Our Rose Garden

Here are some pictures of our beautiful rose garden.

Ma-ma-ma-ma-ma my cirrhosis

Oh Erk! it took all of my self control not to spew my Pan fried salmon, spinach, asparagus, baked potato and salza at the sight of Jamie Packers sloppy kiss (ear suck I think) on Alan Jones. Yes there on page three of Fairfax's grandstand weekend SMH and without a hint of sarcasm, irony, mockery or any other sauce to make it more palatable. A litany of arsewipe society pimps, Brownose politicians, and crusading captains of industry, 1100 in all gathered to kowtow to the rodent in celebration of his twenty fifth year on radio. King rat would suit if that title had not already been taken by James Clavell for a similar character in his first novel.

Sometimes when I witness self interest elevated to such great heights of aspiration it's difficult not to pine for an age gone bye when churches, not bankers, provided our philosophical and spiritual guidance. I read recently of a Englishman who whilst comatose on drugs in a church yard had his face torn off by foxes. I can imagine no better fate for a rat like Jones the natural prey of foxes. It's lucky, no canny, of him to have seduced his natural predator who might have put a gun to his head and have as enemies only peaceable thoughtful folk like me. Oops I just bumped my halo against the screen and it now has a nasty crack.

That Hugh is a dark horse, coming on with his "my cirrhosis" as casually as The Knack with "My Shirona". What's he mean by my cirrhosis, is it his alone? I hope so. What are the symptoms? Shouldn't he have discussed it with me, second or somewhere in line to the throne, before going public? It's bad enough with daughters and sisters best friends worrying me about arthritis medication without any of this sort of left field stuff. I tried the Ten a day fish oil remedy, I'm still trying in pain. I doubt there's enough fish in the sea to keep up my supply let alone all my peers. This week I pricked my finger at work and almost bled to death the blood is so thin. Now I go nowhere without pockets filled with tissues and bandages.

Does he (Hugh) mean to say that he's not ever going to drink again? What do you do if you don't drink? Yes I know John has taken this path but he's a priest .Hugh is full blood, he should have told me. What are the symptoms Hugh? Do you notice others bad odours more because I've been noticing that a lot recently? Flaky skin and pimples, especially on the nose? Give me a hint. should I give up chocolate? I love Whittaker's Dark. Bet I have to give it up. Wadd'a they say, "if it tastes good it's bad for ya" or is that just those stupid Irish?

I was discussing it with Paddy Murphy at Bunnings yesterday (yes the village well) I was expressing concern being only three years younger than Hugh. He was expressing even more concern at thirty three years or more dear boy, what can I say. He suggested that we all drank too much and we fell to discussion of earlier generations. I blame the wogs I told him, my parents only had beer and spirits and they couldn't afford spirits. Only an out there alcoholic could be so on beer but then the wogs brought us wine. Sophisticated, seductive but minus the how too formula that was in their breeding. Oh yes we learnt they drank it every day with meals and so did we. What we didn't learn was how to put a cork back in. We thought once opened we had to drink it all or it would go off. Oh yes it went off.

By the way I've discovered a rich new vein of relatives. If only you could bank relatives we'd all be millionaires. I mentioned that I had received birthday greetings mysteriously from Ed Margetts. As it turned out Ed Margetts was only the title on the Email and the greetings were from his wife Pam nee Boland. Her interest in my birthday was provoked by the proximity of her own on the thirty first, the next day. The Margetts name seemed to ring a bell though and as I wished her the best for the thirty first I mentioned this and promised to run it by the family historian. That night John rang me and cleared up this mystery with this remarkable revelation. Emily Boyle my grandmother had a sister named Molly who married a McNamara and lived at "Marlivale" Stephen McNamara's farm in our day. She had four daughters the younger three of whom married three brothers Margetts. Yes just like in those nice Hollywood movies. Ed's mother Grace was thus dads first cousin and Ed is my second cousin. Now along with the exchange of emails I have had with Kay Hanrahan nee Boland since catching up at the reunion has been an exchange of photos. One of these is of four children eating ice blocks; Kalliope and Ezra are spawn of Pam and Ed's daughter Karlee, Finn and Sam are of their so far un-named son. All therefore fall into the generation of Jamison and the children of Alice, Kelly and Gabby on whom we impatiently await.

Memorable Moments

Well I shall surely remember turning 65. First with so many greetings including by face book from; Chris and Sue, Ann Prestipino and Anthony Beadle, our border from Leichhardt. By text message from Kelly and Mart Tidman, Kati Head (Alice's dear and oldest school mate) and Enmore Video Hire whose business I have not indulged for more than three years. By email from; Dorothy Heggen, Kay Hanrahan, Ed Margetts (a long lost relative you will hear more of) and his wife Pam (ne. Boland). By phone from; Hugh, John and Walter and by mail from Central Sydney Osteopathy. When creating this list it was never my intention to embarrass those whose names do not appear so please believe me when I say I bear no grudge. You will just have to deal with it and your own conscience, if you have one.

Working on the actual day I took an banked hour off for earlier than usual Saturday evening tradition of dinner at The View with the Herald and had a relatively early night. Sunday was for the celebration with my only true love Alice at the Theatre Royal for the Jersey Boys matinee. Decked out in my brand new blue serge 'Mad Men' suit which some fool had had tailored in Bangkok to my exact proportions and immediately grown out of, along with the never worn Van Heusen white cotton shirt, both of which I had picked up at St Luke's exclusive men's wear and op-shop the previous week for the outrageous cost of $23A, just a whisker less than $23US, I along with Alice squeezed into The Theater Royal. Jersey Boys was a hoot played to a full house almost exclusively my peers. Queues outside the ladies at interval became rowdy with lasses who affronted once more by delays they foolishly expected to be resolved not exacerbated at this late stage of life thought they should share the male facilities. I wonder if the city planners have taken the bladder control of this demographic bulge into consideration when certifying new Westfield Towers. Could prove profitable to you 'Kenny' if your listening. Oh no, of course, 'Jim's Dunnies' I can see them now in jungle green with that craggy digger hatted face stenciled on the side.

Music and theatre is all well and good but man does not live by this alone. He requires food and by a quarter to four when the show ended he was ready. A short walk away we found the Rooftop Restaurant of the Glenmore hotel in the Rocks and lucked into a table. A bottle of celebratory champagne was ordered along with food and we settled to contemplate our harbor with the Opera House in the foreground. Weather provided the theatre in this backdrop as it changed from bright lit sunshine to storm grey with water effects that saw a good number of our fairy floss companions abandoning their rigorously reserved tables but not we hardies. We were rewarded by clearing skies a magnificent sunset and our pick of position. We rewarded ourselves with another bottle.

Reluctant to break this spell of camaraderie as night fell, we made our way to another hostelry and then another and another till they simply became pubs and we were metaphorically crawling. Eventually we saw what all good things must come to and parted, Alice to a cab and I to a train. After a wait similar to that for ladies toilets at the Theatre Royal you may understand the vehemence of my curses for Christina Keneally as the train to Stanmore terminated at Central. Waiting on one of the platform seats that seemed more plentiful than before I asked a passing station attendant when the next train to Stanmore would come. "where" he asked, "Stanmore" I said. "Oh you'll have to get the flyer to Central, about forty five minutes" he said, gesturing at the same time to the name on the seat I was sitting on. Bankstown it said. Slowly it became apparent to me that time had passed mysteriously as it does when you sleep. The flyer - whatever - would get me back to Central in an hour or more but there would be no more trains to Stanmore. No what I needed was a cab and in a surprisingly lucid moment I remembered I would also need money. I found a bank machine and along with it a young friend equally despairing at the distance to Guildford. Something about him reminded me of a younger self and I resolved that if I could find a cab I would take him home utilizing this captive time to lecture him not to become like my older self. Luckily for me and him I suppose I had lost him by the time I found a cabbie on the other side of the station who was more than happy with his forty dollar fare to Gordon Street Stanmore which remarkably he knew.