Tag Archives: phone photo

Not the rabbit-proof fence

… although maybe these all got impaled when they tried to get into the property at Easter

Elegant graffiti

I wouldn’t have noticed this but for a young girl who read it out loud to her mother just as I was walking past. It’s on a building site just around the corner from my place.

A mighty wind

This morning people in my house said to each other, ‘How about that wind?’  Not all the people, mind you: even though I had a disrupted night because of a heavy cold, I didn’t hear a thing. So I was impressed when taking the dog for her afternoon walk  to encounter this proof that the wind had indeed been violent:

Apart from the blue car with the good fortune to be covered by a tarpaulin (whose tarnished bumper bar suggests that the owner might have preferred the insurance bonanza of serious damage), there’s a bright red BMW under those branches, which seems to have escaped with just a few serious dents.

I wasn’t the only one who whipped a phone out in the brief time I was there. Given the state of the light at the time, I’m impressed by how much I managed to capture.

Tomorrow night, after Book Group meets, I’ll  post about The Tree of Man.

For science

I’m mildly asthmatic, and every now and then lend my body to science. Today I spent a couple of hours in a high-tech environment doing mildly undignified things – mainly breathing into various gadgets.

Jess, the charming PhD student who told me what to do and harvested the data I generated, kindly agreed to take this photo for you, dear reader. I am in an airtight cabinet called, I think, a Body Room. There were no body bags in sight.

Fourmillante Sydney …

… Sydney of dreams …

Last night we spent a couple of hours in the city for the first night of the Festival of Sydney. We saw:

  • thousands of people in a good mood, many sporting little electric fans that somehow lit up with an ad telling us to switch to a sponsoring bank
  • the fig trees in Hyde Park sporting ornate trunk wraps
  • a spangled woman floating beneath a giant balloon outside the Barracks Museum, who dived in slow motion to touch fingers with a little girl sitting on her father’s shoulders

  • kaleidoscopic images lighting up the wall of the law courts building
  • a hundred saxophone players belting out a tune from the upper and lower verandahs of the Mint Museum
  • twenty bagpipers playing ‘Amazing Grace’ from the front of Parliament Building
  • Black Arm Band singing ‘Treaty’ in the Domain, and even though we were half a kilometre away from the stage they really did the business (Al Green, the main act, didn’t reach as far back as us in quite the same way)
  • aerialists throwing weird shadows onto the western façade of St Mary’s Cathedral

  • A fabulous band called (I’ve just looked them up on the Festival web site) Big Bad Voodoo Daddy doing ‘Minnie the Moocher’ in Martin Place, which was packed even tighter than the Domain

I don’t have high expectations of these kinds of giant parties, particularly since being vomited on by a stranger at Darling Harbour one New Year’s Eve 25 years or so ago. Last night was like a good dream, or a dozen of them at once.

’Tis the season

The nursing home, which is run by a church organisation, has a number of celebratory events at this time of year. Last Tuesday was carols evening, attended by residents from all the organisation’s nursing homes in the region. The home’s vast garage is hung with tinsel; there’s a gigantic throne for when Santa makes an appearance, and a number of life-sized Santa statues. A troupe of school children sing carols (some of the same ones that have been piped in from a CD player as the masses assemble. A chaplain (or ‘Director of Pastoral Services’) gives a brief talk about ‘the true meaning of Christmas’, which apparently is that her allocated time is far too short. There’s ice cream and cupcakes and softdrink. Mollie joined in the applause and waved her cup of lemonade in time to the singing, and that makes the event a success. Personally I’d rather have teeth pulled, or even listen to Bob Dylan’s latest album.

On the weekend it was the residents’ Christmas party: more softdrinks and carols, though this time sung by a crooner with a finely developed sense of his audience, and mingled with other less single-minded tunes. There were lots of visiting relatives, including young ones, and a genuinely convivial mood. The dining room was cheerfully alive.

And yesterday morning Penny decided we should experiment with taking Mollie out. She’s been pretty much living a wheelchair for a couple of months now, which has its own disadvantages, but paradoxically creates opportunities for greater mobility. When Mollie used a walker, her progress was so painful that to walk any further than the small outside garden would have been an ordeal. Yesterday, we dared to wheel her out – through the front doors into the astonishingly bright sunlight, down the short street with its occasional rose pushing through a cast-iron fence, across Balmain Road, and to the ultra-cool DiVi Cafe, where Mollie drank a cup of not-too-hot hot chocolate and watched a number of small children playing on playground equipment. She smiled and nodded (language has pretty much deserted her) and I realised that the simple, basic pleasure of being around small children is something that nursing-home residents have very little of. Those couple of minutes sitting in the sun, feeling the light breeze, sipping a lukewarm milky drink and watching a little girl play on a slide and a little boy try to give his father a fright had an awful lot of joy in them.

Sign

Years ago, things were tense in Leichhardt. It seemed that the growing population of dog-owners and could never be friends with their dogless neighbours. The dogless objected to having their environment fouled; the dog owners wished everyone would just get used to being part of nature.

Peace broke out years ago, with a major cultural change among dog people. For years now it’s been rare  for a companion human to step out without a supply of plastic bags, and the parks are dotted with regularly replenished rolls of degradable bags provided by the Council.

signThere’s peace, but it’s an uneasy one. dog owner vigilance is not perfect, and lapses aren’t always tolerated with good grace. Take this sign, for instance. In case you can’t see the photo, it shows a neatly printed A4 sheet stapled to a wooden stake: “Please pick up your dog’s poo / Small children about / Thanks”. At first glance you might take this for a courteous request that we all think about hygiene. But a close look reveals that it is nothing of the sort.

Clustered around the bottom of the stake, and around another identical sign roughly five yards away, is a scattering of drying dog turds. So the sign isn’t addressed to dog owners in general, but to a particular person, the one whose animal left this specific offering. Without the sign, the shit would have been invisible, but still capable of sticking to the sole of a shoe or attracting a small person interested in novel smells and tastes.

It occurs to me, though, that the ‘think of the children’ appeal is disingenuous, as it often is in other contexts. Surely if you thought small children, or even one small child, was endangered by something lying on the verge outside your house, you would remove the dangerous object rather than carefully manufacturing a sign asking someone else to do it? Clearly someone actually thought child safety less important than their impulse to advertise their (justifiable) irritation.

I confess that, like the maker of the sign, I decided this particular pile of poo was someone else’s business and walked on by.

Near les Halles

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Déjeuner sous les épines

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Pain de campagne, tomate, St Marcellin, tomate, des poires et – hors d’image – un pacquet de tranches de dinde plastique.

Greetings from La Grande Motte

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In Egypt people were buried in them. The Aztecs killed people on them. At La Grande Motte, people go to them to wait for death.