I thought you’d like to know how I got on this morning.

I left it till not far short of closing time … for superstitious reasons really. After all, twice I’d got there early, to no avail.

There was a man behind the counter this time. Pleasant, friendly, almost charming (as they all had been actually). I produced the application which he checked thoroughly, then I confidently tabled the photo (which had been declared perfect by the Tuesday woman, if you remember).

“Oh,” he said, “they won’t accept this.”

“What!” I grated in lethal tones, “this is the FOURTH time I’ve been here … WHY won’t they accept it?”

“It’s too big,” he said, and produced an oval cut-out thingy which had not made an appearance before. My head didn’t fit within the oval (haven’t they heard of ‘full bleed’).

I found myself speaking in slow, excessively clear, icy-toned syllables … a sure sign of impending danger to those in the know – “It fits within the specifications in the application form. I deliberately made it not as large as the maximum and not as small as the minimum.”

He measured it and admitted I was right, so he had to accept it. My rising anger subsided somewhat.

I had another tragic moment when I found my birth certificate was not in its envelope. Luckily I had the gumption to look in the envelope labelled “marriage certificate” (I frequently don’t put things back in their proper place) and there it was.

All complete at last, I paid the fee and collected the receipt.

It’s supposed to be processed in 3 weeks. I hope so. It’s only 8 weeks till I leave. If they find any more irregularities and return the application, I’ll have to pay the rush fee, which is probably all part of the plot.

Sigh … this is all so DRAINING.

I’m getting a little scared. In less than 2 weeks I’m resigning from my job. ‘Retiring’, some would call it, but in truth I’m about to begin my life’s work. Some of my friends don’t understand – they think I’ll have time for leisurely lunches and stuff like that. But I won’t, and I think some of them will be offended. I’ll be even busier than usual, but I’ll be working on my own projects instead of projects for other people.

All my life I’ve had jobs I ‘don’t mind’ but never one I loved. It’s time to change that.

The thing is, I’m all too aware that this is, at best, the last third of my life. I’m one of those people who get most creative at the 11th hour. Well, I’m pretty damn close to the 11th hour, so I hope I perform true to form.

I wouldn’t feel so scared if I had more financial security, but I have only enough to last about a year and a half if my new venture doesn’t work out.

And that’s where the ‘crazy’ bit comes in. As you all know, I’m setting off on a world trip (providing the passport comes through in time), which will eat up a sizeable chunk of the moderate payout I’ll receive when I resign. Some would say I should keep the money to live on … but really, the cost of the trip would only keep me alive for another 6 months.

Ever since I returned to Australia from Europe 35 years ago, I’ve been wanting to return. If I die without doing it I’ll be so disappointed in myself.

So I’m going, crazy or not. I have a feeling the things I learn and discover along the way will be well worth the price.

Yesterday I received a call from a lady in the Passport Office. She was VERY apologetic. Seems that somewhere between the Post Office at Stafford and the Passport Office (or that’s the way she put it but she may have been passing the buck) ink got smeared over my photos.

Hmm… what is this telling me? That I need a new look? That I was presenting a false image? That I’m not meant to go overseas?

Well I don’t care! I’m going anyway.

So today I have to send some more photos. The lady assured me I don’t have to get them signed by my guarantor. God is good.

Well, it came and went. R day that is. To most that means Retirement, but I say it’s Restart.

Unisys (who ‘supports’ the Institute network), in a grand final symbolic gesture, lost all my personal mail during one of their periodic ‘upgrades’. I merely shrugged fairly confident that I had forwarded to my home address anything of importance.

My last days were nice. The marketing bunch took me to lunch on Thursday at King of Kings yum cha in Chinatown, Fortitude Valley. I hadn’t been before … best of its kind that I’ve encountered. It is said to be very ‘authentic’ and judging by the number of Asians there I suspect this might be so.

I received the customary farewell gift – quite lovely as it turned out (I’ve always been afraid of farewell gifts … so often people get something awful and have to feign delight). But then I was fairly confident of the taste of the people in our marketing unit.

Friday was one long celebration, with moments of panic when I feared I might have to stay well into the night to clear my computer of incriminating evidence.

A big bunch of flowers arrived mid-morning. I was surprised but thought it could be from Colin or any number of local fans. I looked at the card and it took me several readings to comprehend … ‘Beth and Ian’ (yes, THAT Beth!) Everyone was impressed. I was overwhelmed.

Later the Doggetts paper rep arrived with another bunch of flowers and a bottle of Merlot … nobody could remember a paper rep doing such a thing before. Maybe I am a nice person.

A couple of the marketing staff then bought champagne and muffins for a last celebration. Who knows what stupid things I did on the computer after that.

I’ll miss the people. And I’ll miss my lovely dual-processor G4 with its 20″ Cinema display.

But I’ll get over it. There’s so much to look forward to.

In 4 weeks time Colin and I fly out of Brisbane – to Rome, via Bangkok. Some of our more faint-hearted friends will think us crazy in the light of the horror in Spain, but I figure it’s still heaps more dangerous to cross the road in Rome. Besides, I believe it’s of utmost importance to refuse to be intimidated by terrorists.

Despite the danger and uncertainty, I’m really looking forward to this chapter of my life. So far as I’m concerned, all that has gone before has been merely the prelude … the main event is about to begin.

FOOTNOTE: Almost forgot to mention – my passport arrived yesterday

(This is an overflow from the ‘Spain’ blog. I would like to hear people’s opinions on some underlying issues.)

Quite often people support their views by such statements as “history shows us that ……….”. I have difficulty with this because I don’t believe there is any one ‘true’ historical view. There are probably as many views of history as there are historians. ‘History’, in my opinion, is not ‘fact’ but simply some people’s account of other people’s accounts of yet other people’s accounts of what happened at a point in time… intermingled with a lot of interpretation and hindsight.

As more ‘knowledge’ is added to the equation, historical accounts change. The ‘history’ taught today is somewhat different from the ‘history’ taught when I went to school aeons ago.

It is often considered that, with hindsight, we see things differently – but do we see them ‘truer’ or just differently? It’s the principle, I guess, that at a distance you can see the whole picture, but how far back do you have to get? Another problem arises … at a distance you might be able to see the bigger picture, but you lose the detail. Up close you see the detail, but probably miss out on the bigger picture.

Is the solution somewhere in the middle? Maybe not … it could be that you then miss both the detail AND the big picture.

At any given time, it is very difficult for anyone, let alone the ‘ordinary’ person in the street, to know the ‘facts’ about anything. We are at the mercy of all those umpteenth-hand accounts. Usually, we choose the one that best suits our own prejudices and that, boys and girls, determines how we vote in our ‘democratic’ elections (if we vote at all).
—
The following story (from the wonderful book ‘The Art of Looking Sideways’) sums it up nicely, I think:

Lenin to Trotsky: “Now this is the truth, and I can refer you to many authorities. When Catherine II and her royal entourage sailed down the Dnieper River in 1787 to view the New Territories, the Field Marshal Potemkin created sham villages of painted canvas along the river bank to give the distinguished visitors a false impression of reality. We want no more Potemkin villages.

Trotsky to Lenin: On the matter of the Potemkin villages i must disagree. They were real, and this is the truth, for which I can cite many authorities. The illusion thatthey did not exist was created by historians, the source of most of our illusions of the past.

Lenin to Trotsky: Dear Comrade, what does it matter who was responsible, my Field marshal or your historians? In either event, somebody was rudely deceived.”

(Lenin Trotsky: Pre-revolutionary Correspondence)

Yes folks, just 29 hrs till blast off … oops, poor choice of language, let’s make that ‘lift off’.

ASIDE: For the countless millions of readers who have not been following my occasional blogs – I am about to embark on a round-part-of-the-world trip, the first half to revisit (after 35 years) old friends in Europe, the second half to meet face-to-face (for the first time) my ‘new’ friends in America, and to attend the annual Digital Storytelling Festival and bootcamp in Sedona, Arizona.

Our first stop is in Bangkok. I wish my husband hadn’t told me that Thailand was a medium-to-high risk area for terrorist activity. Why do men do that! I’ve been deliberately avoiding all news media so that I DIDN’T know about such things.

Curiously, I find I’m not concerned. There are more pressing matters like ‘how am I going to close my suitcase?’ and ‘how am I going to get across the street in Rome?’ Besides, I’m embarked on the first step towards my Life’s Purpose, so it would be pretty silly of God to allow me to be blown into small pieces now, wouldn’t it?

Our son is worried about us … which is sort of nice really. I thought he regarded us as The Enemy.

The plan to have everything ready a week before we left failed miserably. I never took it seriously in the first place, which I suppose is why it failed. Plan B was to have everything ready a day before we left. Er … it looks like that’s going to fail too.

The Mac Connection: Any moment now I’m going to upgrade from 10.2.6 to 10.2.8 so that I can sync my address book with my .mac webmail. If disaster follows I’m going to blame the MyMac staff for not warning me. I have read the Apple blurb and there doesn’t seem to be any significant danger in the move.

If I’m not having such an incredibly fabulous time during the next 2 months that all thoughts of MyMac have been obliterated, I shall post amazingly entertaining snippets along the way. I know you’ll all be waiting with bated breath.

Oh … one more thing … could someone tell George Bush that I’d really appreciate it if he would stop stirring up the Islamic world till I’m home again. I’d rather die in my own country if he doesn’t mind.

POSTSCRIPT: I will be unable to read this once it’s posted because, since my husband notified our ISP that we’d like to go on their minimum service while we’re away (and not using it), I can’t get the MyMac site to come up properly … I can see the features but not the blogs. And everything is S-L-O-W. I must remember never to move to any place that doesn’t have broadband.

Well, we’ve made it so far. Connections in Italy are trying to say the least. Coping with Windows, sticky keyboards, Italian directions and sometimes less than helpful attendants is a challenge … not quite enough to spoil the joy of being in Rome, but I think I’ll leave more extensive description till later.

Ciao

At last … a Mac! Unfortunately on a dialup connection, and with a German keyboard (z is where the y should be … perhaps I’ll just tzpe Zs for Ys and let zou do the transposition … there, that wasn’t so difficult, was it?

I find mz German is even rustier than mz Italian and the words are more difficult to guess. Fortunatelz, most Germans speak at least some English.

Berlin is not, of course, as I remembered it. The last time was in 1967. Mz friend Hartmut was one of a group of students who dug a tunnel under the Wall, rescuing around 50 people if I remember correctlz. He was on the ‘wanted’ list in East Berlin.

It is strange to explore the modern Berlin with its meld of east and west. The zoung couple we are visiting live just on the western side of where the Wall used to be. I swear I could still feel its ‘presence’ as I stepped across the line of bricks marking the division.

I found the citz a fascinating mix of old and new and something in between. There is no longer the sharp division between the technicolour west Berlin and the drab east, but somehow the defiant lust for life I associated with the West Berlin of ’67 is missing. Perhaps it’s just in hiding and 2 dazs is not sufficient time to rediscover it.

I’ve been having trouble with the taps. It’s not alwazs obvious how zou turn them on and off … especiallz off. Todaz I was totallz bambooyled bz the high-tech ones in the Museum of Communication’s classz toilets . Bz experiment I found that pushing down on them turned them on. Logicallz, pulling them up should have turned them off. Not so. I tried everz variation of pushing and pulling, turning, twisting and bashing … all to no avail.

To mz relief (for I found mzself incapable of just walking awaz from the problem), a zoung woman came to mz rescue. Zou can’t turn them off, she told me – thez have sensors which turn the taps off automaticallz when zou stop pushing and pulling etc. Well reallz guzs, in a Museum of Communication zou’d think thez’d communicate this, wouldn’t zou!

Tomorrow, back to gracious Hamburg, where we are stazing with the still dashing Hartmut and his wife – mz friend of 40+ zears, Ulla. Their home and garden is full of warmth and love and tulips and daffodils. Hartmut and Ulla are JUST as I remembered them.
——
Backtracking a little … when I die I want to go to Bergamo. If zou want to experience an Italian hill town without the tourist crush, go to Bergamo … an hour bz train east of Milano. The birds work overtime on singing practice, the church bells chime musicallz without intruding, and even the motorists are respectful of pedestrians. The food is divine, and verz ‘local’.
——-
Mz apologies for not including photos … thez’re all downloaded to Colin’s Powerbook which is back in Hamburg.

And now, I think I’ll get some sleep … zou’re probablz tired of the z-y transposition anzwaz.

Love to all

I don’t remember writing anything obscene in my post from the Hotel Elite in Karlstad yesterday? So where has it gone eh? I couldn’t possibly write it all again.

Beth and John F, you can skip this)

It’s been impossible to find enough time to communicate as I’d intended during my travels. In my usual idealistic way I thought I’ be able to send regular lyrical reports accompanied by photographs. I hadn’t calculated on the immediately available technology being inadequate (guess what technology that would be and it’s not just my bias … none of these PC users can handle Windows either), or on hosts who found it a bit strange that Colin and I wanted to use the Internet every day.

Hence, all my photos to date (around 700 of them) are on Colin’s computer (and Colin is now on his way home) so, although I’m back in the world of Macintosh, I still can’t send the photos. So the pictorial overview will just have to wait till I get home. I could, of course, have uploaded them to .Mac, but I didn’t have time to cull.

A summary of the Europe bit: Rome, Germany and England were wonderful … Sweden less so (qualification: that part of Swedish life shared with us by my friend Sonja was delightful). I grew a little tired of brick red houses. All our hosts deserve 5-star ratings in international travel guides. There’s too much else to relate here, but here’s a tidbit … did you know that they have girl-boy tugboats in Hamburg, which perform a ballet at a yearly harbour festival? I kid you not.

America to date (in more detail)
—————————————
I sat in the Chicago airport trying not to think about the time in London terms so that I didn’t feel even tireder than I already was *(we had risen around 5am). I whiled away the time reading, writing, meditating (which refreshed me somewhat), and studying the people – trying to decide if they looked any different from Australians (for the most part they didn’t). The plane to Dubuque was delayed 3/4 hr, but by that time I was past the super-tired phase. One American Airlines flight was cancelled altogether and people were assigned accommodation. This scared me a bit, for if my flight was cancelled I’d have to use an American payphone, and the toilets were bad enough. The Chicago airport toilets had self-replenishing plastic seatcovers which sprang into action when you passed your hand in front of a sensor … but of course you had to read all the instructions to know this. Being of the ‘read the instructions only when all else has failed’ persuasion, I first tried to remove the plastic cover … which seemed a reasonable thing to do at the time. I probably wrecked the mechanism forever. I think this ‘automatic’ stuff has been carried too far. Quite often when I need to go to a toilet I don’t have time to read the fine print (speaking of toilets … a woman who otherwise looked quite respectable washed her bottom at the basin next to me, then dried it under the hand-dryer. [I have since been told this is not normal.] I wondered if she were French and making a public protest at the absence of bidets).

I felt quite insecure when I parted from Colin in Chicago (his flight left 3 hrs earlier … well, 3 and 3/4 hrs earlier as it turned out). Then I reminded myself I was in an English-speaking country (in a manner of speaking) and that if I couldn’t lift my ridiculously heavy suitcase I could probably ask for assistance. I also realised I’d probably have to tip for the privilege of receiving that assistance.

It was a relief to arrive at the small Dubuque airport and see immediately where I had to go … and there was Kathy Mills – immediately recognisable, and just as lovely as John described her. By the time I got to bed it was 4.30am ‘real’ time.

I woke several times during the night and stared uncomprehendingly at the bedside clock that told me it was 3.45, then 4.45 etc. In my dazed state I couldn’t work out whether it was local or London time, and kept trying to work out whether I should get up. Then I fell into a deep sleep again and didn’t surface till 8.45.

I had a most enjoyable 2 days with Kathy, getting an overview of Dubuque in a leisurely fashion. This is most relaxing after the instense (but fascinating) week with Mike and Anne in Chichester (I was afraid I’d have to answer a quiz at the end and I knew I had forgotten the names of all the roses and birds). We had a lovely time in Chichester though … and on the last evening we saw a brilliant production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream at the Chichester Festival Theatre.

Kathy and I cracked open the bottle of Ardbeg single malt I bought in the duty-free shop at Heathrow. I would have bought more but ‘visitors’ are only allowed to bring $100 worth of gifts into America … I suppose that’s because everyone is supposed to be already rich.

Getting out of Dubuque was just as difficult as getting in. My 6.45am plane was overbooked … annoying as we arose at 4.45 in order to make it. I had to connect with United in Chicago for the flight to St Louis – otherwise I would have accepted the $200 compensation they offered if I agreed to take a later flight. However, when they checked with United, it transpired that my 10.40am flight had left 3 hrs earlier. I should have checked of course, but there wouldn’t have been anything I could do except leave the previous day and spend the night in Chicago. American Airlines were wonderful … put me on one of their flights to St L in lieu of the $200. So I faced another 4-hr wait in the Dubuque airport. Then the plane left an hour late, and I had to sprint miles in the Chicago terminal and caught the connecting flight with a minute to spare (only because it left late too). The Dubuque security check was the most stringent encountered so far (I bet terrorists don’t even know Dubuque exists) … I tripped the alarm 3 times (despite abandoning various items of clothing), which was considered suspicious. Eventually we narrowed it down to the stud on my jeans. These, I might add, were the same jeans which had passed without comment through airports in Bangkok, Zurich, Oslo, London and Chicago!

And now I’m in Columbia, Missouri (doing my washing actually). Columbia is rather nice and Del Miller has told me everything there is to know. I don’t believe I’ve ever met anyone else who can answer every question you ask (I’ve accused him of making it up).

I’ve impressed both Del and Lysa because Pio, their most timid cat (they have 4), likes me.

————

Well, that’s about all for the moment. Next stop (leaving Thursday) New Mexico.

FOOTNOTE; I did manage to master the payphone at the Dubuque Airport, by means of the phonecard Beth so thoughtfully supplied. Oh the power!

I looked up ‘good news’ on Google, and there were 12,500,000 entries! I leave you to sift through them all but this one showed some promise:

http://www.positivepress.com/

Maybe we could commit to passing on life-affirming stories when we come across them.

Love

Carmel

Perhaps you all know the story of Ryan’s well, but I didn’t until a friend told me tonight. Next time we’re feeling helpless in the face of the world’s problems, let’s think of Ryan.

http://www.readersdigest.ca/mag/2001/01/ryan.html

One of my creative heroes has died … Henri Cartier-Bresson. The man was as fascinating as his photographs.

http://www.smh.com.au/articles/2004/08/05/1091557994857.html

Retirement, I mean. Well, I haven’t really ‘retired’. Officially I have, but that’s so that I get the financial benefits of retiring. In reality, I simply resigned from my position as graphic designer at Southbank Institute in order to begin my ‘real’ work, the work I should have been doing all along if only I’d known what it was.

Even now I’m sort of hazy about it … or so it seems, because when I try to describe what it is I want to do, most people just look puzzled. This could be on account of my complex (some call it ‘muddled’) mind which can’t come up with a simple explanation for anything.

If you have a bit of time on your hands, I’ll try to explain it to you.

I want to make ‘special’ books.

I have a passion, you see, for people’s personal stories. Not their ‘history’ – though that can be interesting too. No, I mean the sort of stories some of you tell here at MyMac. Little slices of life that colourise what could otherwise be ‘ordinary’. Now, imagine putting all those stories (along with those of other members of your family) into a very special book, beautifully designed – handmade probably, using lovely papers and textures. The sort of book that would be passed on from generation to generation.

Now imagine this being supplemented by a digital version, which includes sound and moving images, extension material via links, etc. An adventure in ‘digital storytelling’. (Nemo has suggested I write a feature on Digital Storytelling, so I won’t go into that here.)

The book, because it would take a long time to make, would be a ‘one-off’, but the digital version would be easily duplicated so all members of a family could have one.

Well, there you are. That’s what I want to do.

It doesn’t sound all that complicated when I put it like that. Unfortunately, that’s not ALL I want to do. I’m also passionate about writing, photography, music, collecting the works of brilliant (albeit unknown) writers and artists and putting THEIR stuff into special books, along with my own (I’m hoping the beauty of the container will disguise the inadequacies of my own work).

There’s a lot to do. I knew it wouldn’t be EASY, but I did think it would be easier … easier to START.

I thought I’d get up in the morning around 6.30 (as had been my habit – even on weekends – for the past several years), spend an hour or so writing in my journal, meditating, doing a little yoga or something, check my email, and then – around 8.30 – I’d start work.

Wrong!

Instead, I’ve been rising around 7.30-8.00, and by the time I’ve done the above (minus the yoga), and then breakfasted on the verandah in the sun (still in my night attire), it’s always around 10 or even 11. Which is almost time for lunch (lunch takes longer with a husband around, by the way). After lunch I check my email … which always provides me with links to some interesting sites. Before I know it, it’s after 3pm … time for a nice cup of tea and a piece of cake – on the verandah again (it’s a very nice verandah).

You can imagine the rest.

I’m so afraid that I’m going to die before I’ve even STARTED my life’s work.

Drastic action is needed. To gain some time I could:

1. sleep in my clothes
2. remove all mirrors so I can then leave my hair ‘au naturel’
3. lock the door to the verandah and throw away the key (uh-oh, that would then leave me in my junk-filled office/studio which has to be cleared before I even have ROOM to work)
4. ban my husband from making contact with me between the hours of, say, 9 and 6
5. buy only food I don’t particularly like so I get meals over and done with quickly
6. blow up the TV
7. keep my cat Kasha out of my office (it’s not easy to work with a cat draped around your neck)
8. turn off the email alert sound
9. unsubscribe from twenty or so ezines

Hmm … I was hoping the list would reach 10.

Any other suggestions?

Yesterday, a majority of Australians voted to return the John Howard government with an increased majority. Not only that, they gave them a majority in the Senate, which will effectively mean that they can do as they please without any curbs on their excesses.

There is grief amongst those who did not vote for Howard, not because he won, but because … on the strength of his election campaign … the majority of Australians thought the prospect (purely hypothetical) of rising interest rates on their mortgages if a Labor government were elected, far outweighed the consequences of re-electing a leader who disdains the democratic heritage of this country.

Along with many others (nearly half of the country) I grieve for the Australia I used to believe in.

You might like to read the comments here:

http://webdiary.smh.com.au/archives/margo_kingston_comment/000321.html

I have a couple of posts not too far down from the top.

I pray that you Americans will show us a better way to go.

This is the second PC in the house.

The first was a very old, underpowered thing that Robbie (our techie friend) installed as server for our network. It wasn’t the best thing to do, but it was very cheap and Robbie worked for slave wages.

It was rather temperamental at first, but settled down after a while with only occasional spiteful outbursts. It resided under my printer table where nobody had to look at it … and just as well because it was indescribably ugly.

We had it for about a year before my husband (Colin) decided to replace it with a router. It took a while for that to settle down too … as some of you may know, my husband is one for whom a little knowledge is a dangerous thing. Still, he sorted it out in the end, and we’ve had more or less trouble-free computing for a while now.

Things were getting a little boring, so first he bought a cheap HP all-in-one printer/fax/copier/scanner which does nothing very well. The idea was that it would take over mundane printing jobs from our Xerox colour laser printer (which is VERY expensive to run), and that it would give him a printer in his office instead of having to traipse out to my office every few minutes, disturbing my (ahem) valuable work.

For the latter purpose it has been successful, but it performs the former miserably. On any job longer than 10 pages it randomly prints the pages it feels like, and it’s best not to give it anything tricky to handle … like drop shadows for instance.

But let’s get back to the second PC.

The new PC (a Toshiba laptop bought via eBay) was delivered just over a week ago. Jeremy said, “It’s a wonder the Macs don’t go on strike”.

Colin, after much soul-searching, had decided that buying a PC was the best solution to taking part in a certain trading program. Supposedly, he’s already tried the Virtual PC path on his Powerbook, and found it just too slow. He investigated upgrading the Powerbook but found it would still be … um … ‘cheaper’ to buy a PC.

I warned him about Bailey’s experience with a PC laptop, but he proceeded regardless. Jeremy and I made it pretty clear he wouldn’t get any sympathy from us (though secretly we agreed it might be an advantage to have a Windows machine in the house so we could see how websites would appear to the ignorant masses).

Colin was obviously really excited about his new computer … it sat in its box on the dining room table unopened for 3 days.

Did I mention that he intends to use it right next to his Powerbook … ON THE SAME DESK. Some people just ASK for trouble, don’t they!

On the 4th day it came out of the box, but remained in its case on Colin’s ‘other’ desk for yet another day (I guess he thought he’d better introduce it gradually to the Powerbook). I forgot to tell you the PC didn’t come with system software installed. The supplier would have done it for $45 but Robbie said he’d do it for less than that (Robbie is his own worst enemy). Alas, when Colin called to tell him the PC had arrived, he learned that poor Robbie’s artificial knee gave way a few days earlier and he had his EIGHTH operation to fix it. He was still in hospital. He gave Colin instructions on how to do it himself, and said to ring him if he had problems.

“This will be interesting,” I thought, with just a smidgeon of anti-PC malice.

Colin spent the entire next day loading stuff onto the PC. He had 3 sets of instructions … all conflicting with each other. Robbie helped by telephone from his hospital bed (to the annoyance, apparently, of other patients). I gather that loading the operating system was just one tiny step. Then began a marathon downloading exercise … update upon update of a multitude of drivers etc. Every now and again, Colin looked wistfully across at his Powerbook and gave it an affectionate pat (I made that bit up, but if he didn’t he should have).

Well, the major part of the operation took 3 days, with subsequent fixes continuing throughout the rest of the week. There was no major family drama … partly because I persuaded Jeremy to keep out of it, and partly because Colin had prepared himself mentally for a monumental battle with the dark side and remained calm throughout (at least, on the outside) … though I did hear the occasional muttered “stupid bloody machine” from behind his closed door.

Later he confessed that many many things went wrong, and he emerged with renewed admiration for the elegant simplicity of the Mac.

He hasn’t, I’ve noticed, put it on the desk with the Powerbook. Perhaps he fears it might develop an inferiority complex and go into decline.

Oh, did I mention that it, like its predecessor, is goddam ugly. Black and thick (in more ways than one).

My word, grasshoppers copulate a lot … have you noticed that? Ohmigosh! they even do it while JUMPING! And … yikes! now she’s munching on a leaf. That’s one hell of a cool female.

Er – this isn’t what I set out to write about. I just happened to glance out onto the verandah as I started to write and caught yet another couple at it on our wisteria vine, which seems to be the Great Mating Ground for grasshoppers. I suppose it IS spring, after all.

No, what I intended to write about (ie the not-so-difficult in the title) was the installation of Panther on my G4.

In the olden days (pre-OS X, that is), I used to approach system installs and re-installs with considerable bravado. Oh I admit I always put a few important items out of harm’s way – just in case you understand – but I felt confident I could handle whatever might arise. I knew where things were and what to do if anything went wrong.

Not so with OS X. It is surrounded by a certain mystique that just makes me feel vulnerable. My inclination was to just shove in the CDs and follow the instructions, but I’ve heard things. Strong men have been reduced to blubbering messes over some of their OS X installations. I’ve always had a sneaking suspicion that they didn’t actually READ the helpful instructions, but still …

So before launching into the Panther upgrade, I sought advice, and I also bought Tidbits’ “Take Control of Upgrading to Panther”. It didn’t cost much – which is just as well because I didn’t actually read beyond the first page or two. It said I should back up my entire hard disk. Ha! I’m not THAT much of a scaredy-cat. Besides, it would have taken about 20 CDs, and I only had 5 (the 25-pack that my husband bought turned out to be CD CASES!!! See what I mean about reading the instructions?).

Nemo told me the Taking Control booklet was intimidating in itself and I didn’t want any additional intimidation. Nemo also asked me if this was my only or primary computer. Oo-er, now THAT intimidated me. Upon consideration, I decided that I’d do a little backup. So I used up the 5 CDs, then put a few Gig onto my son’s and husband’s computers – stuff like photos and mail. If I lost those my life to date would be gone (come to think of it, that might not be so bad).

All this backing up took most of the day … I digressed a bit, throwing stuff out, reorganising and so on. This is why I don’t do backups very often … just like I don’t do housework very often. If I start, I become fanatical.

By this time my son the Computer Whizz was looking over my shoulder and I could feel myself being pushed into haste against my better judgement. I could feel my apprehension levels rising.

So, what the hell, in with the first installation CD.

A cinch really. I spent the next hour or part thereof reading a book, with occasional glances at the screen to see what it was up to.

I didn’t do the clean installation, because I’d have to reset too many things. If anything went wrong I could always do that next time.

Not a thing went wrong. It just did it all by itself. I didn’t even have to call for help from the Computer Whizz. Sure I’ve had to reset a few preferences like default page sizes (why don’t you Americans get rid of ‘US letter’ fercryingoutloud?), but you always have to do that.

I don’t believe anyone who says Windows is just as easy. For super-experts maybe, but not for people-who-don’t-know-what-they’re-doing like me. Not for some so-called technical experts either. I used to marvel at the performance by the techies back at Southbank when they reinstalled system software on my long-suffering colleagues’ PCs. They ALWAYS took hours and hours. Sometimes they had to reinstall several times … never knowing why it worked on the final attempt. Sometimes they had to come back the next day because everything was stuffed up again.

It did occur to me, I must say, that these tech guys were faking it, just trying to show how difficult everything was so the users didn’t get any silly ideas like trying to do it themselves. But then I’m a sceptic.
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I wonder what the grasshoppers are doing now?

Unlike all previous years, I got all my Christmas cards posted a whole ELEVEN DAYS before Christmas. But just like previous years, I handmade the cards, which took me around 3 weeks – longer than ever before. I finished earlier than usual because, now that I no longer go ‘out’ to work, I have (in theory) an extra 10 hours a day at my disposal.

This time I decided I would not make all my Christmas cards ever again. Oh, I’ll probably make SOME cards, but not for ALL the people on my Christmas list. Some people, I am sure, don’t really care. You know – the ones you don’t hear from all year and who don’t even add a NOTE to the cards. More than half of the people on my list, I’m glad to say, DO care, and they write interesting accounts of what has happened to them during the year. I love getting the Christmas mail and find myself eagerly waiting for the sound of the postman’s motorcycle. When I was a child the postman rode a bicycle and blew his whistle when he put the mail in the box.

So from now on, there’ll be a First Class list, and a Second Class list. I’m not sure if that’s in keeping with the Christmas spirit, but it will mean that I’ll be more relaxed when Christmas Day arrives and people around me will be happier.

To tell you the truth, I AM more relaxed this year. Must be those extra 10 hours a day – although I haven’t actually noticed that I have any spare moments. I even sent all the overseas parcels in good time. I should have written ‘don’t open till Christmas’ on them, because I KNOW at least one person has opened the parcel already.

Having time on my hands, I made a Christmas cake this evening. I haven’t done that for years … my husband usually makes it, but this year he bought (yes BOUGHT) one. It was a very nice, fruit-full one, with Irish whiskey in it (quite a bit I’d say) – and we’ve eaten it already. My mother would never have let us do that. She wouldn’t let us cut the Christmas cake till after midnight mass on Christmas Eve. I’m not going to let anyone eat MY Christmas cake till Christmas Eve either. I’m on a ‘back to family traditions’ binge (perhaps I’ll even make my mother’s recipe for coconut ice).

It’s going to require a lot of discipline on my part because the cake should be scrumptious. Chock-a-block with fruit, plus extra dates and nuts and preserved ginger and glacé cherries – all pre-soaked in a heady mix of apple juice, sherry and Irish whiskey. I thought the mix would be interesting and anyway, I just couldn’t bring myself to use ALL of the remaining half bottle of Jameson’s … though I did consider using Rebel Yell instead (there’s an almost full bottle in the back of the cupboard. Nobody will drink it.), but then I’d have to lie about it because Rebel Yell just doesn’t sound appropriate for a Christmas cake, does it?

The cake is halfway through cooking, and it smells marvellous, if I say so myself. When it’s cooked I’ll drizzle it with lemon icing and pile more glacé fruit and nuts on top. I think I’ll then have to lock it up till Christmas.

Still on the Christmas theme, here’s a very nice story:

http://www.vitalsmarts.com/KerryingOn/Default.aspx

(I bet that doesn’t work the first time … or the second, or third, if my past record is anything to go on. Perhaps I should put a link in every post until I remember the formula. Or lots of links, like Chris.)

NOT on the Christmas theme: Someone sent me one of those Powerpoint presentations, this one supposedly with the Dalai Lama’s 2004 message (although I’m pretty sure I received the same one in 2003). One of his good pieces of advice was to make sure that each year we did at least one thing we’d never done before. I felt pretty pleased with myself when I read that, because just 2 days ago I ironed a 1000 page book. I’ve certainly never done that before. I bet none of you out there has ever ironed a book either.

In truth, I didn’t iron all one thousand of the pages … only around 400, after which my wrist was killing me, so I then tried blow-drying the rest. I’ve ended up with intriguingly irregularly wavy pages. If I’d been making an ‘altered book’ I’d have been pleased with the textural effect. Oh well, at least none of the pages will stick together.

Just in case anyone wants to know why it was necessary to iron or blow dry the book: There was a flash storm while Colin and I were out in the morning. When we got home, we found that our son had (uncharacteristically) thoughtfully moved all the stuff off the table on the verandah. But alas, he hadn’t noticed that there were books over near the side windows. Normally this wouldn’t have mattered because the rain NEVER comes from that direction. It did this time though. Normally that wouldn’t have mattered either because we NEVER have those windows open. But this particular morning my husband had one of those mystifyingly destructive urges and decided to open the windows. The rain simply poured in and the books were standing in water when I rescued them.

Two just had their covers wet, but the third, which was on the bottom, had water seeping in on all the edges. If we’d come back any later it would have been irrecoverable, and that would have been a shame because it’s one of my favourite books. Expensive too.

Sometimes you can be lucky.

And if YOU are lucky (hem hem), I’ll ply you with more of these ramblings during the next week, in between Christmassy behaviour.

Or I might not … I’m open to bribes.

Or should I say ‘we’?

I loved Christmas when I was a child. Not just the presents, everything about it – midnight Mass, the carols (sung by angels, it seemed), the crib in the back of the church where we placed little bundles of straw we’d been collecting … one for each good deed we performed (I never had more than a tiny pile); going to bed, hardly able to sleep, slightly afraid we hadn’t been ‘good’ enough to get any presents, but somehow knowing that ‘Santa’ was not a stern judge; awakening to find the pillow cases stuffed with toys, plus a stocking full of sweets and tiny novelties; then the family gatherings with grandparents, aunts and uncles and cousins – and finally the Christmas feast of homemade treats.

Our family didn’t have much money, so the gifts were modest, but they brought delight nevertheless.

Simpler, more innocent times.

I continued to love Christmas, despite the growing commercialism, all the way to grownup-hood, and tried to revisit some of the wonder on my own child. I was successful to some extent. I think he loved his childhood Christmases too.

Thirty years later, most of the joy has gone – along with the parents, grandparents, uncles and aunts. Where there once were heaps of children, now there are very few. Modern life has taken its toll. I am no longer part of a ‘close’ family.

Mine is not a unique story, and – from what I observe – many people today dread their family get-togethers, and find the pre-Christmas rush of present-buying traumatic. One wonders how many of the presents given reflect any genuine knowledge of the receivers’ tastes, interests and passions. Some have adopted the practice of giving money or store vouchers thus taking the ‘risk’ out of giving, but simultaneously removing the personal touch.

Last night my husband and I went into the city to do our bit. I remarked on the way that, for a nation that has recently made such a fuss about being ‘Christian’ there was remarkably little sign of Christ in the leadup to his ‘birthday’. Santas everywhere, reindeer, tinsel and baubles, the occasional angel. We searched in vain for a single nativity scene. Political correctness? I don’t really think so. Surely it can’t be politically incorrect to have SOME sign of Christ in a feast we call Christmas.

Then we dropped into an Oxfam store (Community Aid Abroad … don’t know if that’s specifically an Australian organisation or not) and there, prominently displayed amongst the items for sale, was a lovely ‘folk art’ set of nativity figures – from Peru. It was a little more expensive than I could afford, but I bought it anyway and it now has pride of place in my living room – I rather like the international implications of a Peruvian madonna and child in a Brisbane house.

I’m not sure about the literal truth of the Christmas story, but I don’t think it matters really. I like the idea of a ‘god’ who placed his son amongst the poor and humble.

And I think, Christian or not, we need at least once a year to focus on giving to others, to those we love, and to those who have no-one to love them. Rather than throw away Christmas, let’s reclaim its true spirit.

We don’t have to adopt the crass commercialism around us. It’s within OUR power to restore the true beauty of the Christmas message.

Now, let’s see if I can put together enough random acts of kindness within the next two weeks to add more than a thimbleful of straw to my Christmas crib.

Now that you’ve caught up I can wish all you Americans a Happy Christmas.

We had quite a lovely day yesterday … all the ‘boys’ (husband Colin, son Jeremy, and his friend Quin who has been staying with us for nearly 3 weeks!) helped prepare the food – after a few gentle hints. We dined on lavish salads, turkey, ham, prawns and stuffed zucchini flowers (!) – the last being Jeremy’s specialty – followed by plum pudding and a fairly heavily brandied sauce.

Several friends dropped in during the afternoon and we plied them with my now traditional peaches poached in orange juice plus ginger, brown sugar, cinnamon bark, lemon myrtle leaves, mint and a generous dollop of cointreau (the poaching liquid went well in a sort of sangria imitation). Oh, and marzipan dates and nuts and cherries and lychees and chocolate-coated ginger and … and … well too much really. Just as well I forgot to bring out the coconut ice (made to my mother’s recipe) and chocolate fudge (also laced with cointreau), and the festive-looking Christmas cake I made.

After that we drank champagne and nibbled some more. My champagne glass (which looked just like all the others) had a secret energy source which sent up an endless mini tornado of bubbles right till the end. It kept us mesmerised for a good ten minutes … by which time, of course, the champagne was flat and I had to have more.
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I’ve made it sound extravagant, but in truth, nobody over-ate or over-imbibed … we ate only smallish quantities of everything, exchanged modest gifts, and tried to avoid the excessive materialism rampant in our spoiled society.
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So Happy Christmas everybody and blessings on you and your loved ones, now and for always.