William David Russell [Bill] Warren
Born 21 April, 1913
Died 6 September, 2004
As I said in February 2024, in the first part of this Blog of my uncle Bill Warren’s “words”, Bill was a man of curiosity, knowledge and wit. Those characteristics are readily apparent from this second instalment of his correspondence. It is clear Bill loathed humbug and cant, and with it most politicians and public figures (and Donald Trump would have given him apoplexy), but he retained the most sunny of dispositions, and had an extraordinary ability to extract the positive juice from everyday living; and in his writing to garnish it with humour.
Continuing the correspondence from Bill Warren, saved by family and friends. Part I of this project was posted on Pieces to Share on 13 February, 2024.
……..To his niece, Margaret Rydings and husband Peter
Letter to Margaret and Peter Rydings (2 August ?)
[after Bill had spent five weeks in Western Australia]
Dear Marg & Pete
Fortunately for you and Kaye, Marg, I am not a metric believer; therefore I am sending you the old imperial dozen packets of Thin Captain instead of the metric ten. Six for you and six for Kaye. Also enclosed is a photo of your learned brother and one of your favourite relations. In appreciation of the memorable times I spent with you two is a small piece of crystal wrapped in one of Cath’s head scarves.
The five weeks I spent in Perth was the best holiday I’ve ever had, and the unsparing hospitality from the Rydings contributed greatly to making it so.
The flight back to Melbourne with the wind behind only took 2 ½ hours, and Judith picked me up in the city to take me to Beatrice’s for dinner. The usual haute cuisine, of course!
My life has resumed its uneventful tranquillity, broken briefly by my going to my place of employment to announce that honest toil and me had become incompatible. This resulted in much wailing and gnashing of teeth and rending of clothes (especially from the women) but I was not to be moved. A number of people – notably your mum – seem to think I should continue toiling until I drop dead. They say I shall be bored stiff. How preposterous!! How on earth could I be bored with such intriguing company as myself? As it is I find each day far too short to accomplish all the things I want to. (Maybe I could get up earlier.)
I shall think of you happily crunching your way through the biscuits to the detriment of your figures.
Fondest memories, Bill
p.s. I got a cut on the bikkies
Step-son Graeme, his wife Kaye, and Bill
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Letter to Margaret and Peter Rydings
(10 May, 1978)
At home (naturally)
Dear Marg & Pete,
So startled was I to receive your present and letter I’ve taken time off from my bread making to reply immediately. Thankfully I hadn’t read A Certain Grandeur and am already well into it. It’s well and clearly written, and to me of absolute interest.
Talking of procrastinators, I can hardly adopt a holier than thou attitude for I haven’t expressed, as yet, thanks for your Xmas present. I shall do so now by saying that two of the pates are long gone, and I shall now open the remaining one – “pate in port wine” – when my bread emerges from the oven. I’ve become such a crank that when I’m out and the bread is offered I enquire, “Home-made?” with raised eyebrows. Most people just sigh wearily, but Gloria always shrieks, “Oh, Gawd. You make me sick!” Wonder if your Mum will ever wake up to when her legs are being pulled. The French mustard is still in use and will be for many months to come.
I know that you say you hate gossip, but that’s not going to dissuade me from retailing the incredible “Elaine McFarling Story”. After all, what is a letter but a recounting of peoples’ doings? And if you’re not interested in other peoples’ doings then you’re not much interested in the human race. I’d hate to think that I was so dull as never to figure in my friends’ conversation.
Briefly: When Elaine was holidaying in Perth she was at the nude beach one day and became acquainted with a personable male. So much so that when she returned to Melbourne she brought him with her. He is a tiler, and in the four months he’s been living with Elaine he hasn’t done a tap. So enamoured is Elaine she’s resigned her job, sold the house (beautiful house too), divided the money with Ian (they still aren’t divorced), and is heading back to Perth where she’s going to set up house with this chap. What’s wrong with that you ask? Nothing, of course! But the thing that concerns everybody here is that he is 31 and Elaine is 49. I know women marry men much older than themselves every day of the week, but for a young man to take on a middle-age woman is much rarer. With three failed marriages behind her one would think she would tread warily, but she is absolutely bonkers about him and he seems as equally bonkers.
At home. Where else?
22nd inst.
As you can see by the date on this page, procrastination has reared its hang-dog head again. Something interrupted, and your letter, started so promptly and with such zeal, was pushed aside; but this time it will be completed.
In the interim Elaine and Roger have left this muddy State – we’ve had quite a bit of rain, Gippsland is under water – for the sandy reaches of the West; and we wish her well. Several people, especially Jean Carter, whom she regards as close friends, have been unspeakably nasty to her and upset her considerably. I hope it turns out well for her even if it is just to confound their dire predictions.
Margaret Turner rang me at 11.30 Saturday night in search of Beatrice to tell her of Jane’s triumph. She was out to dinner in Hampton. Herald people, but I was a bit hazy about the name. So, I went over to her place and tracked her down through her list of Herald names and phone numbers. Naturally she flipped and immediately rang Marg. I’m sure it must have been a great thrill to all of you.
Was at dinner at Gary and Anne’s Friday before last, with Bea, Judith, Kennedy and Beverley. Most enjoyable night, with Anne’s meal being first class. I don’t swear at Kennedy any more although I still find his perpetual sexual childishness a monumental bore. Even stayed tranquil when he made the astonishing statement that “black lung”, which coal miners are prone to, is a perfectly harmless disease. Beatrice and I disputed this, but he was quite adamant. Anyhow, the following week Beatrice and I both received long type written letters from him admitting he was wrong and we were right. When he got home that night he had looked it up, and his letter was full of quotes from medical authorities detailing the ravages of “black lung”. But fancy a medical man of such standing not knowing something of which most laymen – and women – are aware. Makes me think twice about going to him if I ever want a rebore.
Still no word from Kaye and Graeme re my birthday. Procrastination seems to be family failing.
Hope the three of you are all well.
Love, Bill
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Letter to Margaret and Peter Rydings
(22 September, 1982)
Dear Marg & Peter
I keep Bertrand Russell’s autobiography on my bed-side table, and when I retire dip into it, no matter what the time. A most interesting book, Marg, and I must compliment you on your literary discernment.
While I was waiting for my plane in Perth I had started reading it, when a half-drunk ocker slumped into the chair beside me. “What’s that you’re reading?” he said. I told him. “Never eard of im.” Naturally! I explained to him that B.R. had been a celebrated philosopher, pacifist, mathematician, socialist, iconoclast and atheist who had lived to 98, and despite his frail appearance was one of the randiest men in history, as was witnessed by his five wives and numerous mistresses. “So,” I wound up portentously, “the moral of this dissertation is if you want to live to 98 have five wives and a stable of concubines.” The half full ocker gave me a startled uncomprehending look, decided I was dangerous company, lurched to his feet and made for the safety of his plane. I returned to where sexy Bertie was staying in a respectable house in America and how, after being well-behaved the first night, he had it off the second night with one of the daughters while her three sisters kept a look-out for the parents. It mattered not to Russell that at the time he was on his second or third marriage, for fidelity was the least of his concerns.
Jane and Paul, after a couple of weeks with me, now live in Powlett Street East Melbourne, the same side as the Burnsides. The Burnsides, incidentally, have just returned from their second trip to China, and I breathlessly await Beverley’s graphic report.
Judith is still running madly in all directions. I’m fearful that one day she’ll disappear over the horizon and never reappear; and her collection of medals grows heavier and her veins grow larger. A few weeks ago she was in Sydney to run in something or other (26999 also ran) and next month she’s off to America with he who shall remain nameless to run in the New York marathon. Margaret don’t ever take up long distance running for you’ll only get skinny arthritic knees, stress fractures, pulled hamstrings, and varicose veins. I ask you, is a pulse rate of 45 worth all this? But her charm remains undiminished, and we are constantly in touch and dine together every week or so.
The Greys love Melbourne, and Paul’s firm have asked him to stay longer than was intended. They are even toying with the idea of staying here permanently for they say it’s a much more exciting place in which to live. I never thought I would hear of Melbourne referred to as exciting. Last Wednesday they took Beatrice and me to a Vietnamese restaurant in Bridge Road only a few doors from the old shop. You would hardly recognise the old shop – in fact you would hardly recognise Bridge Road with all the new shopfronts, restaurants, and general air of trendiness. Anyway, the Vietnamese food was scrumptious even if I did still feel empty after seven courses.
Jane and Paul come pounding up the stairs every Monday night just in time to see Minder. Last Monday I was at Gloria’s so they missed out. Now I’ve been instructed not to go out again, and to have fresh orange cake on hand and the teapot warmed up. We always smoke a joint but I’m damned if I ever get anything out of it. They say they do but I have my doubts. I wonder if they just smoke it because it’s the trendy thing to do. Jane said one night, “You boring old fart, you’re too laid back to start with.”
She rang me last Friday, and when I demanded why she was home from work Jane, never one for coyness, said she had the menstrual pain. Then she came and picked me up and we went shopping at the Prahran Market where we bought fruit and vegs, looked at the passing throng, and ate two hot doughnuts apiece.
Some time later…….
A couple of weeks ago I took Gloria to On Golden Pond which was showing here in Malvern. She was breaking her neck to see it and intended travelling over by tram. I couldn’t allow that; and Gloria had a lovely time weeping the whole picture through. Then we came back here and had sharp steak hot-pot or, to be more precise, stew.
Last Sunday saw us at Judith and Michael’s for lunch (fillet steak in a pastry cover) and then to a local theatre to see Turning Point and Chariots of Fire. It was my third viewing of Chariots of Fire, and second time around for both films for J. and M. Gloria had seen neither, and thought they were both “simply lovely”.
Love, Bill
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Letter to Margaret Rydings
(3 June, 1988)
Dear Margaret
Your thoughtful and most useful gift much appreciated by me and admired by everybody else. Just the thing to keep my money and passport safe from the light-fingered pick-pockets and footpads that infest the cities of the British Isles and Europe; or so we are led to believe. I’ve tried it on, and it encircles my circumference quite comfortably, especially since I’ve reduced its size by haphazard dieting. Only infinitesimally, I’m afraid! It’s very hard, Margaret, when we are out quite often at dinner at somebody’s place; and now that Alison is a mother usually have her and her “unlawful” spouse – as she likes to term it – once a week. I like to display my cooking prowess on these occasions, while Margaret likes to display her conversational skills in endless dialogues with Alison and the baby. Great talkers, the Telfords!
Last Sunday I did Potage Solferine, silverside and mustard sauce, and a last Xmas plum pud. Now one can hardly prepare all this and just sit there gloomily partaking of a dry biscuit. It’s the same when we are out. Wouldn’t it be rude to spurn the sort of food Bea, Judith, Beverley and sundry others place before me, and chauvinistically call for a mere crust?
So you can see, Marg, the road to emaciation is strewn with calorific pitfalls into which I occasionally tumble. The only way to avoid these traps is to withdraw from society and become a morose recluse.
Enough of my figure problems.
No doubt you are enjoying Judy as a next-door neighbour. She said you were plying her with coffee and lamingtons, when she was writing to me. Well your gain is my loss for I miss calling in to see her and collect my rent on Thursdays after golf. My present tenant is a great character but she is often working at night and sleeping during the day. I don’t call in very often for fear of disturbing her.
Hope you are all well and enjoying life; and tell your wretch of a sister her last letter has been read and enjoyed by us all here and will now make the family round.
Plenty of love from
Margaret & Bill
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Letter to Margaret and Peter Rydings
(19 December, 1988)
Dear Margaret & Peter
I’ve got to say that the best time of all on my recent excursion was the time I spent in W.A. When I came out of Perth airport and there you all were I thought most fervently there’s no place like home, corny as it might sound! Spending six weeks in claustrophobic London, and afflicted with an awful cough, certainly makes one appreciate the open spaces of Australia.
Margaret returned a couple of days after me, and her daughters and I went there to pick up the tired traveller. She was enraptured with her visit to Venice with Ian, and undoubtedly it was the highlight of all her journeying.
Sunday before last we were at Beverley’s with all the regulars for a scrumptious lunch (aren’t I lucky to know so many good cooks?) and bedlam-like conversation.
Owing to the occasional torrential downpours since our return – was that an omen? – the countryside and especially the golf courses are clothed in a mantle of green; but, unfortunately, a number of people have had rivers running through their houses. The only thing I could imagine worse is having a fire. Last Sunday after a rowdy thunder storm houses in Richmond were inundated.
Spent an afternoon with Gloria and we found plenty to talk about.
Thanks for looking after me so well, and I am looking forward to a return visit. Next time I’ll bring Margaret. A very happy Christmas to you both and to Andrew and Michael.
Love and best wishes, from Bill
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Birthday Card to Margaret Rydings
(April 1990?)
My dear Margaret
Judith and Beverley have returned full of the good times they had in Perth, especially at your place and at the resplendent hovel of Rose Hancock.
Judith rang me before she left Perth to say she would be at my place for dinner, which did not displease me for I always enjoy Judith’s company and I knew I would get a comprehensive account of their adventures.
At such short notice a simple meal was the only option, so I put together carrot and orange soup, porterhouse steak, and crisp chips – I pride myself on the quality of my chips, not French fries as the Americans so pretentiously call them – and beans; followed by strawberries and cream, with a bottle of Jacob’s Creek. Judith expressed pleasure but I’m sure she would have if I just gave her sausages and mash.
Judith and Beverley were most impressed with Michael – I take it that Andrew wasn’t present – and his caring attitude towards Jessie, Emily and Charles William.
Beatrice’s arthritis shows no sign of alleviation despite all the tablets she’s taking. I had to do her shopping yesterday. But, at least she has at last received her half-fare taxi docket. The first time she applied she was knocked back because to the query “how do you travel?” she ticked off “by public transport”. Then, dammee, on the second application she did the same thing. Just as well I saw it and made her rub it out.
I chose the blank card because the saccharine sentiments on the usual birthday cards give me a pain. May you have a satisfying birthday and have a very happy day.
Plenty of love from Bill & Margaret.
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Birthday Card to Margaret Rydings
(12 April, 1992)
To dearest Margaret with the wish your birthday will be full of happiness. With loads of love from uncle Bill.
Yesterday, under the iron rule of the fastidious Beatrice, and at the risk of life and limb, I cleaned out the spoutings. Twenty-seven years ago Gary purloined my extension ladder then in new condition, and all my attempts to have it returned have been met with raucous laughter from your scrounging brother. Fortunately, this weekend he was away at Mt. Buffalo giving one of his mind-numbing lectures on taxation. Well, one could hardly imagine a lecture on taxation being an occasion for unrestrained hilarity, could one? (I wonder what he gets for these lectures, probably quite a handsome sum.) Anyway, with Gary out of the way Tom delivered the ladder with alacrity. Anne was in bed, and had been for a week, with a most virulent attack of flu. When Gary returns and finds the ladder gone (for ever) he will be absolutely livid and give Tom a jolly good thrashing.
Life with Beatrice can be quite grim at times, with such remarks as, “You haven’t done the vacuuming, or cleaned out the bathroom, or you haven’t swept up the leaves.” Resignedly I drop the Saturday Age Supplement, get up muttering imprecations, and surlily get out the vacuum cleaner.
A couple of times a day I slip into Margaret’s for a yap and a soothing cup and a piece of cake. When, one day, I wistfully suggested I would like to make a cake or a sponge I was sternly admonished. The food here is naturally first class, with eating between meals verboten. Thought I might have shed a pound or two but, alas, there is no change.
Julia and Ann for dinner last night, which consisted of roast lamb, lemon soufflé, camembert and fruit. The sergeant-major never fails to provide a first-class meal. Both Julia and Ann are now flat hunting. Ann had no trouble getting a substantial loan from her bank, and entertained us last night with stories of the grotty places she has seen, and the cutting remarks she has made to estate agents. She is returning to her old funny self after the recent tragic death of her brother.
As I write, Beatrice is up to her favourite pastime (after cooking), planting seedlings. Soon she will be giving me lunch, one sandwich, no more, no less.
I’m having two birthday dinners this year, one by Julia and the other by Anne Andrews. Very fortunate, aren’t I? Hard to write on this shiny surface so will give up.
All my love, Bill
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Birthday Card to Margaret Rydings
(14 April, 1993)
My dear Margaret
Have just returned from a four-day spell at Chinkapook (where else) where the weather was perfect, the food reasonable, and the company congenial.
After the usual kerfuffle with Gary’s progeny of “will come, won’t come, might come, will think about it,” at the deadline none of them came. Which was quite a relief for with only a quartet - Gary, Anne, Kathy and me – there was plenty of room in the car. Four is comfortable, five’s a crowd. More than five means two cars. Tom was staying home reputedly studying. Dan was off to Mansfield, and Laura in a trance with Hamish wouldn’t know where she was.
Gloria, as usual, had prepared a cornucopia of food, which included a delicious stew, curried sausages which made me realise how much I was missing by not having had them for years. (Made mental note to knock some up as soon as I got home.) And, of course, her usual slabs of cake. What would they do without her?
We didn’t go to church on Good Friday, instead we went bumping around rough bush tracks which is Gary’s wont. Saturday to the monthly market at Nyah, where I gathered up pickled onions, tomato relish, beans, fig jam for Margaret, five pairs of socks for $5, and other sundries. Meanwhile Gary was coerced into a colourful waistcoat which, I said, made him look like a Mississippi gambler.
Monday Gary and I played golf at Nyah where the golf course runs alongside the Murray. Meanwhile back at the ranch Anne continued with her patchwork, while Kathy read the paper and did a cross-word or two. She’s not half bad at them.
Anne seems to be a lot better, and never once complained, and spent most of the time sewing madly. She’s gained a stone since her complaint so now is dieting madly. She never was a glutton but what she ate over Easter wouldn’t have kept a sparrow alive. What the rest of us ate would have satisfied a trio of sumo wrestlers. Last night I approached the scales with trepidation but to my disbelief and gratification found I hadn’t gained an ounce.
Margaret is in good health after her mild heart attack and looks better than she has for years. We are all concerned about Margaret T. but she seems to be much better.
I shall be eligible to call myself an octogenarian in a week’s time but why anyone would want to celebrate becoming decrepit beats me.
Have a happy birthday – Margaret and I send our love and best wishes. Bill
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Card to Margaret Rydings
(undated, late April 1995?)
My dear Margaret
Owing to my multifarious duties at the present time, such as saying constantly to Ralph, “Down Ralph,” as he tirelessly attempts to escape my vigilance to establish a warm position close to my person. (He usually wins, too!) Then there is the arduous business of socialising.
Margaret T. for dinner. Celery soup, fillets of chicken fried in breadcrumbs, blueberry pie and cream. Judith another night. Carrot and orange soup, roast lamb, mint sauce, sliced mango, cream again. Then Julia, Ann Watkins, Margaret. The old reliable carrot and orange, corn beef, mustard sauce, and lemon tart courtesy of Margaret. (You will have noticed that males are scrupulously eschewed.)
Then there is the business of golf twice a week. I was at an army reunion lunch the other week during the course of which a decrepit veteran had the impudence to suggest that by now I would only be playing 9 holes. I gave him a withering glance and expostulated on his ancestry, at length.
This is just a brief summary, Margaret, of a few of my activities, so you can see why my earnest acknowledgement of your birthday was not overlooked, just delayed.
The patient returned yesterday and seemed to be much improved. I only hope her disposition is sweeter than when she left. Never having been afflicted with a disability before, she just can’t believe it’s happened to her. Margaret Turner has had more afflictions than one can shake a stick at, but she remains as bright as can be. I wonder how I’ll perform when I can no longer play golf.
Oh, by the way, Margaret, I hope you had a very satisfying birthday.
Lots of love, Bill
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Birthday Card to Margaret Rydings
[The card reads: “The good news this birthday is that you look younger than you are………the bad news is that you look middle-aged!”]
(undated)
The dear Margaret
But the good news, Margaret, is this card is untruthful, because being blessed with the Joyce smooth, wrinkle free complexion you may hold at bay the ravages of time for many years to come.
May you have a cheerful and contented birthday.
Love as always. Bill
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Birthday Card to Margaret Rydings
[The card reads “Another Year Flashes By!” and, underneath Bill has written “How True!!”]
(undated)
To dear Margaret
I trust you had a happy birthday. I couldn’t imagine it being otherwise. I bought this card long ago but owing to my crowded social life haven’t got around to sending it.
I went to golf early this morning but, on arrival, found that I had forgotten to bring my clubs. I wasn’t unduly disturbed for I thought I can now go home, send that card off to you, and tackle a couple of other pieces of correspondence – especially to Eileen Minter of Bath. We stayed with her and her late husband in 1988. She is now in a retirement village called, strangely enough, “The Moorings, Sydney Wharf.”
She was reading a piece of my diary to the manageress, who had recently returned after many years in Australia with her husband, where they still have a house and a farm. When she came to where I was putting in a good word for Renwick Street, Perth, this woman asked what number; and when told 23 “she was amazed” for they were near neighbours. Her name is Janis Webley, and she’s Welsh. Did you stumble across her and her husband at any time?
Love from Bill
p.s. There’s only one L in welfare.
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Birthday Card to Margaret Rydings
(undated, April 2002?)
This card is to wish you a happy birthday but, as it will arrive after your birthday, I wish that you had a happy day, and I’m quite sure you would have. Love from Bill
My dear Margaret
It’s hard these days to select a card that is not couched in drivelling sentiment or corny humour. So, after a long search I found this terse card which was exactly what I wanted. [The card has a picture of a baby with its tongue stuck out, under the words “Another Birthday” and, inside, the words “My sentiments exactly.”] Every time my birthday comes around I groan, “It only seems yesterday since the last one!” The older one gets the quicker they come.
I went to the annual army reunion on Friday and found a number of the blokes with walking sticks, even one with a walking frame. Considered myself lucky not to need either yet. Of course, the numbers get less every year; I wonder for how long they’ll have a quorum!
Beatrice now gets meals on wheels 5 days a week and very god they are too! And for $5 a meal remarkably cheap. She now spends most of her time in bed and no longer goes shopping. Every Saturday I do mine and hers. A district nurse comes every day to make sure she takes her tablets, and I’m around 3 or 4 times a week. OH. WELL! Bill
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……..To his sister, Beatrice Warren
Letter to Beatrice Warren
[sent from Margaret Telford’s - while Bea was staying in Perth]
(19 February, 1990)
Dear Beatrice
Ralph wasn’t seen the week after you left. I think he was sulking. But that didn’t stop him cleaning up everything I gave him. Now he appears frequently, and has slept in here several times. The other night he was snoozing contentedly on the carpet when Rosemary’s vehicle pulled in. To Ralph that means Orpheus – he woke up and disappeared like a rocket. On the other hand, when Orpheus bounded in Lee nonchalantly gave him a smack in the chops.
We have enjoyed your tomatoes, so different to the ghastly things we have to buy. Your garden’s been religiously watered, so I don’t think you’ll find anything dead when you get back.
Kind Judith took us to Sage’s Cottage for lunch one day, which was absolutely delightful. But I suppose you’ve heard all about that from other sources.
Went shopping to the market with Ann and Julia yesterday. Couple of dags! Coming up Malvern Road Ann spotted a shop that was having a sale, just near where we used to live back in the 20’s. So Julia said right, we’ll come back to it, and circumnavigated a large block while I pointed out various landmarks from my youth such as the house in Westbourne St where a destitute gardener cut the throats of himself and 3 of his children back in 1926. Julia is amazing. When we passed the lane that leads to Ebenezer Hall I wondered if it was still there, and Julia said, “I think it is”.
Anyway, we eventually got back to this shop which was full of people; and everything was marked down 30%. Very classy stuff such as crockery, glassware and all sorts of gadgets. I spent $50 and they spent nothing. When I expostulated they said, “Oh, we’ll come back next week”.
I bought a couple of handsome nut-crackers, one for a golf trophy, as Ann suggested, and one for ourselves, besides a few other things. When we got home and wanted to try them out we had no nuts so I went into your place, and all you had were a few lousy almonds. Anyhow, they worked efficiently and so they should at $17.95. They are also good for cracking lobster claws which is just what we need seeing we have lobster so frequently.
Margaret went with Helen Garden to the Myer Music Bowl for a concert last night, and coming away tripped over something and, she said, turned a couple of somersaults. Apart from a grazed knee she seems alright. I have enjoined her to tread more daintily in future. Damned lucky she didn’t break a few bones.
We went to see Gloria last Sunday and of course she was looking marvellous. She is expected home on Tuesday. Dan is working in a garage learning to be a mechanic and appears to like it very much. Ann had a good holiday at Shoreham with Nola. Naturally Julia spent a night with them, turning up so late that Nola was imagining all sorts of calamities despite Ann’s calm assurances that all would be well. Same performance in the morning, with Julia leaving when she could only make it in time for work if accompanied by a police escort with all sirens going.
So, nothing has changed since you left, which must lead to the depressing thought that your influence on local affairs is only ephemeral.
No need to ask if you’ve had a good time. Such a question is axiomatic when one travels westward.
Love from Margaret and me, and to all the other westerners, especially the rotund one.
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…….To his nephew, Gary Andrews and wife Anne
Letter to Anne and Gary Andrews
(1979)
Dear Anne and Gary,
Being these days a staunch supporter of women’s rights I always put first in my addresses the distaff side of any heterosexual relationship. The story bandied about that I do this simply to curry favour with the fair sex just isn’t true! Though I must confess I much prefer kindly glances from women than men.
Which, I’m sure, you find all very interesting – as Captain Donald McLean used to say back in 1929. He used to lecture on various subjects on 3LO, and I once went down to the Prahran Library to hear him lecture on Captain Cook. He was a most soporific lecturer, and after he had been droning on for about half an hour had to contend with a most unmusical chorus of soft snores from the regular habitués – now that’s a bit of tautology, for those two words mean the same thing – of the library. Quite undaunted, he forged on relentlessly to the finish. At the time I admired his pertinacity, but later it dawned on me that not only was he a bore but probably he was deaf to boot.
I’m sure you remember him well, seeing you weren’t born for about another 10 years!
No doubt you are wondering what all this has to do with the price of fish at the Prahran Market. Well, being a stickler for the niceties of civilized behaviour, I thought it time to write a note of appreciation, commendation, approbation, or whatever, for your timely gift of Bailey’s. What brought it to mind was that I was just having one (don’t worry, I’ll save some for when you come) to brighten up my dreary existence. To say “thanks for the grog” takes half a line, so I thought I would pad out this letter with my senile reminiscences, and add further to your stock of unwanted and useless knowledge.
Anyhow, I didn’t snore, and in the words of the late lamented Capt. McLean, found it all very interesting.
Regards,
Bill
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Letter to Anne and Gary Andrews
[to London…… Bill was minding Dan and Laura]
(22 May, 1987)
Dear Anne & Gary,
Laura is a gem. The other day, when she had emptied the dishwasher and tidied the kitchen, I remarked that one day she would get her reward. To which she replied: “My reward, Bill, is having you looking after me!”
Last Thursday she decided to change her bedroom around. Two days later I noticed the passage was again full of her effects. She was at it again. I believe it has something to do with the inborn instincts for nesting common in the female gender. Or so we are told by behavioural scientists – of which Jill is striving to be one.
She and I talk a lot between her bustling chores; she does a thorough job, and despite her protestations we always have lunch together. One day it was with Margaret and boring old Gordon and Anne Creed who are eager to return the compliment, resulting in convoluted evasions on my part. So far I’ve managed to hold them off until your return.
Things are sailing along quite smoothly at your estate, although I have been forced to employ a part-time secretary to handle the mail, the ceaseless school propaganda, and the constant demands for money.
Money for trips, money for camps, money for running around an oval, money for the Venturers ($110), and so on endlessly. All this on top of exorbitant fees. I feel that you can only cope with this by having access to a cache of bullion secreted somewhere in the back yard.
Laura and Dan seem to be bursting with health and I hope it stays that way. She gets off to bed at the appropriate time and reads until she falls asleep. The other morning she proudly told me she had read a book by Isaac Singer in one go. On the other hand, you couldn’t get Dan to read a book or anything but the T.V. programs with even the blandishments of lavish bribery.
They are both very good at rising, only needing to be told once, and will willingly go shopping for me at any time.
Talking to Gloria the other night at seven I told her that they had just gone down the street to get bread. Gloria nearly had a fit. “You didn’t send them down in the dark,” she shrieked through the phone. I’m happy to report they returned with the bread, safe and well. They do get on very well, and eat most of what I serve up. So different to Tom. Have him to dinner Friday nights when they go to Venturers. So far I have been unable to meet his culinary standards. Won’t eat mashed potatoes, no greens, turned his nose up at pea soup, wouldn’t eat my mince – preferring a bowl of cornflakes. In exasperation just had to tell him he was a pain in the arse.
I won’t ask you the mundane question of are you having a good time; that seems evident. Have just read a piece by Michael Davie of the horrors of going to Europe at this time of year. He says it’s practically impossible to get near the things that everybody wants to see owing to the hordes of clamouring tourists. Have you found this?
I am writing this at Margaret’s as thoughtful Judy A. has decided to take over your establishment for several days. Unfortunately, she has a shocking cold and today (Friday) is confined to yours and mine bed. Contemplated abandoning my holiday and rushing back but she wouldn’t hear of it. I’ll go and see her tomorrow.
Gloria sent me over for Tom a copy of the Manangatang school magazine, with articles about Herbie Blair – now 86 – the local solicitor, and Harry O’Bryan. Will keep it for you Gary. Also, a cheer-up letter from Iris. All about people having strokes, being killed in car accidents, and the funeral of the young mother of three who died of cancer. All very jolly; and if you’re interested Mrs. Rigney paid $60 for a new girdle two months ago and now it’s too small; and Iris’s lips are festooned with cold sores. One bright spot though – she won $40 in Tattslotto.
In contrast there is a letter from Edna, posted in Broken Hill, which is full of good humour. She was on a bus trip around the outback, and seemed to be having a marvellous time.
So far, Anne and Gary, there’s been no crisis at 26 Summerhill Road – although the other night there were screams of anguish from Laura. On investigation I was given two stories. Dan said Laura had walked into the door of the T.V. room; and Laura, between heart-rending sobs, claimed Dan had slammed the door on her. The injured knee was displayed for my inspection, and I’m happy to report that it had all been forgotten in 15 minutes. Calmness prevailed once again, and be assured it will continue.
Love from the Minder.
Bill
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“Report No. 2” to Anne and Gary Andrews
[to London]
(6 June, 1987)
Dear Anne & Gary
Laura, succumbing to the female instincts for nesting, is changing her room around for the fourth time since you fled these shores. Dan has taken a vow of silence and closeted himself in his T.V. cell for a long-weekend of spiritual renewal. Judy, like the swallows of Capistrano also following her instincts, has flown north. Gloria has taken an oath she will not rail at Tom again – a short-lived vow, I’ll bet – and amidst all this I ponder whether I’ll continue this report, do the crossword, or make a decision on whether I’ll prepare for your agreeable offspring Veal Escalope, Lobster Thermidor, Filet Mignon, or just plain sausages and mash.
They eat all I prepare, and although Laura eschews the meat, she does call for liberal doses of meaty gravy on her vegs. I’m only thankful I don’t have to provide the financial outgoings for the upkeep of a couple of healthy adolescents, for I’d be in the Bankruptcy Court at short notice.
I’ve had several phone calls for you Gary, but I usually fob them off by saying you left the country hurriedly to escape a drug charge.
Judy and Jill – I like Jill a lot, Anne – have been very good, both having taken over to give me a free weekend. We all sleep in my/your bed but, I hasten to add, not at the same time.
Laura and Dan get on remarkably well, even if Laura does berate Dan often for being a pig, or lazy, or anything. They play chess often, and I’ve been inveigled into playing five hundred with them, with Dan and Laura arguing over the rules, which ends up with me being called in to deliver a learned verdict.
We’ve been walking through the parks with Sheff several times, and I’ve found myself playing with juvenile gusto “I spy with my little eye”! So, you can see that life is simple and innocent here; although Laura does drop a startling remark now and then. She has just made a concoction of crushed ice and orange cordial, given me a taste, and is now making me one.
I can’t abide bills, my own or anyone else’s, so they are all being paid – with a consequent devastating inroad into the bank account But, as Joh is so fond of saying Gary, don’t you worry about that, just leave it to me. I’ll take care of everything.
Has the news reached you that that incoherent unintelligible illiterate mountebank has decided not to run for Parliament – as we knew he wouldn’t. What bothers me is that so many people who should have known better fervently supported such an obvious humbug.
Your vindictive shower continues to assail me. I’ve come close to being trapped in there again, and twice I’ve sustained third degree burns to 90 percent of my body through an elbow coming in contact with the easily turned hot water tap. I believe my screams were heard in the shopping centre.
The weather has at last taken a turn for the better, and today (Sunday) we are going over to Margaret’s and then off with her to the South Melbourne market. When I consulted with your two about this they responded with enthusiasm.
Last night Laura and I made pasties for dinner, vegetarian ones for Laura, meaty ones for Dan and me. For the first time in years, I stewed apples, and they were so delicious we all had two big helpings - with ice cream and cream of course. So, you can see we are not off our food through pining for you.
Love, Bill and the kids.
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A Thank-you Note
(undated)
Dear Gary & Anne
I must admit this is a rather late note of appreciation, so when I saw the chance of a free ride on Margaret’s stamp to your place, I hastily grabbed a scrap of paper and pen, and furiously intoned “better late than never”.
The selective hamper, so zealously put together, was greatly appreciated – not only by me but also by Margaret; for as a couple of malnourished indigents we share everything, on a 60/40 ratio in my favour. Sadly, it’s all gone now, and we are looking forward to dinner at Judith’s, where once again we’ll enjoy a square meal. Why is a meal always referred to as “square”? Why not oblong or round? The Oxford says it’s a substantial and satisfying meal, but why square?
Looking forward to Beverley’s vibrant account of her travels, for she is an excellent raconteur. See you there.
Love, Bill
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A Christmas Card to the Andrews
(December 2000)
To Anne, Gary and all your offspring – Laura, Dan & Tom – a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.
No doubt you have “girded your loins” for the above, and I shall join you in a similar state on the 25th. What do they mean when such an expression is used? I put on my research look, and grabbed a dictionary. A gird is a belt, a piece of rope around one’s waist; and loin is between the ribs and the hip bone. I’ve been girding my loins for 88 years and never knew it!
Love, Bill
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Another Christmas Card to the Andrews
(December 2003)
The Andrews family. Surprise! Surprise! You’ve actually got a Christmas card from me. Some other people too will be shocked out of their minds – and just so there’s no jealousy and fighting over who has the best one, they are all identical. But, hang on to yours – over the years they’ll become collector’s items.
As I’m starting to get writer’s cramp I won’t go on, but just wish you all the Compliments of the Season; and reserve my seat at the head of your groaning table.
I’ve been dieting for weeks in preparation, and the malicious story circulating that I’m being kept alive by the Brotherhood of St. Laurence is quite untrue. Ask Gary. On Sunday he had a slab of my iced carrot cake. He gulped it down with two cups of coffee and didn’t even say thanks. Bang goes the present he was going to get from me.
Three cheers for the Andrews collection.
Just Bill
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..….and Another
(undated)
To the Andrews collection, and the new addition. A happy Christmas to my favourite family. Bill.
This’ll knock your arses in! Me sending Xmas cards! You’ve heard about the bloke (don’t ever say “guy”, that awful Americanism, in my presence) who wouldn’t wake up if a dunny fell on him? Well, it just fell on me! It came to me in the stilly watches of the night that I had been blighting scores of peoples’ Christmases by my sullen reluctance to send cards. Being unable to resist the white empty space that’s on every card I’ve become an incorrigible filler in. This either inspires recipients to give a tolerant grunt, or plunges them into the depths of despair. I shall be at Queenscliff Xmas Day surrounded by feminine pulchritude. Let me know if it is safe to return.
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…….To niece, Judy Russell (nee Andrews) and husband Wayne Russell
Letter to Judy Andrews and Wayne Russell
(25 April, 1988)
Dear ‘born again’ teacher and Capt. Biggles,
Your masterly letters of the 6th & 17th insts. much admired by all who read them, especially Margaret and me. It’s a boost to my ego to know that I’ll still be loved when I’m a drooling, rheumy-eyed 104. As I passed the ¾ of a century mark on the 21st I’m well on my way, and I’m now looking forward to getting a telegram from the Queen (God bless her!) on my 100th, although by that time it should be King Charles.
You are sorely missed – perhaps that’s why I went off my tucker - and although Ann, my new tenant is a great and funny character you will always be No. 1 with me. It was a joy having you installed in my flat and I do miss our Thursday evening encounters…..I happily regard the Andrews clan as my real family and will continue to do so for the rest of my life. Then, of course, I have my wonderful Margaret and her family of whom I’m very fond, and I’m sure they are fond of me. So, all in all, I’m a very lucky septuagenarian, aren’t I?
Love, Bill
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Letter to Judy Andrews and Wayne Russell
(undated)
Our dear Judy & Wayne,
Judy, your delightful letter has inspired me to reply almost immediately. Margaret and I are most happy that you moonstruck pair are still delighting in each other’s company just as we ancients are in ours. You were lucky to find each other with a lifetime ahead of you while we found each other near the end of ours. But that doesn’t make us any the less content. Better late than never, we say.
Recently I had my blood pressure checked, with some trepidation I must say, for I’d been out of Moduretics for about a month. To my stupefaction I recorded 130/75, and immediately accused my jolly Sri Lankan of falsifying the figures or having a dead machine. This he strongly denied, and congratulated me on having such a good B.P. Beatrice says it’s because I have such a calm, contented life with Margaret. She’s right of course, so I went and bought M. a Cherry Ripe as a reward.
Knowing the bush telegraph of the Andrews’ I suppose you already know everything I’m telling you. (Speaking of bush telegraphs, we called into the Manangatang hospital to see if Iris was working but a nursing aide told us she was home at Chinkapook. Thinking we would give Iris a big surprise we pulled up at Chinkapook only to find they already knew. The nurses’ aide or whatever had already phoned Margaret Templeton who in turn rushed over and told Iris. It’s impossible to move secretly and silently through the Mallee. Gary and I were rather cast down!) The whole of Melbourne, or so it seems, is agog at the coming wedding of you two. Not because of your fame, but rather because it is somewhat unusual for anybody to go so far these days. You’ll probably make all the papers, and TV too!
On Thursday Gary, Laura and I head once again for Chinkapook. Most people would find Chinkapook the arse end of nowhere, and I suppose it is, but to us it is the ideal place to get away from it all. I’m sure Gary gets great benefit from the bucolic peace of the place. And Gloria will say again with great perplexity, “Why on earth are you going up there again?”
Beverley has or is giving up her job and contemplating tripping overseas. And why not, she’s pretty well fixed for dough. She got fed-up with her Indian boyfriend and told him to piss off, which he didn’t take philosophically. Beverley then announced that she was finished with men. We all smiled covertly behind our hands. Her statement was true for as long as it lasted - which was no more than two weeks. The latest addition is married (they usually are) and Jewish - and confessed quite frankly and unashamedly that all his married life he’d had a mistress, and sometimes two at a time. He took Beverley yachting, and I asked her how it was. “Bloody awful” was her succinct reply.
Love, Bill
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Letter to Judy Andrews and Wayne Russell
(September, 1988)
Dear Judy & Wayne,
We leave for England at 23:59pm on Sunday; and expect to descend on Perth on the 27th October at 2.55am. If you should be at the airport when we arrive - then you have less marbles than I thought you had! I am prepared for the trip having splurged on a new pair of walking shoes and a warm pair of socks to cope with the frigid British climate. Does it snow in Sept. or am I being a little premature? Love to see some snow but will probably run into a heat wave. If it gets up to 20o everybody is gasping, or is this an erroneous view? Time alone will tell, and I’ll probably return a rabid Anglophile and want to emigrate there!!
Margaret and I are still two hearts that beat as one (I hope you two are still afflicted with cardiac co-operation), nary a cross word and she still laughs extravagantly at my imbecilities.
Have just discovered the temp in London today was 24o Celsius so out go the thick socks and snowshoes.
Played golf so well today I came home and told Margaret I was cancelling my trip because I was playing like I used to 30 years ago. I’m afraid Margaret was not impressed.
We are all, including the Andrews clan, in the best of health and hope to be the same when we alight in Perth on Oct 27, poorer no doubt financially, but richer in erudition.
Love from Margaret & Bill.
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Letter to Judy and Wayne Russell
(2 October, 1989)
Dear Judy & Wayne,
All Melbourne is agog at the exciting news that the Russells are infanticipating next April. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if he or she, or two or three, should arrive on the same that two other famous people arrived: the Queen (God Bless her) and me.
Gloria rang immediately to tell me the good news by saying “You are going to be an uncle again”. A rapid mental inventory confirmed that you were the only eligible one to be so favoured (apart from Kath) the others having disqualified themselves though the inexorable march of time. We all send our congratulations, best wishes and tons of love.
There’s very little to tell that you don’t already know. The Andrews at Kioloa again – they never fail to go away – Gloria has never felt better apart from her knee, Beatrice has painful sciatica, Margaret has cystitis again, Judith faces up to the marathon at 51 next Sunday and will be crippled for the following week, Beverly has wasted about $800 being paired up with unsuitable males by one of those wretched agencies (beats me!), and I am honing up my bad language because of my total incompetence around the greens.
Love from Margaret & Bill
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Letter to Judy and Wayne Russell
(20 November, 1990)
5 weeks in the making
Dear Judy, Wayne & Jessie & Tiger,
The Andrewses took off for the rarefied atmosphere of Nepal on Friday, and I started to gird myself for the onerous task of dissuading their offspring from jeopardizing their health by living on unnourishing rubbish. 100% of junk food in 5 weeks could see them reduced to beriberi by the time their exhausted, mountaineering parents return.
Later………Once more interrupted by the arrival of Alison and the irrepressible Sebastian. You may have your problems writing letters through the persistent intercessions of Jessie, Judy, but I have my problems too. Reading when I should be scribing being the main one. We were invited to lunch yesterday to greet Gary and Anne and to hear the gruesome account, but couldn’t go because Margaret had gone down with the shingles a few days ago and was confined to bed. She begged me to go but naturally, as any upright, stalwart, red blooded Australian would, resolutely refused, although I was dying to hear their epic story.
We have since ascertained that Gary lost over a stone in weight, was smitten with dysentery – I specifically warned him not to drink the water – and Anne was laid low with hypothermia – no wonder, she’s completely devoid of subcutaneous fat - and had to be carried for part of the hike. Conjure the picture:- Gary squatting behind a rock or snow drift every five minutes and Anne being borne on the back of an unwashed, redolent with B.O., Sherpa!! Anyway, they’ve returned, maybe slightly chastened, but in one piece much to the relief of us all.
While they were away I called over intermittently to cook them a roast, always a roast, a leg of lamb or a piece of beef with plenty of roast spuds, and to clean up the kitchen, though I must say it was reasonably clean.
Tom is a bit of a culinary trial. Won’t eat most things considered vital to good health. I made a vegetable soup one night, of which Laura had two helpings, but Tom shied from it as though he’d been offered a bowl of hemlock. I’m afraid my scornful denunciations of his appalling eating habits fell on stony ground…………….I must say they’ve been grateful for the dinners I’ve cooked for them, especially for the number of roast potatoes of which Tom will eat any amount. There are two things I’d like from the Andrews house - apart from the books of course - and that is the oven and the gas rings. Our electric oven is not in the same class as theirs when it comes to roast and roast potatoes, and our electric hot plates are maddening…….
Hope the foregoing is news to you and that your wretched mother hasn’t stolen all my thunder!
Best of love to you all.
Bill
p.s. Knocked 2 strokes of my handicap last week, Wayne. Pretty unbeatable at the moment. Thanks for the photos even if I look mentally incompetent. B.
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Letter to Judy and Wayne Russell
(3 December, 1991)
My dear Judy & Wayne,
Since returning from the golden West I have found it impossible to take up the pen despite a considerable amount of self-flagellation. Judith put on a welcome home dinner for me last Saturday week and I’ve only just now managed to spur myself into writing her a letter of appreciation. Even half-way through I had to knock off to practise my putting……………
Despite the evil machinations of Margaret who seems to think I’ll go into a decline if she doesn’t constantly place tempting dishes in front of me, I’m still down in the weights. I say to her how can this “too, too solid flesh melt” when you keep plying me with such exotic viands, to which she replies “ah, take the grub and let the figure go, I loathe the rumble of an empty tum”. So you two can see how difficult it is for me to attain a sylph-like silhouette. (Margaret, thinking I might have a fainting spell because it’s two hours since dinner, has just placed some chocolate in front of me. Being without a shred of willpower I’ve wolfed it and then berated her for being uncooperative.)
Several of my golfing confreres remarked on the reduction of my girth, and despite Margaret’s subversive efforts it still has not quite returned to its former beastliness.
Many thanks for looking after me so diligently. I did enjoy so much being with you, and I must say I’ve become enormously fond of wonderful Jessie. Have a wonderful Christmas, and you’ll be hearing more of me.
Love and best wishes to you and Jessie.
Bill
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Letter to Judy and Wayne Russell
(undated, but approaching Xmas 1992)
My dear Judy & Wayne,
The odd things one finds at times in the Mallee. Out on one of our trips in off spots in our last stay over the Cup period, we were somewhere in this Chillingollah/Waitchie area when we noticed a place which seemed to have peppercorn trees in profusion, and amongst them about a dozen enormous palm trees. We simply had to investigate, didn’t we?
Apparently, many years ago, the original inhabitants were environmentally conscious and had planted there trees as windbreaks, and to relieve the monotony of the mallee bush. Now the pepper trees and the palms are enormous; and there is the remains of an orchard with one orange tree surviving with a few oranges - which are not there any longer. We found them delectable. Gary, naturally, found handmade bricks which he and Dan carted off to the car. We never visit Chinkapook without Gary purloining bricks from somewhere, which are useful - but he also acquires other useless junk, a habit I regard with asperity.
Sorry this letter has been taking so long to write but at the moment I seem to be suffering from word blockage or something, but perhaps I suffer from too many newspapers, too much golf, crosswords (I’ve just spent ten minutes on the phone with Margaret finishing off the Age Saturday one) cooking, eating, sleeping, and most of all laziness.
I also know that with your efficient secret service you know everything that’s happened and what I’ve done often before the happening or the doing. But what really shot me off my arse, as Harry O’Bryan was fond of saying, was Gloria ringing yesterday to tell me she was off to Perth on Tuesday. I thought if I struggled to the end of this letter I could spend a dollar on petrol by driving to Gloria’s tomorrow and I could save a 45c stamp. Nobody had bothered to tell me that she had been suffering for weeks from severe depression. The Andrews are, at times, rather tardy dispensing things I think I should know. When I berate Gary he assumes that innocent expression and says “Oh, I thought you knew.”
Had Judith to dinner Friday night. Successful, as usual. We get on so well, as we have for 30 years, there’s never a silent moment. She follows me around while I’m cooking chatting non-stop even when I go to the dunny for a leak.
What did I give her, I hear you ask? She asked for a simple meal and that’s what she got. Porterhouse steak, which was exquisitely tender, green peas (fresh of course), and chips done in my deep fryer - which I have resurrected after many years, and does chips perfectly. A short pause while Judith went into raptures, and then a dessert of strawberries, mango and cantaloupe and ice cream with a blackberry strip through it. A slightly longer pause as Judith did a bit more rapturing, declaring it was the most simple but perfect meal she had ever had. I accepted her encomiums modestly and gracefully, but rather thought she was stretching a rather long bow as my mum used to say.
Yesterday afternoon (Sunday) off to the Rivoli with her, Bea and Beverley to Sister Act with Whoopie Goldberg, and we all recommend it as a delightful, funny film. Then across the road for dinner at the restaurant opposite. You will deduce from all this that on the threshold of octogenerianism how flat, dreary, stale and unprofitable my life has become! Still, I’m being very stoic about it and optimistically still looking forward to a bright and better future.
Love, Bill
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Letter to Judy and Wayne Russell
(9 April, 1995)
Went to Gloria’s last Sunday for afternoon tea to celebrate Kathy’s 40th birthday. Some afternoon tea. I looked askance at dinner that night.
When I was an adolescent reading Dickens I was struck by the number of times he referred to “groaning tables of food”. Being possessed of a feckless father who dissipated his earnings nightly at the Prahran Club, we usually sat around a table which, far from groaning, could barely emit a soft moan.
Well, Gloria is the only person I know to emulate Dickens – perhaps she read Barnaby Rudge in her pre-pubescent days - and whenever she puts on a lunch, afternoon tea or dinner the groaning of the table is quite audible if one has acute hearing. Even I can hear it when I turn up my hearing aid. People unaware of Gloria’s largesse have often said to me “is someone in pain nearby”, to which I respond with “no, it’s only the table complaining about the amount of food thereon!”
As I struggled with this letter your eccentric brother rang with his usual query: “Are you receiving visitors? Right, put the kettle on.” In a few minutes he arrives with copies of The Bulletin and newspaper cuttings. After a couple of cups of coffee and several slabs of my coffee and walnut cake, which I fortuitously made a couple of days ago, the denouncing of a few politicians, and the solving of world problems, Gary departs while we are glowing with rectitude.
The ancient Uncle Alan was at Gloria’s. He’s pushing 90, and he had the cheek to ask if I was getting meals on wheels. I replied in the vernacular with a hearty “Pig’s Arse”. Edna didn’t seem too shocked, and even reminded me that I hadn’t kissed her. Ever the chivalrous one, I obliged…..
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Letter to Judy and Wayne Russell
(17 December, 1995)
My dear Judy & Wayne,
Who is that scowling, ugly, cantankerous looking character sitting between the two smirking Andrewses. Very dark too! Is he, by any chance, a member of one of the darker races? If he is then the Andrews family are devoid of racial prejudice. One point in their favour!
It has been suggested by some mischievous troublemakers that it is I or me, depending on which University you’re from. It has, by some grotesque mischance, a slight resemblance of I or me, and I must admit that said character has purloined my shirt. I suggest you excise that gargoyle from the photo and substitute one where I’m bravely pretending that life isn’t all bad.
For years now your wretched mother had a photo of me among her collection on the kitchen wall, wherein I appeared to be a contender for the title of Melbourne’s oldest and most doleful inhabitant. Every time I visited I would accuse Gloria of malicious intent, and swore to search for a more realistic depiction of my good looks. A picture people could gaze upon without flinching. After years of searching I eventually came across one that did me justice. Now it sits proudly on the wall, and naturally overshadows all the others. But what does your swinish brother do? He collars the reject, and with sickening smirk sticks it on the kitchen wall at Chinkapook.
How on earth did a normal person such as I or me become a member of such a ghoulish family? I’ll tell you! Through the simple, devious ploy of your late aunt offering me a cigarette on the 6.30 Frankston train, express to Cheltenham – circa 1946. Through the agency of a humble cigarette I was drawn into the dubious Andrews circle, and have lived happily ever since. Do you realize, dearest Judy, if it hadn’t been for that I would never have known you or any of the Andrews. Ain’t life remarkable?
When I realized that you had sent me a container of scrog I couldn’t wait until Xmas, and am now hoeing into it and enjoying it. Thank you!
Hope you are all in the best of health and girding yourself for the perils of Christmas. Margaret is fine, Beatrice is no better with her wretched arthritis, Anne is laid low – not from the op but with CFS. I was there last night for barbecue, and Laura dashingly drove me home.
Love, Bill
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Card to Judy Russell
(undated)
My dear Jude,
People were getting sick of me saying “eh?” all the time despite my hearing aid, and although I frequently use drops supposed to remove earwax, I thought it time to take myself to my personal doctor. After syringing madly - which sounds as though you have a personal Niagara Falls in each ear - he triumphantly displaced a solid lump of wax from each ear, and his voice was coming through loud and clear. If you’ve got any sense, you’ve been to a doctor’s already; if you haven’t any, go now! Thanks for your ego boosting card with which I heartily agree!
Much love Bill
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Letter to Judy Russell
[Judy had sent Bill a small volume, “The Superior Person’s Little Book of Words”. The back-cover blurb says the book “……is a fascinating compilation of five hundred little-known impressive-sounding words that lie just beyond the boundary of the average person’s vocabulary. Coming complete with suggestions for their use in polite conversation, you too can become a Superior Person and use these words to astound, confuse, secretly insult or stupefy friends, enemies, relatives and colleagues.” Judy wove a number of the superior words into her dedication on the flyleaf.]
(undated)
Dearest Judy,
Since you sent me The Superior Person’s Little Book of Words I have become more of an indefectible belesprit and not so much a fopdoodle. Most of my friends at whom I occasionally hurl a missive are so nescient – don’t tell my numerous friends I labelled them so, in jest of course – they return these missives for elucidation.
I tell them if they want to become a belesprit to obtain a copy of T.S.P.L.B.O.W. When they ask where they can get a copy I say “any reliable jeweller”. Looking nonplussed they reply: “Jeweller? Jewellers selling obscure lexicons?” To which I say: “Ah! Business is not what it was, you know!” The more oligophrenic of my acquaintances immediately hike off to the nearest jeweller, so far without success. As of now, my reputation as an avuncular, ataraxic, impeccable, sapid, octogenarian is at its lowest ebb thanks to you and T.S.P.L.B.O.W. By the time it’s realised that jewellers do not sell the above, and it’s been delved into, I fear that I shall become generally known as a pilgarlic, napiform, egregious, steatophygous, curmudgeon and fopdoodle!
But, the real purpose of this letter, Judy, was to wish you a very happy birthday for the 21st - which is tomorrow Melbourne time. Maybe it’s later in the West, not having daylight saving! Come to think of it, it hasn’t started here yet. Henceforth, I’m sure I’ll be known as an exsignificant fool!”
It was great seeing you again and your wonderful children. Hope you have a great birthday.
Lots of love to you, Wayne and the kids,
Bill and Judy x 2
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…….IN HIS TRIP DIARY (ENGLAND, SEPTEMBER/OCTOBER, 1988)
11 September 1988
Tullamarine. Arrived without my carry-all, which I thought was in the boot of Judith's car but had been left behind. Just as I was bemoaning I would arrive in England minus all my toilet gear, Rosemary arrived in hot pursuit, so all was saved.
As we rushed past Mandalay at 600 mph. I thought how Kipling had been geographically inaccurate when he wrote "….and the dawn comes up like thunder out of China 'cross the bay!" Things might have changed since then but I can't imagine the sun ever rising in the north-west. We couldn't even savour the air of Bangkok as we remained hermetically sealed in - from plane to airport and back. Probably ponged anyhow!
As I pen these unprejudiced lines we are passing over India at 31000 feet with the Himalayas and Mt. Everest on our right; but unfortunately we are on the left of the plane. Even from this height the tortuous Ganges has a distinctly bad colour. No wonder, with umpteen million Indians bathing in it every year and tossing in half burnt corpses.
Religion has so many disgusting faces.
The food has been excellent and plentiful. By the time we reach London I'm sure I'll wheeze my way off the plane half a stone heavier.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Having survived the perils of modern flying, from hijackers to stray missiles fired by a panicky myopic U.S. navy at patriotic Iranians, we finally made it to Heathrow where we had to hike what seemed like miles to the customs area. A sombre female eyed me coldly and reluctantly allowed me to enter "this demi-paradise, this realm, this earth, this England". Whether it contains this happy breed of men is yet to be determined. Met at airport by Andrew and Ian, and Andrew drove us in his Saab fast and with Mansell-like skill through an urban landscape which seemed so familiar because of my addiction to TV's Minder and The Sweeny.
Fascinated by the narrow streets running in all directions with cars jammed together on both sides and serried rows of terraced houses looking down at it all.
Hammersmith, 47 Bradmore Park Road. 14 September 1988
The contrast between Melbourne and London couldn't be greater. From the city of brick veneer and the O.Y.O. and a brief history, to a city of terraced houses and Georgian mansions. Today Margaret and I wandered over to the Thames and strolled along the embankment and gawked at everything. Well me mainly, for Margaret has been here before. Ancient little houses stuck in here and there, quaint pubs with quaint names. College boys in running gear coursing around, a prefect or master with stop watch calling out times, and for a moment I felt we had wandered into a scene from Chariots of Fire!
The very air seems redolent of history. Well, it's had 2000 years of it to attain this status, and as I gazed at the Thames thought of Liz I being rowed to the Tower with an insecure head; of the time in the 17th century when it was frozen solid for months; of the Romans and their galleys; of the grotesque Henry the VIII and his royal barge ..... and then I ran out of knowledge.
Mark Twain did a tour of the world in the nineties and wrote a book called An Innocent Abroad. I feel the same.
Just a hundred yards from where we live is a small group of shops with a distinctly village flavour. Newspapers are placed in racks out on the pavement so I selected The Times, Daily Mail and The Independent. The Daily Mail is junk but the other two are first class. Just around the corner within 50 yards of us is a pub called "The Andover Arms" the front of which is ablaze with flowers from rows of window boxes.
We have yet to experience its hospitality. (This pub, incidentally, received an award for its colourful facade.)
Saturday, 17 September 1988
Yesterday we took the above-ground tube to The Embankment where, after inspecting Cleopatra's Needle, we boarded a ferry to take us to Greenwich. Sailing up the Thames, which incidentally looks cleaner than the Yarra, I was able to gaze upon for the first time those historical clichés, Big Ben, St. Paul’s, the Houses of Parliament and William the Conqueror's Tower. Gave me quite a buzz to be looking at these ancient edifices so steeped in history.
And the bridges. Tower Bridge, which was up to let something through. Waterloo Bridge, where Vivien Leigh threw herself under a truck because she had been immoral. Blackfriars, where that thieving Italian mogul hanged himself a couple of years ago. And so to Greenwich, to inspect the Cutty Sark and Chichester's Gipsy Moth. Then up through the park to the Observatory on top of the hill with its time-ball up the pole; looked at the ancient standard British yard, foot and inches; and, naturally, stood on the zero longitude brass strip. I wonder how many grinning millions have been photographed doing just that.
Can't get used to the pandemonium in the streets. Hordes of people; motor vehicles of all types, from midgets to enormous pantechnicons belting their way through streets designed for chariots and the horse and buggy.
To cross a road without using a crossing is to suggest suicidal tendencies, and even on the crossings one cringes, for the traffic bears down on one at a fearsome rate. Although high blood pressure must be endemic the traffic flows along in what seems to me remarkably good humour.
I’ve yet to hear a horn blown at all, let alone one in anger; fist shaking I'm sure would be infra dig, and I've seen things done which in Australia would bring on a blasphemous farrago of irascibility. But here, you could hear a pin drop if it wasn't for the continual traffic din.
I find I wake up very early, about five, and this morning I was under the shower at six and am penning these immortal words at half-past. Now I shall go for The Times and The Independent. The Times crossword is much harder than The Age one.
Naturally my unnatural behaviour invites Margaret's scorn.
Hammersmith, Sunday, 18 September 1988
Yesterday we shopped at Safeway in Kings Street and it's far superior to our Safeways in the Colonies, having much greater variety. Have given up trying to convert pounds and new pence to dollars and cents but prices seem about on a par with ours. Had to try one of their pies and found it to be succulent. Pastry far superior, and the filling tasty without bits of gristle one gets in the Australian variety.
The same pie produced in Melbourne would corner the market.
It's years since I bought fish and chips in Melbourne because they are usually inedible, but already I've had chips twice. Delicious!! I've bought our fruit and vegies and fish (cod naturally) at a roadside market just off the main street, taking up half the road. Buses and cars squeezed by on the other half. If such a thing was attempted in Melbourne the squawks from motorists, residents and shopkeepers would soon bring about its demise. Still such things have been around for centuries and the Brits are great on tradition. Another peculiarity I've become aware of is the British habit of queuing. In my ignorance I bowled up to a stall and was about to start ordering when I became aware of a dozen pairs of English and West Indian eyes in a line, cataloguing me as another "bloody Australian"! Adopting an air of innocence, I slunk to the end of the line.
Later on, in a butcher's shop, I bowled up to the counter and again found myself the cynosure of the eyes of a U-shaped queue. I'm sure if I stood on the edge of the pavement reading the paper a queue would form up behind me. Ludicrous to Australian eyes but really logical and sensible. It ensures that everybody gets served in correct order and queue jumpers do so at their own peril. Bought three Sunday papers - Sunday Times, The Observer and News of the World, circulation 5423000. Sleaziest rag imaginable. Front page stories were "My love for Cruiser Tyson" in which a homosexual male model tells how he met Tyson in a gay bar and how madly in love they are and how jealous Tyson's wife is; and the other story is entitled "Golf Ace Sexually Abused Daughter". This sets the pattern for the whole wretched paper, which is liberally besprinkled with bulging tits. In the centre is a double page spread which informs us in flaring headlines "Champ's Wife Sneers at Tyson's Love-making". It's just slam-bam, thank-you ma’am! Then she goes on to tell 5,000,000 fascinated morons that he can't get it up half the time. Nonsense.
But, the Sunday Times and The Observer are magnificent. So much first class writing. It would take a week's steady application to get through them.
In the afternoon Andrew drove us all over London for a couple of hours. Streets swarming with people and cars; but Andrew dealt with it all with great skill and imperturbable sang-froid.
London is quite marvellous and more than lives up to my expectations despite the mostly narrow streets more suitable to the horse and buggy. But car drivers appear to handle it all with great forbearance. So different to the churlish lunatics at home. Changed my mind about pies. Tried a steak and kidney today. Meat in great chunks and so like pieces of rubber it was quite inedible.
Hammersmith, 27 September 1988
Having been struck down with a cold of outstanding virulence nothing has been entered in the diary for near a week. Margaret had an attack of cystitis but now seems over it with treatment; but despite copious amounts of antibiotics my indisposition continues. Still we did manage a trip to Blenheim Castle last Sunday. Driven by Margaret's daughter-in-law Carolyn. Hard to get a good view of the legendary English countryside owing to the tall greenery on either side of the carriageway as they call freeways here. Caught a glimpse of a thatched cottage or two as we sidled through villages once off the main road.
Blenheim is set amid 2200 acres and is worth a visit if only to ponder on the stupidity of a government that would spend 17 years and vast sums of money on the construction of such a vast and utterly useless domicile. And all because Marlborough won a battle - or rather his troops did. Wonder what they got; probably not even an extra helping of salt pork.
London, 29 September 1988
Via tube to Holburn and piloted by Judy, a girl friend of Ian's, went to Sir Robert Soanes' house in Lincoln's Inn Fields. Soanes, an architect of the 18th and 19th centuries, left his house and contents to the nation. Everything is left exactly as it was when he lived, and is absolutely fascinating. Lofty painted ceilings, walls covered with Hogarth’s The Rake's Progress, Turners, Watteaus, etc., statues, architectural pieces by the thousand from ancient Rome adorn the walls, even Seti's funeral boat which Soanes purchased for 2000 pds. when the British museum knocked it back. It's also on record he was disappointed with his two sons. He died at 84, a venerable age for those times. We then went across to the park opposite and had coffee at the kiosk. Tables and chairs in the open, and although we were the only customers it was impossible to find a clean table. With discarded paper cups and plates under foot and rubbish banked up in corners. I've been appalled at the dirt, which is pretty general, especially in the suburbs. A kiosk operating in Australia in such conditions would soon be in trouble with the Health Department. The invention of the broom seems to have been ignored by the Poms.
Read an article in The Independent the other day which echoed my sentiments.
Hammersmith, 9 October 1988
Still my cold persists. Had it now for three weeks and it's considerably hampered our movements.
Beatrice is staying with Celia Taylor and they've both been struck down. Rang Bea the other day and she could hardly talk. All the antibiotics and potions I've been taking haven't had the slightest effect. Celia's doctor simply said there's nothing you can do for a cold and gave her nothing. Tomorrow, we go with Andrew and Carolyn to somewhere near Stratford for the weekend. Margaret and I will be staying in a B&B.
Welford-on-Avon, 11 October 1988
Travelled to Welford-on-Avon Friday night arriving at our B&B ("The Acre") about 9.30. My first experience of a B&B and were warmly welcomed by Tina and her husband Glen. Unfortunately, I'm still barking like a dog and am overcome with lassitude. Next morning had a shower with one of those hand-held monstrosities to which the Poms seem to be devoted. Then down to the B&B breakfast - egg, bacon, sausage and fried bread and all the toast you wanted and coffee. Delightful people the Cliftons, and Tina chatters away non-stop. Quite young and they have two young engaging daughters who brought out all their dolls to show us.
The B&B is just outside Welford-on-Avon and is on about an acre, hence its name. They run geese and chickens, and have a large glasshouse full of tomatoes. They gave us a key so we could let ourselves in at any time.
Andrew and Carolyn stayed with friends in the village who also have a house on about an acre. He's an estate agent and seems pretty well heeled. He, Steve, drives a BMW and his wife, Nicky, has a Peugeot. BMWs are two a penny here because they don't have to pay the enormous price for it that we do in Australia. Steve told me that he thought the Peugeot was a better car than the BMW. Had dinner with them on the Saturday night, roast beef with all the trimmings and red and white wines. Andrew had told us that Steve was a brilliant wit and he wasn't exaggerating. He had an instant funny rejoinder for anything that was said. Quite an amazing gift but inclined to overdo it, so that it palled eventually. Anyway, they were very hospitable people and good company, and Andrew drove us back to our B&B about midnight. Next morning Margaret and I got out fairly early for a walk and there couldn't be a bigger contrast than the English and Australian country scene. We surveyed an ancient graveyard surrounding a Norman church, but most of the tombstones were illegible because time had erased the words. All the ancient churches here have graveyards, and one we looked at in our walks along the Thames at Hammersmith had some really ancient ones. The earliest we could decipher was 1714.
Then we were taken to the local inn for lunch which was bursting with people eating and drinking. All so much more civilised than Australian pubs. I had a ploughman's snack which consisted of a thick slice of ham, pickle and salad and a great hunk of wholemeal bread off which you kept breaking bits. It's all so nice and homely and good natured. And I really like English beer. After lunch we headed for Stratford-on-Avon and inspected Anne Hathaway's Cottage. We all agreed how cold and uncomfortable it must have been to live in.
Then Andrew took us on a long drive through the countryside and we visited a number of villages. Places like Lower Slaughter and Upper Slaughter and Bloughton-on-Water where a pebbly stream with very clear water divides the village, and you cross over on stone bridges. The main irritation is the difficulty of parking and the number of tourists. Apparently, the tourist season now is not confined to the summer but goes on the whole year long. Must be very annoying to people who have retired to the country and have unfortunately chosen an area favoured by tourists.
Sunday morning Andrew and Steve took us a long way out to a famous ancient pub, “The Fleece”, at Bretforton. It's about 700 years old and is practically falling down. It was a farmhouse until 1840 and then became an Inn. The old spinster who ran it latterly was the last member of the family, so when she was over 80 she gave it to the National Trust on the condition they never sold potato chips and salted peanuts in the bar. According to Steve she used to watch Coronation Street in the bar and would tell you to bugger off if you wanted a beer while it was on.
There's two white circles in front of the open fireplace which were put there about 700 years ago to ward off evil spirits coming down the chimney.
Then back to Steve's and Nicky's for "lunch" which was more like a full-blown dinner with enormous helpings of roast lamb and roast spuds and vegies followed by roast apples. Then, thankfully, we just sat around and read the weekend papers and dozed. By this time Margaret and I didn't feel like another meal and went back to our B&B, and later on Glen provided us with a bowl of tomato soup and a sandwich.
Back to London, rain and wet roads most of the way and the traffic heavy. Andrew drives well but very fast and I was thankful when we made it home safely.
16 October 1988
By train to Bath which took about an hour and a quarter by a very fast and smooth train. Then a short distance to the home of Terence and Barbara Ridley. He is a retired Rear-Admiral, extremely deaf but a very jolly character.
Barbara, his wife, is 12 years older than he and at 85 is quite remarkable. They live in a tiny flat right on a narrow street but seem quite happy and contented. Once again I was conscious of claustrophobia. Terence showed me his cellars which ran right under the road and where he brews his beer and makes cider and wine. He filled me a pint of his home brew which wasn't half bad. They gave us a good lunch and that was hardly over when Barbara wheeled in the afternoon tea. The Poms can certainly eat, especially the oldies - maybe that's the secret of longevity - but Margaret and I were really busting. We were picked up by a couple, Eileen and Misty Mistear, the parents of a former girlfriend of Ian's who, incidentally, is now married with two young children, but has remained on good terms with Ian.
They drove us around the more interesting aspects of Bath on the way to their place, which thankfully had a decent sized block with lawn and garden. They had built on to the rear of the house a conservatory where we had all our meals looking out on to the rear garden and lawn. We all got on excellently (Margaret would get on excellently with the Devil if there was one) and they couldn't have been more charming and thoughtful. We said we were returning to London the next day but they wouldn't hear of it and insisted we stay another day so they could show us around properly. We took very little persuading although my paroxysms of coughing must have been maddening.
Next morning after another English-style breakfast Misty, who lives on the border of Bath Uni, took us around it. Then we went by a little bus into Bath where, of course, the Roman baths were the first visit. And who should we run into immediately but Beatrice, who was on a day bus tour, but who confessed she felt more like being in bed.
She and Celia had had conjunctivitis also, something that had avoided me, but like me they had been afflicted with this terrible tired feeling. Anyway, the baths were fascinating and we could picture the Romans lolling around in their togas and plotting how to poison each other.
That's the influence of I Claudius! We emerged to pouring rain but no shelter anywhere, for the Poms don't have verandahs like we do. Fortunately, there was a bookshop nearby so we ducked in there and browsed among the books for half an hour. No sign of the rain relenting so we scuttled across to the ancient Abbey and put in another half hour reading the marble inscriptions of the long-departed set in the walls and floors of the Abbey. The ones in the floor are half obliterated by the passage of countless feet, in some cases of several centuries.
That afternoon Misty took us and Eileen on a long trip through country lanes and obscure villages during which we saw what is probably the earliest Saxon church known, in Bradford-on-Avon. In the middle of a bridge near the Avon is a medieval iron gaol for two containing two iron beds with two iron pillows. And all the time the rain pelted down. Bradford-on-Avon takes one back to medieval times, for most of the cottages seem to date back to that period.
Next day Misty had to go to London so we travelled with him, and he made several detours on the way. The most interesting was an ancient church - although a pleasant chap I took to be the vicar said it wasn't really old, it dated from only about 1830. The first thing to hit your eyes as you enter is the marble headstone of Captain Arthur Phillip our first Governor. There's a little chapel near it and the vicar explained it was built by donations from Australians and the Australian Government. Eventually we hit the carriageway where Misty drove like an elderly Sterling Moss at 90 mph. Then we hit London and came to a dead stop. The drive to Hammersmith took about as long as the rest of the trip.
We were bemused somewhat when we first arrived at Ian's to find half of his living-room taken up with his last year's production of red wine. This was startling enough, but after a couple of weeks' residence, 25 boxes of Sicilian grapes arrived and we knew we were in for another pressing. Ian hosed out a dubious looking wine cask, set it up on wooden blocks in the dining room, got down his pressing paraphernalia from the ceiling, and set to. He set up his press on top of the barrel, and we put through the rollers the 25 boxes. Took a couple of hours, and by then the barrel was nearly full with a mixture of red liquid, grape skins, pips and stalks. Such an unpalatable mess.
For the next eight days I had this spluttering, gurgling, concoction six inches from my back as I ate, the whole house was charged with fermenting fumes, and the overflow stained his bare boards a nice shade of claret.
Then one Sunday he had some friends around and they set to bottling. I kept myself and my cold/virus/tuberculosis/coughing well away from all this and took off with Andrew and Carolyn somewhere. Ian now has 50 or 60 dozen bottles of red which is more like Beaujolais than Claret in my inexpert opinion. I sampled one glass, then several more, because to my surprise it was not only drinkable but in tune with my palate. I've always thought that wine making was such an involved meticulous progress but there's nothing to it. No wonder they talk about certain years being good or bad for it's obvious it's the quality of the grapes which decides the quality of the wine.
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Bea and I left London for Perth on 25 October while Margaret, at the nagging of her sons, decided to stay another week. Then she found she couldn't get a seat until 11 November so it will be two weeks extra.
Ian is going to Venice with a couple, Annie and Bill (delightful couple, she's English and he's Australian) on the 4th and returning on the 8th. At Heathrow Margaret declared she wasn't going to Venice, Ian just smiled and said, "We'll see!"
Reliable information has since reached me that they returned from Venice last Monday. Bea and I landed at Perth at 3.30 am on the 27 October. Margaret and Judy and Margaret and Wendy met us and we were driven to the Rydings. Announcing my intention to arise in 2 or 3 hours, I went to bed, awoke refreshed a couple of hours later and to my astonishment found it was 2.30 p.m. I realised that 23 Renwick Street was keeping up its high standard when I was presented with a prawn and avocado sandwich. Then I knew I was back in a Sybarite's own country.
Come Saturday the Turners collected us and carried us off to Eagle Bay, an idyll which is losing some of its purity by the encroachment of the bourgeoisie in the form of a gouging orthodontist - quite a nice bloke actually - and a fellow of 35 who got out of the market before the crash with a purse of $7,000,000 and is now building an edifice which will be the hallmark of his success. Up the hill is a bloke who made his pile, and still does, from shoes in Melbourne. His shack, and a most impressive one it is, is a monument to the shoe industry; and he has a large front lawn, quite silly in this area of rainwater tanks (by the way, the Turners have a storage capacity of 32,000 gallons, not litres) and, local gossip has it, it costs him $300 dollars a week to have water carted in just to water it. Fortunately, all the blocks are an acre in size and the owners only have enough trees felled to build and have a garden, so most places are surrounded by trees. The Turners paid $25,000 for their block eight years ago. If anyone is thinking of buying one for a holiday retreat the cost is now $250,000.
I had a large room with shower and dunny to myself, good tucker and drink, and even went fishing one day in Stephen's boat. My impressive catch consisted of a miniature flathead and an even smaller whiting, but I didn't get seasick.
One day we went to a vegetable farm and picked a kilo of strawberries and then drove on to Augusta of the whales drama - got a full coverage in England - and then on to Cape Leeuwin where we nearly got blown away with the wind.
So enamoured did I become of this paradise I magnanimously announced my intention to stay until Xmas - which caused the Turners to turn ashen. Next day they plucked up the courage to tell me to piss off. After arriving back at the Rydings we were taken, with Judy and Wayne, by the Rydings to a Japanese restaurant where the food was interesting and tasty but hardly filling. Must be why the Japanese are mostly of modest girth. After the meal one feels like topping up with a steak. Then it was off to Judy and Wayne's where I've been ever since.
Things become a bit confused now for I also spent a night and a day with Jane and Paul Grey, their six months old daughter Lucy, and Ron the dog. During the day Jane drove me around the exclusive areas and showed me where all the robber barons lived and, with a certain satisfaction, the huge block created by that incompetent rogue Connell who had purchased three $1,000,000 houses, had them razed and intended to erect his own personal Taj Mahal. Now, unlike Phoenix, it will not rise from the ashes. Serve the wretched vandal right.
We lunched at a mediocre restaurant which was surprisingly full, where Jane's spaghetti contained a dead fly, and when she sent it back there was no apology.
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Bill may have been amused that his final words in the Blogsphere concern the drama/humour of a fly in the spaghetti, and the non-repentant restaurateur.
Gary Andrews
