Maybe the end of the road…?

It was a joyous event! The communication, administration and facilities were excellent.

Last night, herself and myself pledged our troths to Australia. Happily and gratefully! We sang the anthem with gusto – it is a cut above the average God save dirges and visions of eagles and flags.

There were 166 new citizens originating from Afghanistan to Zimbabwe.

We both wore Swazi ligcebesha to signify our roots.

Good friends and the daughter of other friends also completed the political genuflection with us.

In order to reassure us in this hitherto foreign land, we were welcomed no less than five times. The MC doing so twice. Of course he was a pollie, as was the acting Mayor, acting on behalf of the Minister of Home Affairs, who also welcomed us.

Auntie Someone, an elder on one of the the three Aboriginal councils corresponding to the clans in the Quandamooka area, kindly explained th origin of the welcome practice. It originated with border control warriors thousands of years ago, welcoming strangers at their clans’ boundaries. I suppose quite a lot like our BorderControl Force.

It was a mild indoctrination session, underlining the importance of immigration which is probably the second hottest political potato in the world today. (The most important being energy).

We got over that and pledged our troths to this grand country quite happily, singing the anthem with joy! Afterwards we each received a little tree to plant in our new country, which is a grand gesture

Certainly, it was the best such ceremeony that I have undergone. I say this with a slight hint of cynicism, as I have some experience in this field.

As a child of the colonial empires born in the 1950’s, I have been wafted by the winds of change and obliged to acknowledge a number of polities.

I was born in Swaziland, a British Protectorate in Southern Africa, now the Kingdom of Eswatini.

My parents were Southern African born British citizens, both in states that no longer exist: Dad in the Cape Colony and a year later Mum in the Union of South Africa – both states now in the Republic of South Africa.

Notwithstanding my registration as a British citizen, I was also a Swazi citizen by birth and travelled on a Swaziland passport. Some years after the granting of independence, King Sobhuza discarded the Westminster constitution inherited from the British and commenced rule as a King in Council.

In an overtly political attempt to eradicate a political upstart, the King ruled that only second generation born Swazis were entitled to citizenship. Consequently, my attempt to renew my Swazi passport was rejected – I was only first generation born.

The Brits chased me away, despite my parentage and registration as a citizen as a child: The right to British citzenship was extinguished by the Swaziland instrument of Independence – a nasty sidestep clearly aimed at limiting claimants to British ‘protection’. The perfidy of Albion!

So in 1980 I was stateless, stuck in war torn Zimbabwe Rhodesia. When I asked, they gave me a passport without any need to apply for citizenship. It was either that or a UN Displaced Person’s Passport – soon to become quite common.

Luckily, my grandmother found my Irish grandfather’s baptism certificate and I applied for Irish citizenship and a passport, which I still have.

No ceremony, just fill in a form, send photos and certificates and a fee.

I am still an Irish citzen. “Go raibh maith agaibh”

Having left Zimbabwe, (which was Rhodesia, then Zimbabwe-Rhodesia), I lived in the Republic of South Africa for 14 years as a temporary, then permanent resident. I was not suffciently in favour of that government to choose to become a citizen, despite the right to do so through my parents.

In 1986 things were burning in South Africa so we got the forms to emigrate to Australia. 40 years ago!

This was postponed by the arrival of one then two more babies…

We tried again in 1996 finding that we had insufficient immigration points to enter Australia but enough for New Zealand. We intended to move to Australia from there.

We arrived in New Zealand in 1998 and became citizens in 2001. That was a good ceremony in a church hall, some te reo Maori waiata, serious and solemn – no tree to plant.

But Australia didn’t support university student loans and we had 4 children …. so we stayed in Aotearoa.

By 2013 most of our children were in Australia or elsewhere overseas, so we made the jump, happily. New Zealand was good to us, but just a bit too far out of town…

Now all our children are here, we have 7 grandchildren and a solid happy home.

I am also still a New Zealand citizen

My last 2 children should soon become Australian citizens and then I will rest.

The right of residence has become the most important thing in the world – to have that in a solid and safe economy and society is a gift that must be nurtured and protected.

From Brit to Swazi to Irish and Kiwi and Ozzie.

No more – Australia is the end of my road.

I am also fond of Guiness.

Fixing a hole

… where the rain gets in

to stop my mind from wandering where it will go …

… and it really doesn’t matter if I’m wrong, I’m right

where I belong I’m right

The song on the Sgt Pepper album by Paul McCartney has been singing in my ear for a week.

What has been worrying me is that my children regard me as curmudgeonly and conservative, partly because I have professed myself to be an Anti Woke Warrior.

I don’t mind curmudgeonly, but conservative sticks in my craw.

So, I have been researching my feelings and thoughts on what woke values are.

My researcher, Google, gave me a good summary with which I pretty much agreed:

In summary, the anti-woke sentiment is a reaction to the enforcement of new societal norms that many conservatives feel are divisive, illogical, and detrimental to Western values like individual freedom and meritocracy

BUT …. the woke view that Western society is structurally racist, sexist, or oppressive no longer seems so radical to me in the light of the Trump rampage.

It certainly has been, historically.

I think equity is an ideal solution which can be reached without sacrificing meritocracy. More patience is needed.

The introduction of gender ideology into society and education has been mishandled and has caused significant antipathy.

Cancel culture and the imposition of alteration of language have been causes for conflict

Critical race theory, identity politics, institutional changes, history revision are all radical ideologies.

These have been powerfully illustrated by the Black Lives Matter and #metoo movements that sensationalised George Floyd and Harvey Weinstein sagas.

These were hyperinflated by media and virtue signalled by shallow thinking political opportunists, like the Democratic caucus and sports teams, taking a knee whenever opportune.

The promotion of these ideologies is what I regard as woke.

To me, it’s like the paradox of Trump: the direction and intent are right, but the execution of the intentions have been, hasty, clumsy, insensitive, alienating and ugly.

The age old dilemma: once a need for change or a better ideal has been identified, patience is abandoned and immediate realisation is demanded…

Slow down you move too fast…

  • highlighting inequity is not wrong
  • compelling change before acceptance is wrong.

After mature consideration and in the interests of facilitation of change ….

It’s a hard life!

Well …. it was at first...!

Now ….

I live in my own house in Australia. I have a wife, have enough to live on and save and no debts. My children and grandchildren all live in Australia, most within an hour’s drive.

We celebrate occasions and braai together frequently.

I am 73 years old and despite creaks and groans, not chronically ill.

In the past year I have consulted a doctor, cardiologist, and a nuclear radiologist. I have also seen a podiatrist, dentist, and a chiropractor. In addition, I have seen a phlebotomist and a physiotherapist. I visited some of these professionals more than once. All at no cost or subsidised fees.

My doctor at my last medical check-up said: If I had these results I would be dancing every day!

As a pensioner I receive subsidies for electricity and rates from the State. Any public transport costs 50 cents a trip.

In the event of an accident, I will be fetched by an ambulance and treated in hospital at no cost. Most operations and hospital visits are free for me.

If I need a carer in the future, the State will cover most of the costs. Alternatively, they will subsidise costs of a care home.

They may even send someone to mow the lawn.

You will note the absence of a mental health professional in the list. That is because I am wise and sane. I can remember nearly everything! But that service is subsidised too, if required!

I am profoundly grateful for my good fortune. We are truly blessed!

I am haunted by my heritage, which remains an ache but know that we did the right thing.

But there are snakes, spiders and jellyfish and slimy politicians here …. I tell you: it’s a hard life!

Kindness

It needed a crash to shake me out of my lethargy.

Being inclined to indolence I have a routine, which I follow with minor deviations depending largely on weather and people. I am not a spontaneously social being so take the wider track to avoid chatters.

Today it was wet, as was yesterday and many days before. Walking Lulu, I took a loop to avoid a lady and her two sprightly Staffies.

As I got to the slippery downslope to the road, I saw a friendly feller from up the road …. and my right foot slipped, smooth and fast!

My left knee (with the 35year old carbon fibre ligament) bent under me and I crashed onto my left foot). Oomph and eina!

I am not as slim as I used to be, so I think the earth shuddered. I lay gasping like a stranded whale. Lulu was still attached but soon lost interest. The friendly feller hustled over and inquired. A muscular jogger stopped and enquired. They lifted me up (ooh! I feel a song coming on..). A man in a big RAM truck stopped and enquired.

I felt loved and soo grateful. Every person who saw me enquired and lifted my body and spirit. They ensured I was alright before they left.

It is so good to know spontaneous kindness and care beat in everyman’s chest. I am reassured about the goodness of man.

I was careless, I know the place is slippery and always take care, except when I don’t! Gratitude is a healing warmth.

I am a better man today than I was yesterday.

Glimpses of my life

These are the 40 glimpses of moments, experiences which resonate whenever I think of them.

My Lenten undertaking was to make something everyday, so I re-created and shared these memories.

Easter is my time for reflection and thanksgiving; it is a time of reverence and rejoicing for many.

Let us all pray for peace.

Day 1:                  Pavarotti’s astounding faith in love:…vincero, vincerooo!

Day 2:                  Torchlight showing rainwater running into a fresh lion print

Day 3:                  Electric green flashes as lorikeets shriek by

Day 4:                  Flowers bending under bees knees

Day 5:                  Michelangelo’s statue of David in Florence – artistic perfection!

Day 6:                  Tickalocks! All locked up!

Day 7:                  A wild elephant’s eye from 6 feet away ..!

Day 8:                 Peroop! peroop…! – bee eaters calling high in the sky

Day 9:                 A leaping tiger fish spitting my spoon back at me on Lake Kariba

Day 10:               The view from Table Mountain

Day 11:               The aerial ropeway at Havelock Mine

Day 12:               La Pietà di Michelangelo in St Peter’s Basilica

Day 13: The scent of Mum’s roses

Day 14:              Benny Wessels rubbing his bum in the frost after being caned!

Day 15:              A Mocambique Cobra standing hood-spread 6 inches from my feet…

Day 16:              Drifting down the Zambezi River watching crocs and avoiding hippos

Day 17:              The lone piper sounding a lament at the edge of the Mtsoli valley, Havelock Mine

Day 18:              Ozymandias

Day 19:              Family and friends under the flowering jacaranda at our wedding.

Day 20:              The blare of the trombone and poom-poom of the tuba blown by Swazi warriors on the march

Day 21:              Grilled piri piri prawns a la Portugues

Day 22:              Notre Dame cathedral

Day 23:              A headless puffadder trying to strike the hand holding its tail.

Day 24:              A whiter shade of pale

Day 25:              Daddy laughing at something he read – tears streaming from his eyes.

Day 26:              Pie jesu

Day 27:              A cold glass of beer on a hot afternoon

Day 28:              The Duomo in Florence. Cattedrale di Santa Maria del Fiore 

Day 29:              The Concorde

Day 30:              Candy floss

Day 31:              Roadside Cosmos 

Day 32:              The scent of bread from bakery ovens

Day 33:              “Do not go gentle into that good night” by Dylan Thomas

Day 34:              Gustav Klimt’s painting: Judith and the head of Holofernes   

Day 35:              Blue swallows flitting past on a high mountain vlei

Day 36:              The  glint in the eye of an impish bull terrier

Day 37:              Samba pa ti – Carlos Santana

Day 38:              The amabutfo singing  Siya ncaba ka nkofula  on Swaziland Independence day, echoing from the Mdzimba Mountains

Day 39:              Ox Tail stew

Day 40:              Last Post sounding from the Police camp in the evening – Mbabane  in the 1950’s

There maybe some confusion

My latest post may have been a bit weird for those followers of this website who are not part of my sillysocks Facebook page (which is a Facebook group I started).

To explain:

I have always tried to observe Lent by not doing something and by doing something for the 40 days.

So, I undertook to give up lunch and to record a momentous glimpse into my life.

I shall post the full list after Lent has ended.

Hope that makes it a bit clearer.

A Glimpse Omnibus

I regret that my Lenten discipline has been very poor. Mea culpa! I have been idle and evasive, rationalizing my failure .. to no avail.

I thought maybe I should do a job lot to catch up.

Each glimpse is attached to a stirring memory. I have tried to broaden my scope – bit worried about the number of snakes that feature!

By the way, I remember what Glimpse 5 was: Michelangelo’s David – perfect art!

This post covers days 22 to 38 to catch up (Day 40 is Holy Thursday.)

22  Petrichor in Africa

23 A headless puffadder trying to strike the hand holding its tail.

24 A whiter shade of pale -Procul Harum

25 Daddy laughing at something he read – tears streaming from his eyes.

26 Pie jesu

27 A cold glass of beer, condensation beading the glass

28 The Duomo in Florence. Cattedrale di Santa Maria del Fiore 

29 The Concorde

30 The Hallelujah Chorus

31 Roadside Cosmos in Autumn

32 The scent of baking bread from bakery ovens

33  “Do not go gentle into that good night” by Dylan Thomas

34 Gustav Klimt: Judith and the head of Holofernes   

35 Blue swallows flitting past on a high mountain vlei

36 The  glint in the eye of an impish bull terrier

37 Samba pa ti – Carlos Santana

38 The amabutfo singing  Siya ncaba ka nkofula  on Swaziland Independence day, echoing from the Mdzimba Mountains

bleak

…sterile, gloomy, almost bitter, valueless..

Do you ever feel like that?

It’s the other side of bored. It’s the inability to see flowers on the road ahead. No doubt they are there but going out the gate to see them is such an effort…

The wonderful thing is that it is quite easy to shake off. Just listen to a bird or feel a breeze cool the sweat, check out how blue is the sky, just walk out the door and into the park.

But … almost tempting to wallow or just stand and think about the mud oozing between your toes…. it’s not self pity or feeling of lack of worth … it’s just a lack of desire to do anything.

It’s the pits and I am pretty sure I am not the only one to have been there.

It’s a matter of choice … and the desire to choose. Mud is mud and it is probably harmless and seductively soothing to stay…

So winds the darkkserpent his slowly tightening coils around your mind until it really does get too much effort to move.

A Vicissitude

The word itself has an unpleasantness about it – it is about the not so bright side of life.

I must warn you that this blog discloses some conservative aspects of my personality. If you would prefer to maintain your image of me as untarnished, turn a page; if you are curious and brave, read on …

Since I left school, I have had to pay for my own haircuts – so I didn’t. I let my hair grow. Now if I still had the silky blonde curls of my toddler years, longer hair would likely have been a chick magnet.

Alas, my hair turned frizzy and wiry – Mahlutsi in siSwati; my sister’s name, so called for her thick wiry hair. No worries, Afros were almost fashionable even in the old SA! On liberal white campuses anyway.

After 4 years of untamed, occasional self trimming, I had to get a job, so went to a barber for a short back and sides. All my mates were in the Police or Army doing national service, so I was in fashion.

I honestly don’t recall haircuts in the 10 years I was in Rhodesia, but kept it quite short. I think I may have prevailed on friends’ girlfriends. (I was not a chick magnet).

After I moved to South Africa and got married I noticed that barbers seemed to disappear, to be replaced by hairdressers. Also, I started balding…

I was put off by going to a hairdresser, so bought my own clippers and did my own hair. Occasionally my wife would correct any major oversight.

About 10 years ago, I had a beard and a monk’s fringe which was getting a bit waywardly curly. Deciding to treat myself I sought out a barber. They seemed to be coming back into business again.

To my surprise, the barber was a hairdresser. Lisping slightly, he asked if I had an apointhment. I had never made an appointment at a barber shop in my life. You just sat on a bench and read fishing and car magazines until a chair was free!

He said he could fit me in in the late afternoon… I hardly heard him. I’d seen the price: Pensioner special $25!! I had never paid more than one dollar before!!

I shot out off there and have never looked back. It is clear hairdressers have taken over the striped pole and old dentist chairs from barbers…

So, I cut my own hair, I must say no-one has ever commented except my wife who likes me in curls. No major disasters … until today.

On the spur of the moment, probably to avoid writing a blog (yes, it is Friday) , I decided on a quick trim, as it is getting quite hot these days.

Act in haste, repent at leisure… All went well, but as I was clipping the middle of the back of my head, I felt a cool stripe. Then I felt something fall off the clipper. It was the attachment which sets the length of hair.

As my grandson says: Uh ohh!!

I couldn’t see in the little hand mirror, so reluctantly went to find my wife. She snorted and tears came to her eyes…

She turned me with my back to the big mirror and I looked in the hand mirror. There is a vertical bald track up the back of my head..

Ah well, my hair has not been my best feature, since I outgrew my toddler curls…

At least it gave me something to blog about!

What ever happened to Fay Wray?

Unbelievably, King Kong fell in love with her! I pictured those great white teeth chomping down that satin draped frame. But no she had him in the palm of her hand while sitting in the palm of his hand…. this is getting silly!

For those of you, (if any), who were wondering whatever happened to me, I went fishing on Fraser Island (Kgari, my arse*). I’ll have you know that despite all odds: the weather wiped out 2 days fishing, I caught three times as many fish as I had the year before… (in fact, three). I also caught the biggest (and only) bream.

Our gang caught close to 30 fish on the one good fishing day. Glorious weather, golden beaches, azure sea, sublime conditions and compliant fish. Almost excellent… in every Paradise (that’s what Kgari means), there lurks danger.

At the end of the day, when we were cleaning our fish, scaling, gutting and filleting them, we were beset by a pack of wild dingoes! It was now dark and we were operating by torch light, so they were coming in close, undeterred by my secret Afrikaans curse: Voertsek! Only when I girded my loins and lunged at them did they retreat, all of two metres…

I volunteered to keep them at bay while we completed our task and made ready to retreat. The dingoes prowled around or lay on the sand, only about 20 metres away, ominously silent, their eyes gleaming green in the night ….

We escaped unscathed to live another day and celebrate our successes, leaving the dingoes to dig up our fish carcasses, diligently buried between high and low water lines.

Actually there were only two dingoes, who were quite polite, although while we were fishing, one did jump into the back of our Prado, three times. Fortunately it did not find our vital supplies of beer and droe wors.