The passing parade of PMs

We have a new Prime Minister. There was a time when this was an era changing event. In 1949 when I was only six months old Robert Menzies became Australia's Prime minister for the second time. He resigned the position in February 1966 when I was sixteen years old.

Robert Menzies speaking to striking miners

Imagine that. I was sixteen years old and for all but six months of my life I had known only one Prime Minister.

In the past eleven years of my life there have been six changes of Prime Minister. Six! John Howard lost at election replaced by Kevin Rudd. Rudd usurped by his own party replaced by Julia Gillard. Gillard usurped by her own party replaced by the returning Rudd. Rudd lost at election replaced by Tony Abbott. Abbott usurped by his own party replaced by Malcolm Turnbull. Turnbull usurped by his own party replaced by Scott Morrison.

In my lifetime I have twice been a constituent in the Prime Minister's own electorate. First I was a constituent of Prime Minister William McMahon in the electorate of Lowe.

William McMahon talking to Corporal Colin King

McMahon was 'a confirmed bachelor' until he married at the age of 57. No conclusions drawn from this photograph.

Lately, indeed until today, I have been a constituent of Prime Minister Malcom Turnbull in the electorate of Wentworth.

Malcolm Turnbull

By coincidence McMahon, Turnbull and I all attended the same school; Sydney Grammar School.

Traffic control at the airport

(News Corporation)

I dropped Cz and Cw off at the airport this morning for their flight to Canada. Traffic at the various terminals continues to be problematic especially at peak times. Marshalls wave lighted batons in a vain attempt to stream traffic but are ignored by taxi drivers who then trap other motorists thus exacerbating the logjam.

One taxi driver somehow managed to trap four cars in one go; two kerbside cars attempting to clear the area and myself and one other car waiting to replace them.

Future King

Prince George of Cambridge

There are comments I could make about this image of the future King Queen Monarch of England but on this occasion discretion is the better part of valour. Of course, as Jerry Seinfeld might say, there is nothing wrong with that.

Doggy play date

Brunch today with Hn, Mb and Mk. The excuse for brunch was the first play date between Hn's Groodle and Mb's Spoodle which is a cross between a Cocker Spaniel and a Poodle.

This is a Spoodle

Dogs have play dates. I'm learning something every day. Luckily dogs don't require fancy foods or liquids when they date. Adults do. The dogs were completely satisfied with bowls of water. I needed scrambled eggs, turkish toast and a hot chocolate for my part in the date.

Hn's Groodle jumped at me. Mb's Spoodle did not. Mb is obviously a more effective doggy mother than Hn.

Grrrr

Lunch at Hn's. She has new dog. It's a Groodle. A cross between a Golden Retriever and a Poodle.

This is a Groodle

Dogs seem to enjoy jumping all over me. I don't enjoy dogs jumping all over me. Hn's previous dog, a Golden Retriever, used to jump up at me. Hn told me the Groodle wouldn't jump at me. It did.

Grrrr.....

My night on the Seine

Andrew has written about his lunch cruise in Paris which reminded me of my cruise on the Seine.

I was travelling with two friends, sisters, and our stay in Paris was at the tail end of a month visit to Europe extending from Prague overland to Budapest then by rivers to Amsterdam and overland again to the French capital. I suspect the two sisters were thoroughly sick of each other's company by then even if I was still having a ball.

One of our last touristy activities was billed as a romantic evening dinner cruise on the Seine. We piled onto the river boat with high expectations. The evolving coolness between the sisters was now so evident that no-one else in our touring party sat anywhere near we three.

The cruise got underway in summer's bright late afternoon light. Dinner was served as we puttered down river; afternoon light still blazing. The sights were indeed splendid, if not yet romantically lit, but with two companions no longer speaking the general mood had turned decidedly chilly. After a time the riverboat turned about and headed back the way we came; still in bright light.

As we approached the wharf where we had boarded I assumed we would continue up the river in the other direction. After all the day, although late, was still bright. The romance of evening, I felt, might thaw the sisters out and lift the mood.

Not on your life. We tied up at the wharf and were quickly shuffled off to allow the next load of tourists to have their romantic cruise. No doubt their's, unlike our's, was eventually an evening cruise.

Beware the 'romantic evening' promises when travelling at the height of Europe's summer daylight saving hours.

Hamer’s Hall

Hamer Hall is Melbourne’s impressive concert venue. Spread over multiple levels, four of them below street level, it can be a bit of a trap for the novice or the unwary. I was both these on my recent, first attendance there.

Arriving there early for a concert I ventured down various levels by escalator in search of a food outlet I assumed to be there from the evidence of others munching away in the foyer levels.

Four levels of escalators down I discovered a small sandwich selection on one of the bars. Having purchased some food I looked around in vain for an empty chair but all were taken. Go back up I thought but the question was how. I realised all the escalators were set to travel down. No escalator was travelling up.

There were stairs and so I trudged up one level at a time until I could find seat on the first level I started from. Not good for an almost septuagenarian! It was only when I got my breath back that I noticed the elevator in a corner.

By the way, at concert's end all the escalators were reset to travel up.

Poo, poo to that....

C talks a lot of shit. Or rather he talks a lot about shit. His own shit actually. C studies his own poo closely from which he develops theories about his state of health. I suppose there is nothing wrong with that except that I don't understand his need to share his findings so often. Or indeed, at all.

When I was in New York in March I saw a novelty booklet entitled 'What your poo means' (or words to that effect). I couldn't resist and I bought a copy back as a present for C. I wasn't sure how C would react to this present but he seemed to take in good spirit. I noticed he spent a long time reading it afterwards.

Later I wondered if I had been too sensitive to this practice of C's. But I believe I have been vindicated. C recently returned from a long weekend away with his niece. He told me that half way through the weekend she turned to him and said 'Uncle C I don't mind you checking out your poo but please don't tell me about it all the time'.

Shit happens.

Do you Henry Charles Albert David take Rachel Meghan?

Vanity Fair

There are many who probably wished that Henry Charles Albert David took Rachel Meghan as far away as possible from our televisions, radios, newspapers and social media sites. Their nuptials certainly took over the media waves to a degree rarely matched except by the most distressing of universal disasters or malevolent activity.

I joined my close friends for a curry night - that menu item was to prove strangely prophetic before the night was over - to watch the preliminaries, the ceremonies and the pageantry. After all, my Republican leanings notwithstanding, the British stage these Royal events so impressively.

Predictably just about everything was achieved with the reliability of Swiss clockwork. The one standout exception and the most impressive element were both contributed by the lost colony of those pesky United States.

The exception was the Most Reverend Michael B Curry, Presiding Bishop and Primate of the Episcopal Church. In front of six hundred mostly British guests, by definition therefore staid impassive and unemotional, Bishop Curry departed from his prepared remarks and became...well...flamboyant. And he spent a long time doing it.

In our private, in front of the television, party this proved too much for both I and C who began to hurl insults at the screen. Unsurprisingly these insults had no impact upon the faraway Bishop; no doubt as uncaring as he was unknowing of his impact in Sydney suburban Seaforth.

Bishop Curry continued to wave his arms, modulate his excitable delivery and generally chew up precious celebrity spotting time which proved too much for I and C who both fled from the television room refusing to return until confirmation that his sermon was at ended. During that self imposed banishment C consoled himself with a second, and if I may say so greedy, helping of curry (of the chicken variety). Too much of (Bishop) Curry meant too much curry for C.

And the most impressive element? Without question or equal that award goes to Doria Ragland, the mother of the bride. Dignified and stylish, Ms Ragland stole the show without uttering a word; flamboyant or otherwise.

Good Housekeeping

How's your day been?

6pm, weeknight and my mobile phone rings. No caller ID. I don't like answering calls from 'No caller ID' but several close friends conceal their numbers so I answer the ring.

'Is that Victor?' the caller asks.

Me: 'Yes'.

Him: 'My name is Ben and I'm calling for Opera Australia'.

(I now wish I hadn't answered the call.)

Ben: 'How's your day been?'

Me: 'Is that what you called to ask me?'

Ben: (Laughs) 'That's how we begin our calls.'

(What makes Cold Callers ringing to extract your money think that idle chit chat with total strangers is a winning start?)

Ben: 'We want to thank you for your patronage and your generous donations for young singers....'

Me: (Interrupting to push forward to the inevitable real reason for the call.) 'Are you ringing to sell me tickets?'

Ben: 'No. We have a number of funding initiatives and it is nearing the end of the financial year...'

Me: (Interrupting again.) 'Whoa, whoa (speaking over the top of him) I don't respond to telephone calls for donations. Please take me off your call list.'

Ben: Yes, will do... (Don't hear the rest as I hang up.)

Until the call, my day had been good.

Teenagers

Teenagers are a strange beast. A group of six teenage girls having paid, I presume, to attend a cinema spent the entire movie taking selfies of themselves.

Not only did they take selfies during the movie but they used flash photography to do so.

I suppose they grow out of it.

Sign of the times

An awful day at the hospital today. Many patients about and insufficient staff to attend to them. Some of the staff who I saw present in the morning had mysteriously disappeared in the afternoon.

It was only when I signed off for the day that I learnt from my supervisor that several dozens of staff received 'their envelopes'.

I didn't understand at first. The hospital's organisation is being restructured (economising) and some positions will disappear along with their occupants. A pity. A dearly loved and respected institution in our city being torn apart in the name of making a profit.

Snags? or a snag?

I suppose the writing was on the wall when A invited a court yard full of people for lunch to celebrate her new barbecue only to have most of them regretfully decline as she had unwittingly chosen Mothers Day for the occasion.

We few invitees without any maternal commitments who accepted the invitation arrived with our barbecue related contributions to find that, without telling us, A had decided to have a non barbecue, sit down lunch instead.

On this surprise, at least, A had gambled successfully. The weather turned dramatically after our arrival...

...and poured with rain whilst we remained dry, eating A's hastily re-jigged kitchen cooked lunch menu.

Quick on the trigger

Darren Criss

A small item in the newspaper on Tuesday alerted C and I that Darren Criss known for 'Glee' and other performances would be appearing in Sydney for one concert only next week and that tickets would go on sale at Noon today.

I arrived home from my weekly exercise session at 12.15pm and immediately went online to purchase tickets to find that the concert is sold out.

Sydney's Gays were certainly quick on the trigger today.

Faux pas

E has invited me to join her and friends for drinks to celebrate her forthcoming birthday. 'Is it a milestone birthday?' I enquired. 'Yes, it has an 0 at the end' E replied. 'Oh, so you will finally reach 40', I responded.

E reacted to this with what sounded like a hearty, genuine laugh. It was only an instant later I realised the risk of my comment. The fact is that I have no idea how old E is. No matter how you interpret my comment it casts doubt on what age I might imagine E to be and more sensitively what age I might think she looks to be.

I meant well - how many of us use that defence - and my intention was to be humorous. As someone rapidly approaching 70 myself, 40 seemed like a nice young age to hang my humour on but I may have miscalculated badly.

Blind MKR

(Seven Network Australia)

The amateur cooking competition My Kitchen Rules has been a ratings winner for the Seven Network for years. The series has been a masterclass in manipulation; both of the contestants and in editing thus ensuring clear 'goodies' and 'baddies' for audiences to align with or against.

Currently at the semi final stage of the 2018 series, the teams that have reached this point are being judged in so called 'blind tastings' suggesting a guaranteed impartiality of outcome. Six judges, mostly chefs, are the adjudicators.

Frankly speaking the judges would have to be much more than vision impaired to be truely in doubt as to who has cooked which dishes.

For a start, two of the judges, the regular hosts of the competition, actually watch the competitors preparing and cooking their meals. A third judge is an occasional participant host through the preliminary rounds and so is also familiar with the competitors by that stage.

In the first semi final two Italian brothers competed against two Vietnamese mothers. The three course meals the judges assessed were an Italian menu and a Vietnamese menu. Can you guess which team prepared which menu?

I thought so.

Inconvenient timing

The battery in my car key is approaching the end of it's life; methinks. Why doesn't this ever happen at the time my car is due for servicing? Very inconvenient.

Blogger; oh Blogger

Oh Blogger you are driving me mad. This morning I had to sign out of then into my Google account in order to make a comment on Andrew's blog and then immediately had to log into my Google account again to get into my own Blog.

Too many 'this device is not recognised' messages for my liking and anyway; what does that mean? I know what the words mean but why is this happening? I haven't purchased any new devices for a couple of years so why, all of a sudden, is Blogger treating me as a stranger?

Dumplings anyone?

Taking my seat for 'Single Asian Female' I immediately had a yearning for Yum Cha or something similar.

The main set was a family run Chinese Restaurant. Don't be fooled by the empty seats in the auditorium. By the time the play commenced every seat was occupied.

Oh, Malcolm

Our Prime Minister, Malcolm Turnbull, doesn't have much luck, does he? Just when at long last, after numerous failing Polls, one Poll showed the minutest of turns in his favour, his own Coalition Partner, Barnaby Joyce, throws an almighty spanner into his works.

But is it just bad luck? Hasn't Turnbull shown poor judgement numerous times over his political career. A bit like Joyce himself really. Both seem to have appealing qualities and attitudes at least on the surface but then both undermine the goodwill their supporters might harbour towards them by their words and actions. And they do it, time and again. Turnbull, in particular, loves the sound of his own opinions and often expresses them in long winded, meandering monologues.

Instead of remaining a dignified figure above the seemingly grubby behaviour of his coalition partner, Turnbull decided to deliver a sermon to ram home to the electorate Joyce's failings. In so doing he injected himself into the mud pit and gave Joyce's National Party an excuse to rally around their embattled, undeserving leader.

Oh Malcolm, you don't learn do you?