Too much christmas

January 1st, 2010 PeterH No comments

There are about two hours on Christmas day that I really enjoy.

There’s the time early in the morning when kids first wake, trembling with excitement to see if Santa Claus has been to their house. There’s their pure joy when they open a few gifts. This Christmas spirit takes hold of the house for about an hour. Then the day returns to normal.

There’s an hour or so it takes to eat Christmas lunch - or dinner - together. That presupposes it is a simple meal, with a few special treats. Not an excuse for greed, envy, glut and surplus. If you are really lucky, you might get to share a second meal with another family, or friends. Then that hour is an added bonus. But as soon as your meal is over, don’t hang around to wash the dishes as a gang. That’s when the rot starts. Dish washing is never magic at the best of times, and Christmas day can’t change that. Just leave the table, and draw a curtain over the magic till next year. Life is back to normal.

In the Charles Dickens stories of Christmas, People knock off from work an hour early on Christmas day, to go home to have their meal together. Bob Cratchitt returns to work on Boxing day.

Compare his pleasure to expectations today. We expect to be allowed to leave work at lunch time the day before Christmas. What on earth for?

The day after Christmas is expected to be a holiday, to give us a chance to recover from our excess consumption on Christmas day. If Boxing day falls, say on Saturday as it did this year, we expect a replacement holiday two days later on the Monday. Bah, humbug.

In the old Christmas poem The Night before Christmas, we hear “not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.” Today the pre Christmas house is pandemonium, wrapping too many cheap gifts to make them look not-cheap, rushing down to the mall at 11.45 pm to see if shops run by people of non-christian faith might still be open and have some more wrapping paper that we forgot to buy in the six week shopping season before Christmas day.

Christmas decorations and gift catalogues start to appear in Woolworths and Target aisles as early as late August/early September, and the majority of shoppers do not even seem to notice anything out of the ordinary in this.

There are so many office and business Christmas parties that we can’t schedule them all in the month of December. So invitations start to arrive with RSVP for early November.

I can’t even begin to think of the stupid Christmas ‘traditions’ in Australia, without getting a headache, obligatory greeting cards decorated with fake snow and songs about sleigh rides, and mistletoe where Aussie bush flowers should hang, and images of fat people wearing heavy fur coats in the middle of our summer heat.

Excess in December has become an eighth deadly sin, up there for grossness with greed, envy, sloth, pride, gluttony, lust and anger. Summer celebration of Christmas is a constant demand for “more”, “bigger”, “sooner” and “holier than thou”.

Commercial Christmas has become too much.

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Ordinary height and weight

December 18th, 2009 ordinary content No comments

UK scientists are looking for a 5ft 9in, 182 pound-weight man and a 5ft 4in 154 pound-weight woman to be immortalised as sculptures of Mr and Mrs Average of today

The Science Museum is looking for Mr and Mrs Average to represent the standard shape of modern Britons in an exhibition all about identity called Who Am I?

The winning entries – who for the men must also have a 38in waist and for women a 34in waist – will have their bodies scanned and then replicated in a full size nude to go on permanent display.

Members of the public, aged between 18 and 44, who match the average measurements – produced by the NHS Health Survey for England – will be given the chance.

According to writer Greg Callaghan, in a look at body shapes, in the Australian in 2008, Professor Maciej Henneberg, head of anatomical sciences at the University of Adelaide said that the first modern humans to arrive in Europe from Africa at least 20,000 years ago were as tall as we are today, only far more muscular.

By the time Shakespeare was penning Hamlet, the average European bloke had shrunk to about 165cm tall. Height only started to nudge up again after the bonuses of the industrial revolution

When Henneberg arrived In Australia in 1995 he was struck by the lack of basic research into our body shape. He found that the last major survey of body measurements had been done by Australia’s oldest manufacturer of bras and lingerie, Berlei, back in 1926, in which 5000 women were put under a tape measure.

In Oz in 1926 59kg (130 pounds) and 161cm (5 ft 3 inches)tall was average height and weight for a 28 year old woman. For a 30 year old Oz bloke then 174cm (5 ft 8 inches)tall and 72kg (158lbs)was the average weight and height.

In 2008 the average Oz woman had grown to 71kg (156lbs) and 163cm (5ft 4) tall, 12kg heavier but only 2cm taller than her great-great grandmother. The bloke has grown to 85kg(187lbs) and 178cm tall (5ft 10″), 13kg heavier than a typical male back in the 1920s.

But in the twenties, most people’s bodies were roughly the same shape and size as one another. Today, prosperous-looking people tend to be slim and poorer folk are plumper.

One result is that average clothes sizes in shops vary so much. A size 12 in one brand will be a size 16 in another. A medium shirt in one brand is sloppy around the waist, while a large will struggle to allow the button to meet.

Thoughts about the environment

December 14th, 2009 ordinary content 1 comment

Pressure and determination from ordinary people can, and will, help change political attitudes to things that damage the climate.

I’ve seen how actions from a few reduced an earlier poison threatening life through the environment, lead. The determination of ordinary citizens took on the might of the petrol companies and forced them to removed a major commercial lead additive from fuel that contaminated the air.

And I saw how the anger of one woman helped clean up a deadly mining town, run by one of the world’s biggest miners, when she realised how damaging their sloppy commercial practices were to the health of her children and others who lived near the mines.

I was born in Broken Hill.

This was a great mining town, source of massive wealth for the whole of Australia, producing mainly lead, zinc and copper, but also producing a death sentence or acute sickness for miners and their families, and anyone who lived around the rail line taking lead ore to the smelters further south.

I remember bitter tales and folklore told by my grandmother, of men dying in pain from working in the mines, of the poverty of the widows and of the pigheadedness of unions and management.

 There was a myth that the mighty Barrier Unions looked after their own workers. I am not so sure that was as true as the unions would have us believe.

  Take the “lead bonus”, for example. This was an extra payment to miners, introduced following determined social pressure, ostensibly to allow those who dug the metal ore out of the ground to share in the wealth their work created. There were good years in Broken Hill, when the price of lead sold overseas meant new clothes and holidays. The price of lead was especially high during the years of the war, when the metal was needed to make bullets and tanks.

But supposing, as my grandmother told me, lead breathed in from the ore and dirt and soil in the town killed miners and crippled kids. The widow often couldn’t work in that town - and until the lead bonus, miners didn’t make  enough money to pay for decent insurance – that cost a few pennies a week  but certainly wouldn’t make a widow rich. And at that time pensions were a dream only in the minds of very few politicians.

 Sometimes the miners’ wives grew sick from lead poisoning, caused by washing lead soiled clothes of the miners. Sometimes the children grew sick, playing in soil that was thick with contamination from dust blown in from the mine. Sometimes familes grew sick eating vegetables grown in soil saturated with lead dust and cooked in water filtered through lead.

The real economics of the lead bonus was to allow the miner to accumulate up some meagre assets, so when dad came home from the mine one day wearing a shroud, the family had some  possessions to pawn for food.

A massive memorial at the top of the mines lists names of those many men who died directly in the mines; The first name on the memorial is shown to have died from lead sickness.

My grandfather wasn’t around when I was born, thanks to the mines. My father wasn’t around when I was born - I sometimes think of the irony if the bullet that killed him in the war was made from lead from Broken Hill.

There weren’t health services in Broken Hill then as they have them now, monitoring and testing the children every year to measure the amount of lead in the tiny bones and brains. Kids were slow witted and sickly. My grandmother had seen what was happeing to the young children then, and she blamed the lead. She wasn’t going to let that sort of sickness happen to her grandson.

Although there was good work available in Broken Hill during the war, my grandmother and her daughters packed me into a bag and moved down to Adelaide.

There were some who stayed, those who had no way out or felt  loyalty to their mates.. The same sort of loyalty as happened in other parts of Australia, such as in asbestos mining towns. 

As soon as they could, my family got this young kid out of Broken Hill. You might think with that level of brainwashing I had about the dangers of lead, I would avoid the stuff at all costs. But the world I grew up in didn’t work like that. Lead was big money and a big part of our lives.

The house we moved to in Adelaide had lead in the paint on the walls. There was lead in the paint on my cot. I played with lead toy soldiers.

When I was about 10 years old my uncle showed me how to melt lead and make my own sinkers, so we could go fishing. I soon adapted that skill to make my own lead moulds for toys, using lead I picked up along the side of rail tracks.

My mother had a collection of lead crystal glassware, so sparkling! There was lead lining in the ice chest.

In my teens I had a lead belt that I wore when I went spear fishing, and I loved tinkering with old car batteries, a great source of acid and lead for weird teenage experiments. Sometimes I would try to be practical, and re-condition the batteries.

There was lead in the petrol I pumped into my cars, and in the air I breathed from passing traffic; I was 44 years old before the government banned the use of lead in petrol for cars.

When television came to Australia, there was lead in the glass of screens of the heavy monitors, to prevent radiation; just like in x-ray rooms. And so it goes.

Of all the blood tests I’ve had in my life, I don’t remember any doctor telling me that my blood was tested for lead deposits. I do wonder now if nosebleeds (those I had when I wasn’t fighting) were a symptom of lead in my system, if my slow wit could be traced back to those fishing sinkers.

When I went back to Broken Hill several times over the years  I met friends of my family who had stayed and fought the mining companies, to clean up the waste dumps around the mines and and make the companies pay to have the ore trains covered, so dust couldn’t drop off along the tracks. New mines were forced to pay for massive projects to remove top soil all around the town- in one place to a depth of dozens of metres - to get the surface lead out of town and make for some possibilty for a normal life.

It was individuals and citizens groups who forced these changes, not the unions, not the  political parties.

If one person, with a network, can force a giant company to get the lead out, I have high hopes the same will happen now, with ordinary citizens forcing polluters to get man’s excessive carbon pollution out of the soil, the sea and the sky.

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Days look a little rosier lately

December 11th, 2009 ordinary content No comments

I have been off air for a while. Not as a result of health issue , but what’s been happening at work.

For nearly a year life at work has been somewhat scungy . Heads have been rolling, members of the team I worked with have been moved to other sections in tears, and others were shown the door, swapped for newer and less experienced models. Management brought in a psychologist to  prod those who remained into being a team.

Stress like that is a condition  of working which many people suffer. It happens at all levels of work. 

I thought I was handling the stress and drama, but apparently not. I made a mistake, and the management gods had me as a plaything for a while.

As a result, I was dumped into an outer department; this was an easy solution to management’s problem of what to do with me.  The mistake I made, was the excus emanagemnt used to get me out of their hair. I made a mistake of judgement, nothing earth shattering, but they made a mountain out of it.  I keep hearing from intimates that their real problem was my being a bloke, a gender issue. I was a sole token male in a group of women. I don’t believe that affected my team work, but it seems to have been a problem for others in the team.

I used to come home from work drained by the dramas and go back the next morning tired and dejected.

Luckily for my self esteem, my banishment to another department and downgrading of my job happened at the same time as the state premier got dumped by incompetent political party management, and in the same week a leader in the federal parliament was dumped by infighting in his party, so I see that I am in great company with other notable outcasts.

Noteably there are equal numbers of men and women in the section where I work now, and its a happy team.

Now I am more relaxed. I feel as if I had been bog snorkelling, and have now surfaced (covered in mud, but able to breathe freely).

At least I feel like looking at the web again. Blood flows in my veins. Ideas bounce around while I shower in the morning. I can even tackle the morning cryptic crosswords ( still can’t solve them, but a few clues don’t look so frightening as when I was befuddled.

Let’s see how it evolves. life goes on.

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Cancer is fairly ordinary

August 29th, 2009 ordinary content 1 comment

Cancer in our society is fairly ordinary, nothing exceptional.

My mother died from cancer. She smoked too much. My loved cousin ( he was more of a brother) died from cancer. He worried too much. My daughter’s mother in law has just had news of breast cancer. She loved her kids, too much(?).

At 68 years of age  I have been diagnosed with prostate cancer. This is fairly ordinary. I am not sure what it was that I did too much, probably something my teachers told me to stop doing as a kid, to which I didn’t listen.

I understand that 80 percent of men over the age of 70 who die have prostate cancer, its often not that they die from cancer of the prostate, but some other cause. I don’t mean to negate the problem of prostate cancer, With care, I believe its possible to still have a bunch of years of being an active grandfather and father left in my portfolio.

I have had annual physical checks for a while, and they found no indications of a problem. It was a chance blood test on another issue that alerted my GP to the possibility. The cancer was verified though a biopsy.

My carers have prescribed hormone treatment, to keep the cancer in remission. My daughter assures me that if she can live with enlarged boobs and and mood swings, then so can I, as a side effect from the treatment.

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Fame passed me by

July 12th, 2009 ordinary content No comments

It was a long wait, sitting in the reception of the doctor’s surgery last week. Those MD bastards always overbook their schedule and keep the world waiting.

But I had plenty of time to browse the magazines; mostly rubbish, mostly gossip and mostly irrelevant. Muckazines like Now and New idea and Who discussing the hairstyle of a known baldman or the latest temper tantrum of a TV news reader. Looking at the pictures and the claims to celebrity of so many sportmen and starlets and managers absconding with fortunes, I started to think about Fame.

Back in the sixties Andy Warhol promised everyone would be famous for 15 minutes. Sadly, I missed my turn. Generally, then, a person had to do something fairly spectatular and useful to be famous: write a novel that changed the face of society, or  discover a continent or save a crashing economy from destruction. I lived at the other end of Fame. I couldn’t even get a mention in the local parish newsletter for going to church on Sunday.

Then came the era of celebrity. Fame was too hard to achieve the old fashioned way, but any sweet young thing could become a celebrity, often for doing nothing too well, but doing it where people could see their knickers. I don’t know if being a celebrity paid well, or people were celebrated because they weren’t celibate. As people gathered news headlines about themselves, or featured in the social pages, I thought that ceIebrity had very little in common with being bright. did a lot of nothing during those years, and I missed my turn to be a celeb .

Now the great flooding tide is one of popularity. To be a success, I apparently will need to amass incredible numbers of ‘friends’ on the ‘facebook’ web site, or ‘followers’ on the ‘twitter’ phenomenon or get elected to parliament. I don’t know yet if success in popularity would make me rich, or if I will need to spend a fortune throwing parties for gatecrashers that I don’t know, or having a large database of contacts. But I suspect I will miss out in this rollercoaster of an opportunity also.

While I flicked through the magazines in the waiting room, I noted that each step along the avenue of public adulation seems to be a step backwards, and take less talent than any claim to fame before it. The subsequent step, after popularity, can only be further down the scale, to be notorious, or wildly disreputable.  I think a certain rich young girl with blond hair has caught the mood. I don’t know if she is really bad mad and dangerous to know, but she certainly tries hard to create that impression like so many other up and coming young stars in the marked for attention.

It will be just my luck to do something really stupid, worthy of being a front page story in the magazines, but continue to be as ignored as before.

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The power of ordinary lives

July 1st, 2009 ordinary content No comments

Mei Ng is a UN Global laureate. Speaking at International Womens’ Day 2008,  she said

“In search of normalcy in an era of uncertainty, ordinariness makes sense.

* In the Age of Entitlement—-ordinariness gives us a sense of contentment.

Goodbye to IOU and UOI. We are responsible for our own ordinary lives.

* In the Age of Uncertainty—ordinariness provides a sense of security. We can

let go and let live.

* In the Age of Superficiality—-ordinariness incubates honesty and genuine

bonding.

* In the Age of Apathy—-ordinariness inspires common purpose and common

interest.

* In the Age of Conflict—-ordinariness narrows differences and highlights

commonality.

* In the Age of Discontent—-ordinariness promotes balance and harmony.

* In the Age of an Upside-down World—ordinariness brings back sanity and

humanity.

* In the Age of Super Size Me—ordinariness brings us down to earth.

Blessed are those who live simply

Ordinariness breeds normalcy in a maddening world.”

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Smashing Pumpkins

June 22nd, 2009 ordinary content No comments

Rock groups often try too hard to be different. Music from the alternative rock group ‘The smashing pumpkins’ never really captured my interest musically, but their videos are wonderfully pythonesque. Their existing  web site  appears to have been marinating in some strange chemicals, suffering from trying too hard to be different.

Their lyrics however are as creative and imaginative as any anthology of poetry . In the album Mellon Collie & The Infinite Sadness, they start their song Muzzle with an observative line “I fear that I am ordinary, just like everyone”. Why should that be a problem? Perhaps they were trying to be ironic. After that admission to ordinariness they promised that album would be their last ‘conventional’ music. Their music seemed to go into decline from there, and they became very mundane- in the sense of being less than ordinary.

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Ordinary people at Jackson’s Track

June 4th, 2009 ordinary content No comments

 The book Jackson’s Track: Memoir of a Dreamtime Place, by Daryl Tonkin and Carolyn Landon, is a story of ordinary Australian people—Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal—living together under difficult circumstances, and worth a read.

The book tells of Daryl Tonkin’s life at Jackson’s Track in the Gippsland region of south-eastern Victoria. He and his older brother Harry arrived there in 1936,The theme is a rural adventure covering about four decades, a story of family drama and conflict, inter-racial love and prejudice, the decline of an Aboriginal community, and the deliberate destruction by white officialdom of a culture and a way of life

Since being published in 2000, Jackson’s Track has sold more than 60,000 copies.

Co author Carolyn Landon has come back to the events of the story to examine them again.

In Jackson’s Track Revisited, the voices of Aboriginal people who lived at the Track mingle with those of the White Australians who tried to ‘improve’ their lives in the 1950s, an era of assimilation.

As of September 2008, Jackson’s Track Revisited has become “open access”, meaning that the online version of this book is now available for free. To read Jackson’s Track Revisited online, go to MonashUniversity. Please see  accessing content for further information.

There’s also a good interview with Carolyn Landon about both books at the State Library of Victoria web site

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I like slow

June 1st, 2009 ordinary content No comments

I like slow dancing.  Slow cooking is good. I am a slow learner.  I like people who think before they speak. Lingering sunsets are worth remembering.  The slow movement of a symphony is a respite from all the bang and brass. Shaggy dog stories are the funniest.

I get a thrill watching grass grow or paint dry. Sitting on a park bench in autumn is really my speed. I enjoy puddling along at 40 mph. Even traffic jams have good moments.

Photography that needs a long exposure is an art.  Mature wine can be savoured.  Ripe bananas have more flavour than hard firm ones.

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