Meeting the Queen

In 1986, Judy ran a Special Accommodation home in Camberwell, Canterbury Lodge. It provided assisted living to mainly old people who needed a medium level of support. One day, we received an official-looking letter from the Governor General inviting up to two residents and one support staff to attend a garden party at Government House, to be held in honour of the Queen’s visit. 

Judy canvassed the residents to see if there was any interest and two said that they would like to go: Lou and Mrs Lehman. Both were among the more compus mentis of the residents, so I arranged a day off work and take them along. I didn’t know what to expect – maybe an intimate affair where we chatted with the Queen over scones and cups of tea? At least the chance to go through those gates to Government house that were always securely locked and bolted whenever I passed.

Before the specified start time, Thursday 6 March 1986 at 10 AM, Lou, Mrs Lehman and I were deposited by the taxi at the Government House gates. After showing the guards at the gate our invitation, we were ushered through.

As we walked up the long drive to the reception area, it became apparent that, while Lou and Mrs Lehman may have appeared to be quite mobile as they tottered around the be-handrailed and carpeted corridors of Canterbury Lodge, the long Government House drive on a hot March day was another thing entirely. And we hadn’t even reached the reception area yet. They were not going to make it much further. So I selected a shady tree where I could park them while I reconnoitred the lay of the land. I lowered them each in turn slowly to the grass at the foot of the tree so that they could lean against the tree trunk.

The reception area was about 100 metres away. There was quite a crowd of people already, about three or four deep, mustered by government house officials into a horseshoe shape. The setup appeared to be that the Queen would walk around the inside of the horseshoe, occasionally conversing with crowd members in a queenly way at appropriate intervals. With sinking heart, I realised that Lou and Mrs Lehman would not cope with this arrangement, standing in a crowd on a hot sunny day with no shade. So . . there would be no tea and scones, no intimate chat with the Queen. What a fool I had been, seduced by the Victorian Governor coat of arms on the invitation, and the chance of meeting the Queen. What the hell was I thinking? I claimed to have republic sympathies for god’s sake. In those pre-smart phone days, I had even gone to the trouble of bringing my camera!! The best outcome I could hope for was to get Lou and Mrs Lehman out of there without them passing out or worse, and safely back to the carpet and handrails of Canterbury Lodge.

I spotted a marquee tent down the hill from the forming crowd, and went to investigate. The tent was empty with just a single row of chairs inside. It was shady and cool, a more salubrious spot than the grass and tree trunk to park Lou and Mrs Lehman until everything died down and we could leave quietly. So I returned to the tree, and one by one raised Lou and Mrs Lehman into an upright stance. Carefully, we waddled over to the tent. I sat Lou and Mrs Lehman down on a couple of chairs in the row and we waited quietly. By the sound of it, the “garden party” was in full swing, with the Queen ambulating and conversing around the horseshoe. 

The hubbub outside started to die down, and worryingly the tent begun to fill with people. First, there was a coterie of fit, watchful young men in business suits. A couple of the watchful young men gave Mrs Lehman, Lou and I long hard looks before turning their attentions elsewhere. Then followed some official looking men and women, some of whom I recognised. There was John Cain, the Premier of Victoria and some of his cabinet ministers and others, the more elderly of whom sat in the other chairs in the row. Then to my surprise, the Queen entered, followed by more people. The Queen began chatting with the premier and the officials. Eventually she turned her attention to the people seated in the row of chairs. She stopped in front of Lou and asked him how he was. He claimed that he was very well thank you. Then she asked Lou where he was from. In a shaky voice he replied “Camberwell.” Snap, snap snap went my camera. After bestowing a queenly smile on Lou, she move on before leaving the tent along with everyone else. 

After waiting for a few minutes while Lou and Mrs Lehman gathered themselves for the walk to the gate and the taxi home. On the taxi journey home, Lou and Mrs Lehman sat quietly in the back seat, each silently processing the events of the day, while I sat in the front seat, content with my images of the Queen asking Lou where he was from. 

Puffins

 Last week we visited the puffins on Scomer Island off the coast of Wales. Went by train, thought we were being very clever by timing our trip out and the return journey to straddle train strike days. But our Saturday cruise was cancelled because of the weather so we booked the Sunday cruise instead. The delay meant that we had to change our train times, and catch the last train out of Haverfordwest where we were staying, instead of a much earlier train. Despite British Rail promises to replace all rail staff with ticket machines, Haverfordwest station still has helpful, smiling staff, who were happy to cobble together a return journey that, with only a minor change from our original, still got us back to Reading in time to catch the last bus to Walllingford. 

So we boarded our first leg train with confidence, hopped off at Swansea and went looking for our connecting train details. There it was up there on the board with a big red CANCELLED annotation next to it. No matter how long I stared at it, that CANCELLED annotation wouln't go away. Again, helpful railway staff told us that if we ran like crazy and hopped back on our last train before it left, we could make it to Cardiff. There we could change for the Bristol Templemeads train and from there we just might happen to find a train to Reading. So we ran back to our train and jumped back on just in time. At Cardiff, the helpful station staff told us that the Bristol Templemeads train was to leave from platform 3, so we headed over there and waited for the train. "Funny," we thought, ""The train details sign on this platform doesn't mention any trains to Bristol Templemeads. But that can't be right because the nice man told us." Casting our eye across the rail lines to Platform 2, we spotted the Bristol Templemeads train being loaded up with passengers, looking like it was ready for imminent departure. So we raced down the steps and across to platform 2 and jumped on, again just in time. During the journey, over the loudspeaker, the helpful guard announced that at Bristol Templemeads, we could catch the Reading/Paddington train from platform 11 if we didn't muck around too much. 

So at Bristol Templemeads, a gaggle of us who wanted the Reading/Paddington train headed over to platform 11. Some of us noticed that across the rails on platform 9, there was a train looking mighty like the Reading/Paddington train loading up on passengers. Except for a couple of us, everyone jammed into the lift and pressed Down. But I hate those station lifts, they always take  ages and are unpredictable. So along with one other, I took to the stairs, first down, then up to where the departing train was. The guards were just about to close all the doors and signal to leave, but puffing and panting, the  two of us raced up and begged them to wait for the lift. They were reluctant -- seemed to think that any delays would be a terrible reflection on the efficiency of British High Speed Rail, but our implorings were enough -- the lift door burst open and disgorged the gaggle. 

The train was packed but we managed to get seats. We're old after all, but there were quite a few standing. Two of which were a couple of friends, one of whom was tippling out of a bottle of red wine. The other friend looked like he had downed his bottle much faster and it hadn't done anything to promote that sense of personal relaxation that red wine can sometimes instill. Instead, he was in a mood where he wanted to fight anyone who made eye contact with him, and he invited quite a few fellow travellers who's eye he happened to catch to step outside at the next stop for a session of fisticuffs right there on the platform. The tippler friend bravely tried to dissuade him, and attempted to redress the threats by offering around sips from his bottle of wine. Everyone breathed easier when they both got off the train at Swindon. We finally got to Reading with plenty of time for the last bus. It was half an hour late in fact, so we had even more time. 

Resolving a partner's IT problems

 IT issues are a cause of some arguments chez nous. When J has a problem with the PC and I attempt to help, the situation often degenerates into a bitter argument. My perception is that J won't listen, isn't following instructions, and is blaming me for everything, and not just the ineffectiveness of my solutions, but the very problem itself. J's perception as far as I can tell is that I am not explaining things well, and that I project an attitude of condescension, impatience and irritability. I have always thought this was a unique property of our relationship, but lately I have begun to think that it could apply to many male/female partner relations.

 The other day at Wallingford Library, I was showing the librarian how to configure and set up her smart phone. Her IT skills are very basic. One of the things I was demonstrating was how to configure her new phone to use her home wi fi setup, so that it uses the home data allowance rather than her plan's allowance. I was asking questions about her home wi fi setup and she knew nothing -- her husband handled all of that. When I suggested she ask him for help setting it up, she said that she couldn't because it always caused arguments.

And yesterday we were at the house of a couple, K the wife and P the husband. K was attempting to email a copy of a receipt and getting into all sorts of strife. Now K is no slouch when it comes to things IT, but I have helped her out in the past with various issues that she wasn't able to manage. I have assumed that P, her husband has no interest or experience with PC problems. I was able to resolve K's problems, and as I was describing them to her husband P later, I realised that he was in fact quite knowledgeable about things IT and PC related, and he could have easily fixed K's problems. 

I didn't ask, but I suspect the reason for P's non-involvement is that it leads to arguments.

But of course I need a bigger sample than three to explore if this is a facet common to relationships.

A pleasingly facile ant-proselytising tactic

 I used to work with Peter, a bloke who was a christian to the core. Peter and I would occasionally  travel together when working on the same project, and I could count on it that he would spend the travel time trying to convert me.  

For long periods of time we grappled with the question of how to explain reality without invoking god as the creator and manager. As in "Without the existence of god, how do you explain . . ?". What usually followed was me attempting to impart the basics of evolution, and Peter attempting to debunk. 

It took me a while to discover the best way to handle these arguments. I would reverse the question; I've been busting my brain to explain current scientific, evidence-based thinking on the nature of reality -- OK then, how does Peter explain the existence of a christian god? 

With this approach, I could actually enjoy the discussions, thinking up sillier and sillier questions to pose. Where did God come from? When did god first appear? What did he do before he created the world? How did he cope in the dark before there was light. Apart from the Mary and Jesus event, how often does god have sex? Does he have other love children scattered throughout the universe? If not, why did he stop at one? It was the very best way to reduce Peter to a sullen and sulky silence without the need to simply tell him to shut the fuck up.

Coronation day

Coronation day. Due to the forecast rain, the large television screen scheduled for the Castle Grounds was moved to the Centre 70 building, a much less salubrious setting. So we cancelled our picnic plans. I ended up watching the coronation at Bob and Angela's after helping Bob erect the marquee for the neighbourhood gathering scheduled for a 5PM start. 

The gathering was good. It drizzled on and off during the afternoon, but nothing too bad. Judy and I were talking to the northern Irish bloke who bought the house next door, where Australian friends used to live. He says he still loves it there, I stopped myself from reminding him that he had tried to sell it a few years ago, so I was glad things had improved since then. I asked him how things were going  since the UK/EU agreement on how to handle the Irish border. He was having none of Sunak's effusions that the deal gave Northern Ireland the best of both worlds, access to both the UK and the EU. He got excitable and said that he wanted the hard land border installed right away, He said that the DUP was on track to sweep back into power after the next elections -- not only are they supported unanimously by the protestant population, but also 20% of catholics support them too. It was strange -- I was the one asking the questions, but he addressed all of his answers mainly to Judy. 

I got chatting to some new arrivals to St John's Road, a couple who have just moved there after living 11 years in the south of France, in the Pyranees foothills. They moved here due to circumstance. The chap didn't look all that healthy and for some reason, maybe Brexit, they would get a better health service here. It turns out he was an old ex IT mainframer so we swapped tales of the old mainframe days, when large mainframes were the serious computing biggest game in town. He liked living in France and regrets having to relocate back to the UK. He said that there was a fairly large expat community in the area where he lived, but he tended to ignore them. They were too insular for him. He said a lot of them had moved either to Spain or back to the UK.  

Bluebells

 It being a slow Sunday, Judy and I decided to get the bus out to the spot near Huntercombe where she used to work, to view the bluebells in the forest out there. We walked down to Huntercombe, the old adolescent prison where Judy used to work, which is now a holding centre for illegal immigrants awaiting deportation. Judy struck up a conversation with a guard who was attaching leaflets to a notice board out the front. He said he's been working there for 20 years and remembered Judy. Since we had just missed the bus back to Wallingford, we went to that old pub on the Henley road near there. It's now a craft centre/coffee shop cafe and they're having a bit of a festival at the moment. There was a large open workshop and among many other crafts people, ther was a white haired old bloke was busy carving wooden spoons. He had a large pile of them heaped up around his workbench while he diligently whittled away and at the same time engaged about 4 or 5 people in conversation. Now I'm in the market for a carved wooden spoon since the one I had didn't cope at all well with the modern dishwasher experience. So I picked out a suitable replacement from the pile and in a gap in his conversations, asked him how much. He said that none of the spoons were for sale as he hadn't finished them yet.

St Mary's Street

 We moved into our flat at 10B St Mary's Street on 20 March. Since then, we've managed to gather the accoutrements required for a basic but comfortable life. The flat is above a shop pretty much in the centre of town. It consists of a bedroom, a good size but not huge, a living room, again big enough but not huge, a kitchen, adequate size but not ideal for two people at once, and a bathroom.

St Mary's street is a little pedestrian only street, just off the town square. It's still a novelty to step outside the building front door and be in the centre of Wallingford. The Waitrose supermarket is two minutes' walk away and there is a farmer's market in the town square every friday. The town square is home to the bus stops as well.  

We slept on an air mattress for the first couple of nights, which demonstrated for us the urgent requirement for a comfortable bed. Which we procured from Ikea with the help of our generous Wallingford friends.

We also managed to get a sofa bed from the local freecycle, which means we can host guests and watch the television with a degree of comfort. We also picked up an Ikea lounge chair which is comfortable and also slightly rocking chair ish.

So this place is beginning to feel like a home. It's small, ridiculously so after our house in Woodend, especially the kitchen. It has a few rough edges which we hope our landlord can sort out. He isn't nearly as generous, forthcoming or considerate a landlord as we are back in Australia, but he eventually seems to get things done.

It's working out, living in the middle of Wallingford. It's good to be so close to everything -- we often just pop across to the supermarket to pick up things as we need them, very useful facility given that we only have a micro-fridge. Also it's good being so close to the bus stops.