!

 

It will all pass ... eventually.

Starry-eyed

The Evening Star

~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Lo! in the painted oriel of the West,

Whose panes the sunken sun incarnadines,

Like a fair lady at her casement, shines

The evening star, the star of love and rest!

And then anon she doth herself divest

Of all her radiant garments, and reclines

Behind the sombre screen of yonder pines,

With slumber and soft dreams of love oppressed.

O my beloved, my sweet Hesperus!

My morning and my evening star of love!

My best and gentlest lady! even thus,

As that fair planet in the sky above,

Dost thou retire unto thy rest at night,

And from thy darkened window fades the light.

***

The first week of school, day two and it's merry mayhem around here with a special soccer training program twice weekly, a mid-week ballet lesson and a host of other extra-curricular activities to schedule.  How on earth can I focus on the paid job when there is so much fun to be had after 3.00 pm every day?   How can I concertina up those office hours to spend more time with the children?  I'm trying.

The children go to bed plum-tuckered-out under the evening star and thr full moon last night.  Not I, of course, because I'm still up covering books (last minute creative attempt), thinking about packed lunches (but deciding against preparing the night ahead as it most items won't stay fresh) and devising complex transport arrangements (with all the precision of a LinFox freight truck). 

The Sea and a bonnet

I must go down to the sea again, to the lonely sea and the sky;
I left my shoes and socks there - I wonder if they're dry?

~ Spike Milligan

OK so this is the Great Ocean Road, Summer of 2011.  Sigh.  Nostalgia. But we are heading to the beach briefly this weekend for the Winter of 2011.   South Coast NSW here we come!

Hey. It's Friday and no swimming lessons.  Charley and I plan to watch Emma on DVD.

I am still going through a major period drama phase.  Juxtaposed with total immersion in 21st century social media at work.  Living in different worlds entirely during business hours and after hours.  Discombobulating.

I do wish Mr Bates would tweet me.

Sent with a Flower-Pot Begging a Slip of Geranium

~ Christian Milne 1773–1816

I’ve sent my empty pot again

To beg another slip;
The last you gave, I’m grieved to tell
December’s frost did nip.

I love fair Flora and her train
But nurse her children ill;  
I tend too little, or too much;
 They die from want of skill.

I blush to trouble you again,
Who’ve served me oft before;
 But, should this die, I’ll break the pot,
 And trouble you no more.

***

Cold here, but who'd know it, since I am either bunkered down at work or shackled to the kitchen at home in greenhouse conditions.  I've been absent of late due to preoccupations with the hurdy-gurdy of real life involving three children and a full-time job.  Plus a seven-year-old's birthday party to organise followed by hoards of in-laws descending to celebrate. I was even too strapped for time to make that a memorable and picture perfect event.  (In fact no pictures at all.) The birthday girl was completely satisfied however.  No complaints there.  Just me pitting myself against my own exacting standards.  Thank heavens for sausage sizzles.

I am assured by the resident IT HelpDesk that the problems with uploading photos from the camera has been fixed with the addition of yet another cable to the collection.    However I don't appear to be abel to upload to the blog, so I shall have to log another job. (Or 'job a log' as I once said to the real Global Support Centre at the office, and promptly collapsed into a fit of the giggles.)  I was also counselled about storing too many junk photos in the Pictures Library which are being backed-up at some expense.  So they have been culled and catalogued like nobody's business.  Where does everyone else store their digital photos and favourite images collected from the interweb?  Oh bring back albums and adhesive photo corners.  Yeah.  Maybe not. 

Home Rhythms

Before Tea

~ A.A. Milne (from When We Were Very Young)

Emmeline

Has not been seen

For more than week. She slipped between

The two tall trees at the end of the green...

We all went after her. "Emmeline!"

"Emmeline,

I didn't mean --

I only said that your hands weren't clean."

We went to the trees at the end of the green...

But Emmeline

Was not to be seen.

Emmeline
Came slipping between
The two tall trees at the end of the green.
We all ran up to her. "Emmeline!
Where have you been?
Where have you been?
Why, it's more than a week!" And Emmeline
Said, "Sillies, I went to see the Queen.
She says my hands are purfickly clean!"

***

Like Emmeline, I have returned. I've been at a conference for three days this week.  Eaten too many Mentos and sipped too much brewed coffee.  Had the odd panic attack at 3.00 pm wondering if the Strong Silent One had remembered to collect the children from school.  (He had. Just. With texted reminders.)

Been caught up in that completely artificial world of a big hotel with shiny lobbies, exclusive parking, uniformed serving staff and corporate pen and paper sets. 

Back to earth now with soccer, netball, ballet on a Saturday morning, a tedious grocery shop in the slowest queue and now mounds of laundry demanding attention, plus embarrassingly long cobwebs hanging from the cornices in two separate and highly visible places.   No-one whisks the dirty dishes away or aims to make my stay as pleasant as possible.   The lounge chairs are covered with chess pieces, books, stray bits of paper and the cushions are on the floor.

 It was nice to be away from the routine for a while but comforting to be back.   Homes, like hotels, have their own rhythms and nothing beats the steady cadence of family life.

Photo by me: Cook's Cottage, Fitzroy Gardens, Melbourne. December 2010. 

Empty {office} chair

The Chairs That No One Sits In

~ Billy Collins

You see them on porches and on lawns

down by the lakeside,

usually arranged in pairs implying a couple

who might sit there and look out

at the water or the big shade trees.

The trouble is you never see anyone

sitting in these forlorn chairs

though at one time it must have seemed

a good place to stop and do nothing for a while.

Sometimes there is a little table

between the chairs where no one

is resting a glass or placing a book facedown.

It might be none of my business,

but it might be a good idea one day

for everyone who placed those vacant chairs

on a veranda or a dock to sit down in them

for the sake of remembering

whatever it was they thought deserved

to be viewed from two chairs

side by side with a table in between.

The clouds are high and massive that day.

The woman looks up from her book.

The man takes a sip of his drink.

Then there is nothing but the sound of their looking,

the lapping of lake water, and a call of one bird

then another, cries of joy or warning—

it passes the time to wonder which.

***

We are still at home. One child still unwell and the other sniffing, but recuperating. The front porch has been swept. The footpath raked. Flyscreens have been vaccuumed and the insides of windows wiped. I've applied the final cost of Dulux Magnolia to a refurbished hall table and made a second sticky date cake. None of these were on the list of important things to do.


(I'm secretly loving this enforced domesticity with the cosy sounds of sparrows in the garden and the hum of the central heating inside. The postman shall be along shortly on his motorbike and the sun will shift its warmth from one side to the other of the house. I'll boil the kettle again and set out plates of vegemite on SAO biscuits once the children wake from their morning slumber. Such is the gentle rhythm to our days.)

Sea of words

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,

There is a rapture on the lonely shore,

There is society, where none intrudes,

By the deep sea, and music in its roar:

I love not man the less, but Nature more,

From these our interviews, in which I steal

From all I may be, or have been before,

To mingle with the Universe, and feel

What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.

~ Lord George Gordon Byron (1814)

We had a long, indulgent phone conversation with Wanna's godmother in Brisbane last night.  Passed her round so every-one could have a chat and managed to cook meat and three veg at the same time.  L. and I go back to university days and have one of those relationships you can pick up where you left off after long breaks.  She's assumed legendary status in our family as that distant person Mum talks about and who sends presents.  Her image stays real through the christening photographs.  I grew up with a distant aunt like that, who lived in England. It's sort of fun as a kid to have a real, but imaginary, friend.  L. may be coming to visit in May.  Roll out the carpet! 

I'm dragging myself towards the end of tomorrow when I start my school holiday/Easter/ANZAC day break.  I'm feeling an information overload at the moment.  Primarily due to escapades into the Twitter-sphere trawling for information about its use in the public sector and by institutions.  Social media is a busy, crowded space.  Invigorating and depleting at the same time.  There should be licences for Twitter accounts, granted only after potential users pass a test guaranteeing that they will post interesting content.   If you don't hear from me I'm probably lost at sea, clinging to the flotsam and jetsam of tweets and hashtags.

Rockets

The Aurora Australis

~ Mary Hannay Foott


A radiance in the midnight sky

No white moon gave, nor yellow star;

We thought its red glow mounted high

Where fire and forest fought afar,

 

 

Half questioning if the township blazed,

Perchance, beyond the boundary hill;

Then, finding what it was, we gazed

And wondered till we shivered chill.

And Fancy showed the sister-glow

Of our Aurora, sending lines

Of lustre forth to tint the snow

That lodges in Norwegian pines.

And South and North alternate swept

In vision past us, to and fro;

While stealthy winds of midnight crept

About us, whispering fast and low.

The North, whose star burns steadily,

High set in heaven long ago:

The South, new-risen on the sea,

A tremulous horizon-glow.

We mused, “Shall there be gallant guests

Within our polar hermitage,

As on the shore where Franklin rests,

And others, named in Glory's page?

And, “Shall the light we look on blaze

Above such battles as have been,

In other countries, other days,

The giants and the gods between?”

Till one declared, “We live to-night

In what shall be the poet's world:

The lands 'neath our Aurora's light

Are as the rocks the Titans hurled.

“From southern waters, ice-enthralled,

Year after year the rays that glance

Shall see the Desert shrink appalled

Before the City's swift advance.

“Shall see the precipice a stair,

The river as a road. And then

There shall be voices to declare

This work was wrought by manly men.”

 And so our South all stately swept

In vision past us, to and fro;

While stealthy winds of midnight crept

About us, whispering fast and low.

What a week people.  Flu, mad frenzy in the big open plan office (I mean really mad, frenetic, crazy, led by jet-propelled, 'intuitive decision-making' - to borrow from Kerry) and three sprogs to feed.   Just when I have a half hour to spare, the computer won't upload photos so I have to use more images from our mega road trip this summer.  Hence the ute on a stick above taken in none other than Deniliquin in New South Wales -- home of the Ute Muster.  Hopefully when the IT HelpDesk gets home from playing hockey tonight, I can get a quick solution in time for {this moment}.  We're off to swimming lessons as usual.  Cate take note! ;-)  It's all 'rocket' arms and tumble turns and butterfly kicks.   We're even models in an AUSTSWIM conference shortly.  That's dedication.

Germs

THE GERM

~Ogden Nash

A mighty creature is the germ,

Though smaller than the pachyderm.

His customary dwelling place

Is deep within the human race.

His childish pride he often pleases

By giving people strange diseases.

Do you, my poppet, feel infirm?

You probably contain a germ.

***

I'm propelling myself to work today despite waves of flu-like symptoms (which subside with a cup of coffee) and a deep-seated, toxic chest.  Bad I know.  By the end of the day, I'm ragged.  Fit only to curl up under a crotcheted rug with bed socks on and the remote control to hand.  Thankfully the latest edition of Inside Out arrived in time to offer some gentle reading. 

We are still working on body clocks set an our earlier.  I've managed to get to work early before the rest of the miners descend.  It's magic being the first one to turn on the lights and the photocopy machine.  I settle down and witness the morning unfurl.  Even manage to get some work done, or at least sketch out the day's priorities, before the hub-hub of office life gets distracting and the 'urgent' wheedles it's nosey way in to trump the 'important'. 

B-Well Report: Walk to Work

There was a Young Lady of Dorking,

Who bought a large bonnet for walking;

But its colour and size,

So bedazzled her eyes,

That she very soon went back to Dorking.

***

Looking forward, looking back, on my way to work.  This is, unbelievably, the National Capital of an advanced economy.  Here I plod over State Circle directly across the road from Parliament House, just after 9.00 am on a weekday morning and there is no traffic whatsoever on the roads.   School's in and the good car parks have gone, so most workers would be hunched over their desks.  Still, it seems remarkable that there is such grand infrastructure in such a small city.  Does this make it soul-less (as it has been oft accused and does on occasion feel)?  Or  are we lucky to enjoy so little traffic and commotion?

Fashion Shoot

Delight in Disorder

A sweet disorder in the dress

Kindles in clothes a wantonness:

A lawn about the shoulders thrown

Into a fine distraction:

An erring lace, which here and there

Enthrals the crimson stomacher:

A cuff neglectful, and thereby

Ribbands to flow confusedly:

A winning wave, deserving note,

In the tempestuous petticoat:

A careless shoe-string, in whose tie

I see a wild civility:

Do more bewitch me than when art

Is too precise in every part.

Yes, that would sum me up.  Hours spent on lunch preparation, assisting with breakfast and grooming the children, last-minute administration and then a rushed ten minutes to get myself ready for work.  It is always a mad rummage through  the wardrobe, despair that the preferred items are unironed, quick decisions to create an improvised 'Polyvore' mix-and-match set and then the slick application of basic make-up.  Once I land at my desk I often regret my choice - the monotony of the selection, the lack of accessorising and possibly mismatched socks.   Lately I've discovered layering with knit vests and the simple but effective impact of wearing a necklace.  I'm paying a bit more attention to how I look and it does make a difference.  I'm not a great one for fashion and it takes a huge effort to go through this process.  I'm more a 'sweater and jeans' kinda gal, sadly stuck in a suited world.

Poem by Robert Herrick 

Photo: My Paparazzi

Code of Conduct

The Diplomatic Platypus

I had a duck-billed platypus when I was up at Trinity,
With whom I soon discovered a remarkable affinity.
He used to live in lodgings with myself and Arthur Purvis,
And we all went up together for the Diplomatic Service.
I had a certain confidence, I own, in his ability,
He mastered all the subjects with remarkable facility;
And Purvis, though more dubious, agreed that he was clever,
But no one else imagined he had any chance whatever.

I failed to pass the interview, the board with wry grimaces
Took exception to my boots and then objected to my braces,
And Purvis too was failed by an intolerant examiner
Who said he had his doubts as to his sock-suspender's stamina.
Our summary rejection, though we took it with urbanity
Was naturally wounding in some measure to our vanity;
The bitterness of failure was considerably mollified,
However, by the ease with which our platypus had qualified.

The wisdom of the choice, it soon appeared, was undeniable;
There never was a diplomat more thoroughly reliable.
The creature never acted with undue precipitation O,
But gave to every question his mature consideration O.
He never made rash statements his enemies might hold him to,
He never stated anything, for no one ever told him to,
And soon he was appointed, so correct was his behaviour,
Our Minister (without Portfolio) to Trans-Moravia.

My friend was loved and honoured from the Andes to Esthonia,
He soon achieved a pact between Peru and Patagonia,
He never vexed the Russians nor offended the Rumanians,
He pacified the Letts and yet appeased the Lithuanians,
Won approval from his masters down in Downing Street so wholly, O,
He was soon to be rewarded with the grant of a Portfolio,
When on the Anniversary of Greek Emancipation,
Alas! He laid an egg in the Bulgarian Legation.

This untoward occurrence caused unheard-of repercussions,
Giving rise to epidemics of sword-clanking in the Prussians.
The Poles began to threaten, and the Finns began to flap at him,
Directing all the blame for this unfortunate mishap at him;
While the Swedes withdrew entirely from the Anglo-Saxon dailies
The right of photographing the Aurora Borealis,
And, all efforts at rapprochement in the meantime proving barren,
The Japanese in self-defence annexed the Isle of Arran.

My platypus, once thought to be more cautious and more tentative
Than any other living diplomatic representative,
Was now a sort of warning to all diplomatic students
Of the risks attached to negligence, the perils of imprudence,
Beset and persecuted by the forces of reaction, O,
He reaped the consequences of his ill-considered action, O,
And, branded in the Honours List as 'Platypus, Dame Vera',
Retired, a lonely figure, to lay eggs in Bordighera.

Poem by Patrick Barrington
Photo: National Archives of Australia. Title : Animals - Platypus - Platypus swimming amongst rocks (1970)

Tudor Village

Taking the Census

~ Charles R. Thatcher

When the census is taken, of course,

All the elderly females are furious,

They don't like to tell their real age,

For gov'ment they say is too curious:

I got hold of a chap that went round,

For I wanted to twig their rum capers,

So I tipped him a crown on the sly

To let me look over his papers.

There's that elderly dame, Mother Baggs,

Has marked down her age twenty-seven,

Although she's possessed of five kids,

The eldest of which is eleven;

Miss Fluffen says she's thirty-two,

But to tell such a story is naughty,

She's a regular frumpish old maid,

And if she's a year old she's forty.

There's another thing struck me as queer,

As the papers I sat overhauling,

Beneath occupation, thinks I,

I'll soon find out each person's calling;

But the first I looked at made me grin,

My wash'woman, old Mother Archer,

Beneath occupation I found

Had described herself as a clear starcher.

The chemists's assistant up here,

When his paper I happened to see, sirs,

'Pon my honour had had the vile cheek

To mark after his name M.D., sirs,

And Bolus, that wretched old quack,

Whom folks here regard with suspicion,

When his paper I looked at, I found

He'd put himself down a physician!

Here's a barbarous custom you'll say,

No less than three diff'rent hairdressers,

In the papers which they have all filled up

Have described themselves all as professors;

In Heidelberg district I find

My bounceable friend, Harry Potter,

In the paper he has sent in,

Tries to make us believe he's a squatter.

My friend said he called on two girls,

Who are noted for cutting run capers,

They live in an elegant crib,

And he knocked at the door for their papers;

They handed him what he required,

He read, but exclaimed with vexation,

'The instructions you haven't fulfilled --

'You've not put down your occupation.'

'Well, Poll, that's a good 'un,' says one,

And both of them burst out a-laughing,

But the young man exclaimed precious quick

'I can't stay all day while you're chaffing;'

'Occupation' says she with a scream,

(Her laughter was pretty near killing her),

'Poll, I'm blowed if I knows what you are,

But, young man, shove me down as a milliner.'

Groooan.  Back to work today. After a few days at home engaged in tidy-ups and cleaning, I've got the hands of a Tudor washerwoman.  I'd like to pick another occupation today.  A milliner sounds good. (The poem, incidentally, from my limited research, really does make a reference to 'Harry Potter'.  Spooky.)

Oh well, best off.  Crawling towards the weekend.

 

Image: Model Tudor Village, Fitzroy Gardens, Melbourne, Victoria.

No washing up in Adelaide.

Washing the Dishes

~ Christopher Morley

When we on simple rations sup

How easy is the washing up!

But heavy feeding complicates

The task by soiling many plates.

And though I grant that I have prayed

That we might find a serving-maid,

I'd scullion all my days I think,

To see Her smile across the sink!

I wash, she wipes. In water hot

I souse each pan and dish and pot;

While Taffy mutters, purrs, and begs,

And rubs himself against my legs.

The man who never in his life

Has washed the dishes with his wife

Or polished up the silver plate--

He still is largely celibate.

One warning: there is certain ware

That must be handled with all care:

The Lord Himself will give you up

If you should drop a willow cup!

No more lolling about in mornings reading tourist information and teen novels. I'm back in the land of washing up and stacking the dishwasher with full loads. Here is the view from our spiffy apartment in Adelaide looking up and down Poultney Street.  Minimal dishwashing required. Serviced apartments are our sort of camping! 

Herewith are some street scenes of Adelaide, capital of the Festival State.  I last visited here as a singleton more than 15 years ago assisting with the administration for an APEC conference held in the Convention Centre.  I stayed at the Intercontinental Hotel and have recollections of the city centre being very close, and accessible, to the Torrens River.  This time we barely acknowledged the river.  It doesn't appear to be a city that takes in its river location, as Sydney does the harbour or poor Brisbane it's fickle waterway.  We walked to the city from our apartment and strolled up Rundle Mall (gasp, smaller and less pretty than I remember too) and round the block back along North Terrace (shielding the children's eyes from the peep shows along Hindley Street).

 

There appears to be only one tram service - an odd but charming feature of the city centre.  However the train station is an architectural marvel - a little bit of Paris or Milan right there, off to the side, in Adelaide.  By this time the children were moaning about the heat and the distance; legs were tired and drinks were craved. 

So our experience of the premiere thoroughfare of Adelaide

was like a footrace... or a Survivor challenge.  Still better than washing up the dishes in the regular routine back home though.

Looking up North Terrace outside Government House.

Waiting for the free city circle bus outside the divine Art Gallery of South Australia which we sped through like maniacs.  The security guards must have wondered.  Sorry Adelaide.

Walking back 'home' via the markets and Chinatown. 

They didn't want to eat Asian food for lunch either! Another fiasco.  Who said travelling with children was fun?!  Actually, the food didn't look that appealing.  I could see their point. A bit too food court-ish and quite grotty after the lunchtime worker's traffic had been through.  We should have eaten in the markets and dined on familiar fare you can eat with a fork.  (Our Anglo roots show us up terribly when it comes to food. Meat and three vege and some sticky buns will do us. ) A coffee at Lucia's wouldn't have gone astray at this point. 

So that was it.  Adelaide CBD in half a day.

MY TYPEWRITER

~ Edward Dyson

I have a trim typewriter now,

They tell me none is better;

It makes a pleasing, rhythmic row,

And neat is every letter.

I tick out stories by machine,

Dig pars, and gags, and verses keen,

And lathe them off in manner slick.

It is so easy, and it's quick.

And yet it falls short, I'm afraid,

Of giving satisfaction,

This making literature by aid

Of scientific traction;

For often, I can't fail to see,

The dashed thing runs away with me.

It bolts, and do whate'er I may

I cannot hold the runaway.

It is not fitted with a brake,

And endless are my verses,

Nor any yarn I start to make

Appropriately terse is.

'Tis plain that this machine-made screed

Is fit but for machines to read;

So "Wanted" (as an iron censor)

"A good, sound, secondhand condenser!"

Those were the days.  A slow, measured pace. Time to think.   Time to respond.

No rest up for me at the moment.  I am a slave to new technology and the quick turnaround.   On that note, I'm out the door and off to log-on in the office. Four days 'til the holidays and counting.   

Poem first published in The Bulletin, 6 September 1917
Illustration: From www.mariecampbell.com, with immense thanks!  A wonderful illustrator from the UK.

Lead On

VB

How does it happen?

Your reading the news

Or lighting a fuse

Or straining till you thought you would burst

You sure got a thirst

A hard earned thirst needs an ice cold beer

And the best cold beer is Vic

Victoria Bitter

You can get it jumpin' You can get it pumpin'

You can get it chasing a cow.

Matter o' fact, I got it now

A hard earned thirst needs an ice cold beer

And the best cold beer is Vic

Victoria Bitter

The week's end!  Hurrah.  Charly is down with the 'flu now too and had yesterday off school.  Must strip sheets and disinfect the house tomorrow to minimise its further spread {that's something to look forward to!}.  One week to go before school breaks-up and we take some leave to embark on one of our famous roadtrips.  Meantime, I still have to go turbo-charged through today.  While I am most definitely not a beer-drinker, except perhaps with a curry, I can empathise with the sentiments of the well-known Australian advertising jingle for Victoria Bitter.  This past month I feel as if I have been wrangling cattle or crossing hostile, uncharted territory on horseback and the thought of an ice cold something in a glass and feet up, sounds very appealing.  Right. Off to get my lasso and spurs.

Image: Cassilly Adams, 1843-1921, Winter Trail.

Wage Slave

The Song Of The Wage-Slave

 ~ Robert William Service

...extract

When the long, long day is over, and the Big Boss gives me my pay,

I hope that it won't be hell-fire, as some of the parsons say.

And I hope that it won't be heaven, with some of the parsons I've met --

All I want is just quiet, just to rest and forget.

Look at my face, toil-furrowed; look at my calloused hands;

Master, I've done Thy bidding, wrought in Thy many lands --

Wrought for the little masters, big-bellied they be, and rich;

I've done their desire for a daily hire, and I die like a dog in a ditch.

I have used the strength Thou hast given, Thou knowest I did not shirk;

Threescore years of labor -- Thine be the long day's work.

And now, Big Master, I'm broken and bent and twisted and scarred,

But I've held my job, and Thou knowest, and Thou will not judge me hard.

Thou knowest my sins are many, and often I've played the fool --

Whiskey and cards and women, they made me the devil's tool.

I was just like a child with money; I flung it away with a curse,

Feasting a fawning parasite, or glutting a harlot's purse;

Then back to the woods repentant, back to the mill or the mine,

I, the worker of workers, everything in my line.

Everything hard but headwork (I'd no more brains than a kid),

A brute with brute strength to labor, doing as I was bid;

Living in camps with men-folk, a lonely and loveless life;

Never knew kiss of sweetheart, never caress of wife.

A brute with brute strength to labor, and they were so far above --

Yet I'd gladly have gone to the gallows for one little look of Love.

I, with the strength of two men, savage and shy and wild --

Yet how I'd ha' treasured a woman, and the sweet, warm kiss of a child!

Well, 'tis Thy world, and Thou knowest. I blaspheme and my ways be rude;

But I've lived my life as I found it, and I've done my best to be good;

I, the primitive toiler, half naked and grimed to the eyes,

Sweating it deep in their ditches, swining it stark in their styes;

Hurling down forests before me, spanning tumultuous streams;

Down in the ditch building o'er me palaces fairer than dreams;

Boring the rock to the ore-bed, driving the road through the fen,

Resolute, dumb, uncomplaining, a man in a world of men.

Master, I've filled my contract, wrought in Thy many lands;

Not by my sins wilt Thou judge me, but by the work of my hands.

Master, I've done Thy bidding, and the light is low in the west,

And the long, long shift is over . . . Master, I've earned it -- Rest.

Image: Darlinghurst nights and morning glories : being 47 strange sights observed from eleventh storeys, in a land of cream puffs and crime, by a flat-roof professor: and here set forth in sketch and rhyme by Virgil Reilly and Kenneth Slessor, 1933.

Virgil Reilly’s terrific illustrations accompanied a series of poems by Australian poet Kenneth Slessor in Smith's Weekly. They opened a window onto inner-city Sydney during the early 1930s. Cocaine was the drug of choice then.  Coffee is mine as I head off for another tough day in the mines.  Only two days to go and some semblance of normality will return.  I only saw the children at breakfast-time yesterday, and that was to say good-bye.  It's tough.

Reflection

Superfluous Advice

~ Dorothy Parker

Should they whisper false of you.

Never trouble to deny;

Should the words they say be true,

Weep and storm and swear they lie.

Mad day at work, but decided that I would NOT bring papers home tonight.  No time anyway, as the lovely F. invited me over for a girls' night in at her house.  Charly went ice skating with Guides as a final celebratory outing.  The Strong Silent One has been stuck at home with the 'flu and it appears to be catching.  We are nearing the end of the school year and every-one is exhausted.  I can't wait for 2011 to start afresh. 

Image: Possum Magic

Paths taken

Advice

~ Ella Wheeler Wilcox

I must do as you do? Your way I own

Is a very good way, and still,

There are sometimes two straight roads to a town,

One over, one under the hill.

You are treading the safe and the well-worn way,

That the prudent choose each time;

And you think me reckless and rash to-day

Because I prefer to climb.

Your path is the right one, and so is mine.

We are not like peas in a pod,

Compelled to lie in a certain line,

Or else be scattered abroad.

'T were a dull old world, methinks, my friend,

If we all just went one way;

Yet our paths will meet no doubt at the end,

Though they lead apart today.

You like the shade, and I like the sun;

You like an even pace,

I like to mix with the crowd and run,

And then rest after the race.

I like danger, and storm, and strife,

You like a peaceful time;

I like the passion and surge of life,

You like its gentle rhyme.

You like buttercups, dewy sweet,

And crocuses, framed in snow;

I like roses, born of the heat,

And the red carnation's glow.

I must live my life, not yours, my friend,

For so it was written down;

We must follow our given paths to the end,

But I trust we shall meet--in town.

Racing away

The Old Timer's Steeplechase (an excerpt)

~ Andrew Barton Paterson

Then the last time round! And the hoofbeats rang!

And I said, "Well, it's now or never!"

And out on the heels of the throng I sprang,

And the spurs bit deep and the whipcord sang

As I rode. For the Mooki River!

We raced for home in a cloud of dust

And the curses rose in chorus.

'Twas flog, and hustle, and jump you must!

And The Cow ran well -- but to my disgust

There was one got home before us.

Old curmudgeon that I am, I really don't like the Melbourne Cup and the frenzied enthusiasm and forced workplace socialising.  I'm thinking I need to do some library research today, or volunteer for the audit commitee, or book the dentist, or help... schedule something, anything, to escape the fascinators, sellers of sweep tickets and trays of chicken drumsticks. Grandma loved a flutter on the gee-gees and did very well betting on the jockey's colours, but I just don't get it. 

It's also Valuing Diversity Day at school which is an opportunity to celebrate other cultures.  Today it involves various activities in rotation and tomorrow a food-fest. That sound like more fun. 

Photo by me: Zebra by Canberra scupltor, Alan Aston.