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This blog has been quiet for a while for a few reasons - mainly to do with having the head space and time for blogging commitment.

I've just discovered the Tiny Letter format and will be writing there for the next little while. 

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Look forward to reconnecting.

Round the traps - smelling like a car, crazy crowds, wishful thinking and travels

In between study, pursuit of work, reading for leisure and knitting up a storm (sometimes for charity), I haven't had the headspace to write. I think I've been very busy thinking which doesn't leave much space to observe. I've also been feeling a bit angry and frustrated at some of the things I I had a fabulous, relaxed break over the long weekend and started noticing things again.

Today I saw a poster in the window of a discount chemist advertising the new fragrance from Mercedes Benz. I imagine it smells like, well, a car! Why would I want to smell like a car? I can't imagine that there will ever be a fragrance called "Clapped out Corolla". 

I found this sentence on the internet as part of a description of the fragrance: This contrasted composition confers authenticity and is at the heart of the fragrances story olfactory signature and original yet universal character. They might make good cars, but they don't write very good.

It's been a cold start to winter in Melbourne. Last Thursday was particularly cold - biting wind, horizontal rain, no sign of reprieve. Running errands in the city, I saw the ultimate sign of wishful thinking: outdoor tables topped with a pineapple. No one was sitting there and I can't imagine they would order anything other than a hot chocolate. Those poor pineapples!

After lunch and a wander with a friend on Sunday we found ourselves arriving back to the city right when the big football crowds were making their way to Etihad Stadium. At each stop more and more people squeezed in and even thought I was seated, I had a couple of bottoms resting on my shoulder. We arrived at the Bourke Street mall stop and lots of people tried to make a move to disembark, but people were already trying to get on. No one could do anything, so I called out to let everyone know that we were trying to get off. I got one of those looks you get when you speak in a lift with people you don't know. Nothing happened. I made the request more transparent, suggesting that the best way to get out of the way and let people off, was to get off themselves, let us off and then get back on. Still nothing. I managed to ooze my way to the steps where there were three people standing the steps. I asked them to move so we could get off and they said there was no need. Actually their exact words were, "Come on! Are you right?" I had to press myself against them as I went down the stairs.

My conclusion was that they couldn't possibly be Melbournians. Could they? Melbournians are excellent at being in a crowd and very civil and practical in a squeeze. At least we used to be.

News from my mother tells me that my requirements when travelling have been severely lacking. Usually I'm happy if the lighting in the bathroom does not make me look as though I'm aged 153; even better if I can convince myself that I look 25 and the towels are generously sized. My mother informed me today of accommodation she has booked for my father, advising that it has a heated indoor swimming pool and a small herd of fallow deer. I'm listing that as a permanent demand whenever I travel now. It's almost enough to let my mother be my booking agent, but I think she has her hands full being my editor.

How are you travelling?

The autumn leaves

I love Melbourne in autumn.

The colours in the gardens and parks look glorious against the back drop of the grey skies.

The streets and paths are piled high with drifts of fallen leaves. It seems impossible that anymore could fall, but there are still more to come.

Drift leaves
© 2015 divacultura

The old Greek men in the neighbourhood spend their Saturday mornings with their plastic rakes and garden bins gathering the leaves together.

"Doing the council's work," one of them says to me as I pass.

On a windy day, the task is sisyphean.

The punt on whether the sheets will dry on the clothesline, often pays off, despite a sky that suggests otherwise.

I find a big pile of leaves irresistible when I'm out walking.

I hope the wind has blown them into a pile as I swish and swoosh through them.

Autumn colour
© 2015 divacultura

Green, yellow and brown
© 2015 divacultura

How important is my call, really?

There is no greater tool to distort the passing of time, than to be placed on hold by a call centre. The music is too tinny to be upbeat and even though the voice over is smiley and warm, it leads to thoughts of homicide. I made the tempting mistake of thinking I could make a "quick" call. As the minutes passed, it became an operatic melodrama.

I did the tracking on the website first. I expected to see something more recent than a visit to a western Sydney suburb three days ago. Was my package still there? Was it somewhere else? The website couldn't tell me.

I rang the number. To get to speak to someone, I first had to go through the same tracking process on the phone. I ended up in the same place, but this time, when I reached the end, I was able to say the word "consultant" so I could be placed on hold.

Well I was on hold for 20 minutes. That tinny music blared, only to be interrupted by overly cheerful announcements telling me I could get the answer from the website! I was at work and filed emails while I waited. That was the most useful part of the experience.

After 20 minutes a woman answered. I told her the story. She told me my parcel was in that western Sydney suburb. I asked her what it was still doing there. She suddenly noticed that it arrived there three days ago. She said it was probably on a truck and might still be delivered. I could tell she was faking. I asked her how she knew it was on a truck. She confessed that she didn't know; she was hoping. I pressed the point. She sighed. She asked me to confirm my business account details. I asked her what she meant. She told me the name of the workplace I was in. (The phones are jolly clever these days! We're all being watched, apparently.) She sighed, saying that she would need to put my personal details in. I provided them. This yielded nothing. She told me I was in the wrong section. I told her I said the word "consultant" when asked and here I was. She sighed again. She would have to put me through to another section. She couldn't do anything. I reminded her how long I had been on hold and that I wasn't really looking forward to another age of tinny music and falsely optimistic announcements from the voice over girl.

She was gone. I was on hold. The minutes ticked by. Slower than if I had been doing something enjoyable. My email in box was looking really good. I was scared I would run out of emails to file. It's amazing how much filing you can do in 30 minutes.

Neil said hello. I said hello. Another man said hello.

The line was crossed. The other man had been on hold for ages. Neil was confused. I was running out of emails to file. Neil concluded that we had a crossed line. He sensibly declared that he could only talk to one of us at a time. My details were the ones he had on the computer screen in front of him. YES! He would need to transfer Jamal.

With Jamal banished, Neil asked me how he could help. I was about to answer, but another man chimed in. I soon learned that his name was Eric. Neil explained that we had a crossed line and again demonstrated how clever he was. Eric disappeared. We started again. This time Brittany was also in the conversation. I started to laugh maniacally.

Neil concluded that this was a problem and said that we would both have to hang up. I was now 45 minutes into the phone call and hadn't resolved the issue. I wasn't giving up without a fight. I told Neil that someone would need to call me back. He promised they would; then said if they didn't I'd need to call back. I said it was unacceptable that there might be a possibility I would have to call back. I commented on how patient and good humoured I'd been so far.

Forty-five minutes later, my phone had not rung.

I called again. I went through the tracking process on the phone. I said "consultant". I went on hold.

By the time the call was answered by a person, I had run my errands in town, bought groceries and was on the train home, barrelling towards the inner west black spot where all phone calls drop out. North Melbourne is apparently in the wilderness of Melbourne.

I explained the black spot problem to Sue and asked if she would call me back if the call dropped out. She told me that wasn't possible. I got off the train. I stood on the platform as Sue clicked away on her keyboard and sighed and gave me no new information. Sue told me she really didn't know where the parcel was. She told me I couldn't complain until three business days after the EDD. That's the estimated delivery date. The EDD was the very day that I was filing my emails, having brief encounters with men called Neil and Jamal and Eric.

I asked how I make a complaint.

Sue told me I just needed to call. There was no hint of irony either.

This morning I woke up to an email from the recipient of the parcel to say it had arrived. I could have just asked, but had not wanted to spoil the surprise.

Happy Mother's Day Mum! Thanks for being my proofreader (after publication).

Life sentence imposed on families.

With the execution of Australian citizens, Andrew Chan and Myuran Sukumaran, the Indonesian government has imposed a life sentence on people who are innocent of any crime.

The families of these men, and the other six people murdered with them, have not been convicted of any crime, yet they have been sentenced to grief for the rest of their lives.

What right does any government have to do that? How are these murders okay? And they are murders. There was deliberate intention to kill.

I had hoped that someone, somehow, would have have managed to get the pictures so the world could not hide from the barbarous reality of what has been done. It seems unlikely as all precautions were taken by authorities to stop this happening. If there's nothing wrong with the actions taken, why hide?

If there are Indonesian citizens being held awaiting execution anywhere in the world, the certainty of their deaths was cemented last night.

I wonder why effort was put into rehabilitation if it was all to end like this.

I also wonder about the Constitutional Court appeal due to be held on 12 May. Whatever the outcome, it is surely tainted.