It was in my early months of retirement and I was sitting next to him at an end of the year work function. He was a doctor at my lovely Leigh’s place of work; the practice where she plied her profession as a nurse. At a glance I’d say he was older than myself, but who knows? We chatted away haltingly, as you do with someone you don’t really know all that well, looking for common ground. I probed away with cricket, footy, travel and even the weather, but eventually what we had was the end of our working days. He was obviously thinking about pulling the plug, I was still feeling my way into it after doing so. Breaking free from the nine to five was strange at first, but by the time I was sitting next to Jack, I was starting to feel pretty good about it. And the notion was our starting point through which, as the evening proceeded, we began to get to know each other in a bit more depth.

After reading Ms Coslovich’s column, I returned to my own private phobia of the colour. Of course, these days, if I had a grandson, using ‘too girly’, if he had of picked out ‘…the glittery pink journal’, would not have passed my lips, but would I have still discouraged him from buying it? I suspect he would find out soon enough in any case. But I wonder if it would have been the same way back when my own cherished son was a little tacker? It’s so long ago now, but maybe. I know I’ve an illogical aversion to the hue and the male gender. I’d happily buy pink for my equally cherished granddaughters. Unlike, though, the sartorially elegant Michael Portillo, with his pink jackets and strides adorning his person as he gads about the English countryside on his trains, I could never wear it. I’ve even fallen short of buying a book by a favourite author because it was too pink for me to take to the counter, let alone to be seen out in public reading it. There are some advantages in e-books.

He asked me how I put in my time; how did I fill up the days? I replied that, so far, my post-teaching days had been full and rewarding – and that wasn’t just idle chat. That was decidedly the case. I explained I could now see every movie I aspired to, read every book that tempted me (that may have been just a little fib I was to discover), catch up on all the old tele series I was forced to miss during term time and go on to wholly enjoy what we now know as the golden age of the small screen. And I confided to him that I wrote. Jack took an interest in that, asking what I put pen to paper about. ‘Whatever comes into my head,’ I responded. I told him about my blog, the Blue Room, my digitally savvy daughter had set up for me. He told me he was totally ignorant of blogs, so I gave him some more detail about how they operated.

I like Gabriella C’s short piece ‘Handle Messages with Kid Gloves’. I liked her yarn about the two men, the contrast between the guy learning Spanish and the one disappointing his son over the pink diary. I guess, if anything, with my scribing, I fancy myself as a columnist like Gabriella – or a Bernard Salt, Martin Flanagan, Tony Wright or Wendy Squires, just to name a few of my favourites. That is, writing for a wide public consumption. But I know, particularly at my age, that’ll never be the case. But does that matter? In no way is it a burning ambition.

Then Jack asked the inevitable question – the one I knew he would ask. ‘Well, what’s the point if nobody reads it?’ I could add,’What’s the point if few ‘like’ my Facebook or ‘heart’ my Instagram posts?’ I counted the medico’s query with words akin to that first father’s out with his lad – ‘And not everything need(s) to have a purpose; you could do something for the pure enjoyment’. Just as he did with his foreign language lessons; just as I do with my writing. Like the comparison with the truck driver, I know I’ll never be a writer. But it is important to me that I can write. That few respond to my blogs or anything I place out into the ether is of little concern to me. It’s the process of doing so that gives me the utmost pleasure. Isn’t that enough?

My Leigh now works elsewhere, in another medical practice, although I still go to her previous place of employment as my own terrific doctor still hangs his shingle there. I hadn’t seen Jack around the place in quite a while, but last week I had reason to again visit and there he was. He breezed through whilst I was waiting for my consultation, gave me a cheery wave and greeting before continuing on his way. Perhaps he was now part-time; perhaps he’d decided retirement wasn’t for him, that he wasn’t ready. It doesn’t matter. He’ll know when the time’s right. Back in ’11 I knew it was and have never regretted the decision, even if some might feel what I do with it might be indeed pointless. I love my life today and that’s good enough for me.

Ms Coslovich’s column – https://www.smh.com.au/entertainment/m19columnist-20180509-h0zv6x.html

I did try e-books, thanks to, as is the case of so much that is positive in my life, the urging and digital savviness of my beautiful writerly daughter. And now that we know, despite that format, real print and paper books will continue to be published, contrary to dire predictions of their demise. I have nothing against them; in fact I enjoyed flipping the pages of them on my phone but, for whatever reason, I didn’t get hooked. I reverted to my old-school ways. As with one’s mobile, a book is easily transportable. So too is a newspaper. My daughter happily exists in both worlds, her NoHo home filled to the brim with tomes, many of which she passes on to me. She has an acute sense of what her old man enjoys. Our treasured Tessa is a bookaholic and I am so chuffed to be able to buy books for her and her dear cousin Olivia up in Bridport. My lovely Leigh; my mother, the amazing Nan as well as my siblings and son are also great readers. I remember, from an early age, accompanying Nan to a little private lending library at the bottom end of Wilson Street in Burnie. I seem to recall Georgette Heyer was a favourite. There were also my Dad’s Zane Greys around the house. My early world was filled with Enid Blyton, ‘Look and Learn’ magazine and Arthur Mee’s Children’s Encyclopaedia. In my school years I was a constant borrower at the old Cattley Street public library, long gone. Fiction occupied the ground floor, Dewey assembled non-fiction up the stairs and that was where I largely hung out. In my teaching career I had responsibility for school libraries.

So my love of books had an early grounding and has continued down through the decades. Along with other out-of-fashion obsessions such as music on CD (rather than from the ether), stamps (again, thank you Nan) and photographic images produced in tangible form (rather than floating in a cloud), buying books is a constant in my world. I can’t stop, even if my man cave by the river is clogged with unread ones. But, unlike Daniel Broadstock, I don’t blame my city’s excellent bookshops. I accuse the weekend newspapers for encouraging my habit. The Age and the Australian have much to answer for.

Sure, like Daniel’s subjects, I could spend hours in Fullers and Dymocks in the CBD, or the Hobart Book Shop down in Salamanca, but usually I enter them with a set purpose in mind after my Saturday and Sunday perusals of the reviews in those gazettes. And I am certainly not a ‘…a literary voyeur…more interested in possessing books than reading them…’ My volumes are definitely not just for show – they are intended for reading and usually passed on then to family and friends, or donated to a local community lending house. Only the most esteemed, or signed copies, are retained. Sadly, though, because I purchase so many, they do have to be ‘triaged’ once home. And, oh dear, some simply do not get drawn back down off the self and eventually I come to the conclusion that I will not get to them and they are disposed of.

Fellow bookophiles, you all have your favourite authors, whether you follow them on the ‘…vile dictatorship of the (mobile) phone…’ or in the form that has ‘…texture, weight…’, as well as scent and which can be closed with an emphatic slam on completion. I will not list mine here, but I am a slave to them. I love, also, to branch out, to discover new writers, just as I do with performers in the case of my music. I relish, often with my daughter’s help, discovering fresh young talent. And for that aspect of my craving I also rely on those weekend reviews to guide me to new literary realms. The critics possess their own wordsmithery to tantalise and seduce. I am helpless before their blandishments. And when I, at the end of a tome, concur with their judgement of worthiness, I am inwardly elated; proud of myself as can be as though I was the sole person responsible for the new find. Silly, I know – and I feel the same way discovering a new recording artist.

Yep. There is no feeling in the world like ‘… a book pressed to your chest in wonder.’

Daniel Broadstock’s article = https://www.smh.com.au/lifestyle/health-and-wellness/buying-an-e-book-is-missing-the-point-20180406-p4z837.html

My mission that morning was to find something special and I too, never remotely ‘cutting edge’, knew the place to go.

You see, one of the four ultra-special people in my life was about to turn six. I adore all of them – they bring their zing and gloss to my retirement – and who says blood is thicker than water. The birthday girl and her three cousins – Olivia, Brynner and Tobias are all different, as should be, but three sets of parents are working hard to make their childhoods magic kingdoms of the mind. Tessa Tiger’s mother and father have surrounded her with books, Doctor Who and Harry Potter as she finds her own fantastical realms with My Little Pony and Andy Griffiths. That I am included in her world; in their worlds, is a source of joy. I wanted something special for my precious Tess that morning – not because she expected it, but because I love doing it. She gives me more than I could possibly give her in return. They all do.

When the fire hit it felt the soul had been taken out of the city. For months after, even years, the CBD floundered. The retailers around the smouldering ruins, as well as later with the gaping hole, struggled – a few moved, some stuck it out and others shut up shop completely. With that and heavy competition from developments on the outskirts and in the suburbs, it was feared the life would be drained out of Hobart’s only just beating heart.

Myer management made all the right noises after the conflagration almost wiped out their store, but the fear was always present that they would cut and run. They didn’t. A collective sigh was released when they formally announced they would rebuild bigger and better than ever, doing their best to remain trading whilst that occurred. They have stayed true to that course, despite a severe flooding during the construction period and despite their own brand’s worsening bottom line. When there’s much to dislike about our country’s mega-profit driven corporate sector, Myer locally have displayed something that goes beyond screwing the public for every cent.

They have reopened in stages and that morning was the first time I’d have the whole shebang at my disposal. I knew children’s wear was on the top floor and that was the way I was preparing to head as I entered the store, not quite in the rush Laura McGeoch was on her morning before the nuptials. And at the end of that little journey, up the escalators, I’d be making a small vow to myself.

In truth, before the fire, the CBD of Hobart was tired. Myer and the Cat and Fiddle Arcade, with its little performance on the hour every hour, was the fulcrum, but it was worn and in need of a little loving. Fast forward to today, with the new department store and the arcade completely refurbished, there’s a bit of big city pizzazz in the air. Flanked on one side by Centrepoint, also undergoing jazzing up, as well as newish Wellington Court on the other, the heart and soul has returned. And, unbeknown to me before I entered Myer, something else was happening.

What I first observed was that the ground floor was just about empty of customers, mirroring Ms McGeoch’s experience in the Melbourne sister store. I was a tad stunned by that, but I was soon to discover why. Out the back I could see, even from a distance, that there was, beyond the reopened entrance to the arcade, a brace of mint-new stores. I deviated to investigate One of these newbies, Mecca Maxima, was sucking the life out of Myer and most of the outlets around it. At its Murray Street entrance the punters, mainly young women each toting a large pink gift bag, were lined up down the block and around the corner. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of eager shoppers were patiently waiting their turn to be guided in by the contingent of security hired for the occasion. I was quite mildly gobsmacked. Mainland big city retail glamour had come to our little city.

I had a quick squiz at the other new kids on the block before making my way to my destination. Up there, to start with, it was like a graveyard too.

Should I feel self-conscious, in this era of man-blaming, rifling through racks of young girls’ clothing? Maybe, but I love it. That I have two stunningly gorgeous female beings to select attire for, to me, is bliss. If any askance glances are cast my way I am oblivious and couldn’t give a toss. I was on a mission for Tessa Tiger and I was wholly immune. Sadly, I couldn’t find anything to my taste on the generous number of sale racks, but, as I am no cheapskate when it comes to my granddaughters, I proceeded on to the other stock. I found two garments I hoped she’d love, so I approached the counter. Whilst I had been engaged making my selections some other customers had actually arrived and there were a couple of them being attended to by staff, a male and a gorgeous Myer lady in ‘…trademark black and white.’ I’m not ashamed to say I was a tad disappointed when it was the guy who was ready for me first, but the dapper young gentleman was absolutely lovely. He apologised for my wait, even though it’d only been a minute or so and chatted with me while he processed my purchases. When I passed over my Myer card I explained to him that I had some queries about its benefits and that I didn’t seem to have had any of the expected communication from the store regarding my points tally. He tried to discover what what amiss without success. He then wrote down a number for me that would avoid the oxymoron that is dialing up customer service. Shortly after arrival back home my problem was quickly sorted as a result. I was impressed by him as I have always been by the staff both here and across in Yarra City. He made my day and was the cause of my self-promise to become a more regular shopper there.

Hobart’s town centre is now a happening place with its centrepiece in situ and I too keep my fingers crossed for the struggling Myer, just as Laura McG does, for it kept its faith in and with Hobart. Now that, because of the Mona effect, tourists are flooding in all year round and with the increase in the uni student presence there, it is a wonderful place to people watch, let alone do anything else.

Buying for my grandchildren, as well as Leigh’s, is an indulgence, I know – but, really I’m only indulging myself. I just adore doing it. And I know Tess will love her outfits because they come from her Poppy. Gee life’s good.

Laura McGeoch’s article = https://www.smh.com.au/business/companies/quick-trip-to-myer-made-me-see-the-writing-on-the-wall-20180503-p4zd55.html

Even when in my pomp I was hardly a head-turner. As a young teacher, walking into a female dominated staffroom never ‘…made me feel like a rather small gazelle alone on the savannah.’ Being male is a whole different ball game to the world of a younger Maggie Alderson, Sadie Frost, Sally Brampton et al. But there’s much more to it. I can relate to much in what the first listed wrote about in the accompanying ‘The Many Upsides of Being an Invisible Woman’. She writes of her ‘cloak of invisibility’ now that she’s a woman in her late fifties, comparing today with then. I would say, judging from the images of her in the ether, that, although she may no longer be in her pomp, she is certainly in her prime. It’s a tad different in my case.

Teaching in a relatively small community one of the things I used to yearn for was that cloak of invisibility. Streets of my town would be filled with students, present and former; parents thereof and of course, my colleagues. I remember vividly the weekend of my first date with the beautiful woman who was soon to be the love of my life. I was greeted back at school the following Monday with copious questions of ‘Who is she?’ In small burbs nothing is secret.

Moving to Hobart on retirement removed all that and when I do return to the homelands, being pulled up on Wilson or Goldie Streets for a chat is a welcome pleasure rather than a usual event. I was never wolf-whistled from across the road, but I can still recall when former students, of dubious quality, let fly with invective against me, usually to big-note themselves in front of their yobbo mates. That was a rare occurrence, but it stung nevertheless.

But in the Elizabeth Street Mall I have no worries of that ilk. I am completely invisible – an old man of 66 who doesn’t rate a glance from those I share the space with, going about my business wholly anonymously. As with Ms Alderson, I like being able to ‘…breathe physically and emotionally.’ and even retreat into ‘…elastic waist bands and gnarly toenails…’

Yes, I like it, but I also relish being connected to the human race too – to have the cloak lifted for a short time when I am out and about on my tod in my city; in any city. I love the face to face encounters at the check-out (I abhor the automatic variety) or from behind a retail sales counter. The conversations maybe fleeting but can be surprising and in some cases, affirming. If a lovely younger female (and let’s face it, these days, taking into account my age and the nature of the labour market, then that’s the usual) offers me, at no extra charge, a gracious smile I usually compliment her on it. I am further buoyed if that results in a radiant reprise. And then, suitably uplifted, I can relapse into my cloak and am happy to revert to ‘…the older you…the real you who you’ve been hiding away for years.’ The perfect balance.

Maggie Alderson’s article = https://www.smh.com.au/lifestyle/life-and-relationships/the-many-upsides-of-being-an-invisible-woman-20180327-p4z6h6.html

1. It was in the toilets at the State Cinema in Hobart that I came unstuck. I’d just watched ‘Manchester by the Sea’. Has Hollywood ever made a sadder film? Has there ever been a sadder or more riveting acting performance than Casey Affleck’s as the film’s Chandler, the stuffing knocked out of him by an event no right-minded human could recover from? Although I managed to hold it together pretty well during the course of the viewing of the sombre beyond sombre movie, I was still pretty fragile as I entered the loos – you see I was also waiting on news of another event occurring in our second city. Just as I was tidying myself up my mobile vibrated – a photo had come down out of the ether. It was of my son nursing a tiny human, just hours old. Our beloved Ollie. I melted into a sob, given the beauty of that image on top of the subject matter of that film.
Ten months on Olivia Joan Alwyn is still rattling the emotions. She is gorgeous, delightful and it’s all wrapped up in one sweet package. Always smiling, always animated; tended to dotingly by my Rich and his amazing wife, I am completely besotted. Not one now but two precious granddaughters – and with Leigh’s Brynner and Tobias, this old fella feels he has been completely blessed. And to cap the year off, Ollie has had my son’s workplace’s brand new giant barge named after her.

2. My lovely lady and I have lost two of the dearest of dear friends this year to unforgiving cancers. Both were larger than life, totally generous to their communities; both now so missed by those who loved them – and both avid Collingwood. Part of me will be willing Buckley’s men (and now women) on to glory in 2018 in their memory. And my son, gifted his Ollie earlier in the year, has grieved the loss of his constant companion down through not always easy years. Our Oscar, a dog of little intelligence, but whose love knew no bounds, went to doggie heaven in ’17.

3. For a few minutes rock legend Jimmy Barnes, the gruff Glasgow belter, met Tessa Tiger as she held out her copy of his ‘Och Aye the G’nu’ children’s book for him to sign. Tess had waited patiently, in a long line, for her turn to be in the presence of one of our certified national treasures and he was just so lovely with her, gently probing her about her reaction to the book. Knowing the joys of grandfatherhood himself, he smiled for our cameras with our own certified treasure by his side. The icing for me came later – a ticket to see his ‘Working Class Man’ show early in the new year, courtesy of Rich, Shan and Ollie.

4. If, in 2016, we lost an unimaginable array of celebrity to death, 2017 was the year of notable retirement – John Clark’s loss, though, was nonetheless keenly felt. George Gently has retired from our small screen, with some legends of the AFL hanging up their boots. I’ll miss Hodge conducting affairs from down back next year, but the General isn’t completely lost yet. But undoubtedly the person I will lament most of all will be Martin Flanagan, retiring from the Age to also sample the joys of being a grandfather in more depth. His columns, whether they be thoughtful pieces about the native game, humane scribings on the wider world or delicate renderings of his own family life – well, he is simply irreplaceable.

5. Footy gave us two great stories this year – a Tigers premiership and the introduction of AFLW. Clarkson went for youth mid-2017, turned it around and gave me hope for the mint new season. And, yay, the Ashes are back where they belong.

6. My beautiful writerly daughter, over the last twelve months. gave me the immense pleasure of reading several very impressive manuscripts. She’s up for a big award in a month or so – fingers crossed – and has four books slated for publication in ’18.

7. If ever I wished I had my camera in hand it was when staring down at a branch overhanging Sister’s Creek, near where it enters the sea, that sunny spring morning. Brilliantly perched on it was an azure kingfisher, sightings of which, I later discovered from the locals, were as rare as hens’ teeth. For a time the brightly-hued bird seemed to be resting, but then suddenly it dove into the tannin-laced water and reemerged, returning to its perch with a small fish frenetically wriggling in its beak. The avian was soon up and away, though, darting out of sight. Before that it was a magic moment on one of my extended venturings this year to the homelands of the North West Coast. The visits themselves were emotional roller coasters for all sorts of reasons, but there were immense positives to them as well. My dear mother, as a result of one of them, is now a resident of an aged-care facility where the well-being of its clientele is their utmost concern and she is content. After a life-time of looking after others, now there are lovely professionals doing the looking after of this precious person. On another visit I was entrusted the care of a new canine mate, Sandy the Spoodle and I enjoyed his company very much, as I am with Summer and Bronson as I write this at year’s end. Thank you to Kim and Ruth, Phil and Julie. And always it is a delight to reacquaint myself with Memphis and Leopold on my visits to Briddy. One trip also gave me the opportunity to spend a generous amount of time with my much loved sister – that was a blessing I hope can be repeated in ’18.

8. As I try to keep things positive, the least said at year’s end about Trump the better. But Paul McGeough ‘s reporting, for Fairfax, on the USA’s most odious president ever was, to say the least, illuminating.

9. Turnbull’s complete lack of spine continues to infuriate, but at least we had a joyful outcome from the staggeringly stupid same-sex marriage plebiscite. And for that my two unlikely political figures of the year are Warren Etsch, who fought for it for so long against the hard right dinosaurs of his party, as well as Dean Smith, the low-flying, unassuming conservative MP who drafted the legalising bill.

10. This year I finally signed off on one of my retirement bucket-list items by watching the final episode of the final season of ‘The West Wing’. What’s next? I thought it would have been ‘The Sopranos’, but it now may well be ‘Dexter’. Thanks Rich.

11. In all sorts of ways, mainly due to my excursions north, I’ve encountered former students from my teaching time. On Facebook, around hospital wards, in retail outlets – even in a doctor’s surgery and a real estate office – it’s been a joy to hear their stories and to see them turn out so marvellously.

12. My lovely lady and I went on a cruise to tropical destinations back in August. I adore doing stuff with her and I am eagerly looking forward to venturing back up to Mangoland in her company in the mint new year, She is the centre of my existence; her sage advice being of immense value during the last twelve months when, for the first time, I have felt, on occasions, genuinely old. But I know, with her by my side, living is always a joy.

It stunned me that summery afternoon. I kept turning to look, then turning away to try and read my book or stare at Table Cape in the distance….and then, repeatedly turning back for short bursts. I was trying my best not to be a perv, but she was seemingly oblivious to me. It was difficult fighting back the urge, to fasten my eyes on her and not let go. But I erred on the side of caution. I liked, really liked what I saw – that was obvious, so much so that I still remember it to this day. There was the initial incredulous shock then, with my peeks, I lapped her up. It couldn’t last forever and I had to leave her, the sole blessing of that was that the path back up to the road would take me even closer to the figure supine on the beach that afternoon. It must have been back in the late seventies or early eighties that this occurred. And I do link it to the Hef- Hugh Hefner – that it did actually happen – that she had the chutzpah to enliven my day. Not directly, of course, was there this linkage, but I don’t think it’s too long a bow to draw. She was there, quite brazen and unfettered, seemingly not caring who saw her. She must of known I was looking, but she remained on her back, eyes closed and what I was fixated on pointing up to the blue sky. Would she had had the confidence to do it in broad daylight had Hef not thrown back the shackles on womanhood a couple of decades previously. Some might say he just replaced them with another set, but I, along with Clem following, do not wholly agree.

Things were already on the turn, thanks to those red-blooded European types, by the mid-fifties, but until Hef came along the strictures were still to be unpicked, at least from where we in the antipodes took our cues from – the UK and the US. There was the Hays Code, you know, with all that hung off it, like the banning of ‘Lady Chatterley’s Lover’ by the beige censorship men. But Hef, with a blond bombshell as his centrepiece, changed all that with the first issue of his magazine. Marilyn, short of a crust before she really struck pay-dirt in the movies, agreed to pose unburdened by clothing. Hef got hold of the prints and the rest is history. Didn’t pay her a cent, of course, nor ever apologised for using her body to bring him fortune and fame. But, to my way of thinking, HH had gone a long way towards placing another comparable golden vision before me that holiday afternoon.

I suppose the first time I did it it was akin to buying condoms at a pharmacy. It took a while to get up the courage. It was the Sandy Bay Newsagency where the monthly periodical waited for me. I’d been on a few scouting forays before I’d actually summoned the pluck to do the deed. I didn’t want to be seen hanging around the girlie section for too long. I didn’t want to be classed as a perv, you realise, for I wasn’t. Definitely not. I remember the issue was a big, thick one; the day I overcame my demons and went for it. I was at uni, of course. I was acutely interested in the freedoms that being on campus entailed, relatively speaking. After all, Tassie was so hicksville back then, even if Hobart had started to emerge a smidge. ‘Hair’ had come and we’d seen nudity on stage, as well as on the silver screen when I made trips to the Elwick Drive-in or the cinema now where Centrepoint is. They did, occasionally, show some pretty racy European product there. And then there was Alvin Purple. But at uni, especially in the degree I was doing (Arts), there was a cornucopia of delights to be had when casting an eye over the female student cohort, especially in the few summer months we were there before one and all rugged up for the long winter. Remember this was the time of cheesecloth and it was hip to not wear a bra. Those young ladies, all being at least reasonably intelligent, knew the power, hard won, they possessed in their futures, thanks to Greer, Friedan, Steinem et al. And they certainly knew the power they had over us poor dribbling males in the way they dressed. You’d be laughed at if Hef was included in that list of feminists – but the notion isn’t as silly as it may first appear. But, yep, he also did much to blot his copy-book as well – just in case you think I’ve completely gone off my trolley. But, at that marvellous time, being quite a shy boy from the sticks, I certainly wasn’t getting much action in my first few years as a boarder at an all male residential hall. I needed an outlet – and, once I found my way to the counter at that newsagency, his mag, hidden amongst various newspapers and a couple of worthy journals in the pile I took to the counter – perhaps a Time or a Rolling Stone – to pass over as well. I wouldn’t want to be outed as a total perv, Hef provided that outlet too.

Hand on my heart, I did read the articles. Everybody knows that Playboy had great writers contributing, as well as great bodies. But for me the mag’s main game was obvious. But I generally couldn’t see much attraction in the centrefolds though. To me those Playmates of the Month weren’t real – in little way did they resemble the girls that attracted me around the lecture theatres and tutorial rooms of uni. Even clothed they were far more alluring. But pictorial collections headed ‘Girls Next Door’ or ‘The Girls of France’ – well, now we’re talking. To me their states of uncladedness were the complete enticement to my imagination. Occasionally there were celebrities of repute – Ursula Andress, Joan Collins, Madonna and so on – but again, for me they were no match for ‘The Girls of UCLA’ or ‘Girls on Spring Break’, back in the day. Perhaps it was because they seemed far more attainable.

Almost as clearly as that captivating vision on Cooee Beach that arvo long, long ago, I vividly recall that purchase of my first Playboy. After that it became easier, but I bet it wasn’t the only item I passed across the counter each time, particularly if it was a lady on duty. And I stuck to Playboy down through the following years. There was a brief flirtation with Penthouse, but that publication’s articles weren’t up to scratch. I’m serious, really. I had little interest in the raunchier breed that followed – Hustler, Mayfair, Club International and so on. Beautiful breasts were what had my blood running – the lasses who appeared in these more revealing spin-offs were far too forward for my liking. No tease at all.

Yep, it was a lovely time to be around, from the early seventies into the eighties until the fun police, ‘slip, slop, slap’ and the digital age took it all away. These eventually combined to end my beach-going days, at least as far as sun-bathing was concerned. But from my earliest years, until well into my fifties, any beach was a magnet for me. I loved getting a tan, reading a book on a beach towel and breaking it up a little by watching the passing parade. With trips to places such as Noosa, Byron and Surfers during this period, my beach-watching included a fair amount of toplessness. At these meccas of brown bodies I’d frequently amble up and down the strands and dip my toes in the Pacific. Actually going for a swim never appealed in the slightest. I can’t deny that seeing half-naked women didn’t tantalise when I came upon them. But I tried to be discreet, in my ogling, by keeping a fair distance from them; giving them a wide berth. I wouldn’t want to be thought of as a perv, being only on the beach for one thing, would I?

Now back to that summer in question. Once upon a time I lived just across the Bass Highway from the shores of Bass Strait and for most of the time Cooee Beach was a peaceful spot, far less crowded than Hilder Parade or West Beach, both fronting Burnie’s CBD. I know, that day, she wasn’t there when I arrived, otherwise my towel wouldn’t have been as close to hers as it was. I would have paraded down the beach to put a more respectable distance between her topless display and myself. But, at some stage, I changed position to face the opposite way and there she was. Fulsome of figure, red bikini bottom and blonde-haired – perhaps early thirties, it seemed to me. She was tanned all over, so obviously dispensing with her top wasn’t anything new for her. I have often thought many times since why she’d positioned herself so close to me when she had an almost empty vista of sand to choose from? I’ll never know the answer to that, perhaps she figured I looked harmless (I was) and that being so near would provide some protection in case a more in-her-face type turned up and gave her a hard time. Eventually I had to depart and again, passing her – but not too closely – I wouldn’t want her thinking I was a perv – afforded me a closer view of her tantalising bosoms.

I went eagerly back across the road for weeks, after that, on sunny days, but she never re-appeared. Her wondrous disporting of herself has never left me though. Please don’t think I’m dwelling on this or that I’m weird. For me, it’s just a lovely memory – so totally unexpected in normally staid Burnie.

Now in recent decades Hefner has become a bit of a joke and he was certainly one of yesterday’s men, wasn’t he? But once upon a time he did create a climate for change and bucked the mores of the period. Not all he did was positive for women, we know that. But, as with Clem B following, seeing old stock of the magazine, from its glory years, still brings back a sense of nostalgia. It’s there for all the times I spent wandering around the university grounds in the four years I lived at that hall of residence. For me the campus was a wonderland of earthly delights and then, of course, there was my own personal blonde bombshell on Cooee Beach. Can we still buy US Playboy here. I know the Aussie version has long ceased publication. If I find the former, will I buy one? I know the ‘Girls of Summer’ won’t be there anymore as all its famed nudity has now been expunged from its pages, but will the articles still stand up? And does Hef deserve to RIP? Well, that’s for you to decide.

Clem Bastow on Hugh Hefner’s legacy = http://www.smh.com.au/lifestyle/celebrity/hugh-hefners-legacy-is-as-much-a-quandary-as-his-playboy-magazine-20170928-gyqy4g.html

Sad. It made me a tad sad. It was a small thing really, a tiny fragment of my life – but I’ll will miss, nonetheless, the small pleasures it provided. They informed me greatly; introduced me to artists, photographers and were the perfect letter fillers, suitable for short messages to all the wonderful souls on my mailing lists. I knew where they were located in and around the city of Hobart and if in their vicinity, I would visit and select handfuls. But now this minor delight of an activity has been taken away from me, yet another victim of the digital age and funding cuts to the arts.

The idea came to Pat Mackie on her travels last century. She saw something similar during her time in Copenhagen and figured it could work in Oz too. She set up her business around the notion in 1992. And Australia was ready for it as our appreciation of the arts had matured to be the equal of any other western society, even if our governments often had more pressing needs than helping foster artistic talent.

Over the years people like me have savoured the free post-cards Ms Mackie’s company had produced. They were to be found in stands all around our major burbs. For some time they were excellent in getting names out there that otherwise would not have had the same exposure. The cards weren’t solely devoted to the arts; they promoted other products as well, but they were a great advertisement for painters, camerasnappers and our magnificent land, sea and cityscapes. Avant cards gave exposure to the up-and-comers yet to achieve mainstream acceptance or outlets, as well as advertising exhibitions and literary events. The entrepreneur’s idea ended up creating 20,000 campaigns and distributing 250 million post cards. Ms Mackie proudly tells the story of an aunt who wrote weekly letters to her nephew, topping them up with these cards. Said nephew had been battling his ice addiction but he eventually became clean. When the aunt finally visited him he proudly displayed, to her his bedroom, the walls of which were completely covered with the Avant product she had sent him over the duration. He said contemplating his walls focused his mind away from his craving for the substance.

Now I am a wall plasterer from way back so I can relate to the above story, even if my infatuation with the product was/is much smaller in its positive consequence. One of the locations for my collecting was the Moonah Arts Centre and it was there I picked up ‘Elvis Has Left the Building’. Until I closely examined this card I had no idea that it would mark the end of an era. It was Avant’s swan-song.

There is an up-side though. The National Library of Australia is in talks with Pat Mackie to house the complete collection of Avant cards, every lovely issue. Also, another positive is that, because of my penchant for taking handfuls of the freebies, it has left me with a treasure trove that will last me for a few more years of contemplating and researching what strikes my eye – as well as letter filling.

He’d reckoned he’d seen it all, the film critic on Trevor Chappell’s Overnights show for local ABC radio stations all around Oz. He’d seen it all, had Tom Cushing, until he’d came up against the two movies he’d viewed recently. And I’d just happened to be awake to hear his recounting the impact they had on him. They were both from the horror genre and he had surmised he was inured from all that ilk of film could throw at him. But, for very different reasons, ‘It’ and ‘Mother’ got to him. ‘Solid’ was his description of the first offering, a Stephen King adaptation. Australia’s own Hugo Weaving and Ben Mendelsohn were both, at stages, mooted for the lead role, but Tom reckoned Bill Skarsgård, son of Stellan, did a solid (that word again) job as the evil clown. Mr Cushing opined that there was nothing up there on the actual screen that fazed him – he’d seen it all before, as we have mentioned. But what he wasn’t prepared for was the reaction of the guy sitting next to him who was really into it and possibly hadn’t had the same exposure to the shocks that abound in the more frightening scenes of horror fare. When the nasty jokester suddenly appeared out of nowhere, to the children involved, it was too much for the poor fellow seated aside Tom and he grabbed our unsuspecting reviewer for all he was worth to be protected from the excruciating scariness unfolding. That was a first for Tom. The horror jaded critic had another shock in store when he took in the second movie, ‘Mother’. The Jennifer Lawrence vehicle truly, truly unsettled him. It was like no other horror number he’d seen in his long years. He told his listeners that he thought about leaving the cinema several times during its length and warned that, if you are in any way the slightest bit faint of heart, then this may not be the film for you. He continued on by saying he didn’t have the words to describe the terror he witnessed on the screen, nor the feelings for what he saw induced in the pit of his stomach. I myself loved director Darren Aronofsky’s marvellous ‘The Wrestler’ and to a lesser extent, ‘Black Swan’. But listen to these on-line headlines for ‘Mother’. Rolling Stone cautioned ‘It will make your head explode.’ and ‘The Verve’ added its tuppence worth by calling it the year’s most hated film. Patently, it’s not for me.

No, unlike my partner’s daughter (dare you to see ‘Mother’, Ilsa?), who thrives on being frightened out of her wits, I was put off horror long ago. Way back in the misty past, at the Somerset Drive-in to be precise, with avians flying all around in the evening air, I had the misfortune, as with James Norman, of seeing Hitchcock’s ‘The Birds’. From that point on it took something special (‘The Shining’, a few of M. Night Shyamalan’s oeuvre) to entice me to be scared at the cinema again.

And in reality, there are some birds that bring out a little touch of fear in all of us. For James Norman and my Leigh’s brother Phil, the former Gold Coast postie, it is the magpie during spring’s swooping season. For me and I suspect, dozens of other Tasmanians, it is our own protected spur-winged plover. As a kid, I never felt any joy teasing these, what I thought of then as vicious feathered fiends, till they rose skywards en masse, only to plummet down towards their quarry. My pals would be screaming out in mock terror, running around hell for leather and having the time of their young lives, despite the fact their uncovered noggins were seemingly in acute danger. Yes, some of my mates thrived on the fun of stirring up a congregation of plovers.

I remember once, during my time at Yolla School in country Tasmania, we had, as a guest to address an assembly, a mainland environmentalist who enthused, to the glazed multitude before him, about the amazing number of plovers there were around the school precinct. He related that they were fairly rare in his neck of the woods. But here, especially in rural areas, plovers are a part of the fabric of everyday life, not thought of until the instant realisation strikes that two spurred wings are descending from the heavens with cruel intent. Barely is their time to worry about one’s skull or, heaven forbid, eyes before we are instinctively ducking for cover. Of course the bird is too acting on instinct, namely to protect their nestlings – but it often makes being around our urban fringes and open countryside most uncomfortable on occasions.

Over the years rumours have abounded of deaths caused by a spur penetrating into the brain or a cornea, but methinks that unlikely. But I often wonder what happens when a plover gets its timing slightly wrong?

There was an incident of Hitchcokian potential that happened to me a dozen or so years ago; one that has continued to give me nightmares, along with the original movie. I was far from civilisation that particular day, alone with my camera, on some open wetlands, when I came under stuka-like attack from a bevy of plovers. They dived-bombed me repeatedly as I dashed for the cover of a faraway tree. I felt the disturbance of air caused by the flapping of wings as my assailants flashed in very close in to my ears. Once, under the protection of its branches, they desisted and landed. There ensued a waiting game. Now and again there would be a squawk, a plover no doubt warning me that, if I exposed myself, my demise would be imminent. ‘You poke your ugly visage out mate and we’ll have you.’ They would not go away, I was not game to move. As the afternoon grew greyer and more foreboding I decided to make my escape. Inexplicably, as I crept away as low to the ground as possible, they didn’t bat an eyelid. For some reason they had collectively deduced I was no longer a threat as I made my way cautiously to my automobile. I drove off quite speedily. On my journey home all I could think of was that shocker of a movie where Rod Taylor, Jessica Tandy and Tippi Hendren are terrorised by feathered marauderers. It all came throttling back to me.

Despite coming eye to eye with a deadly flotilla of armoured-faced avians that day, I am now in admiration of these feisty creatures of the skies. Mother nature does bite back and they are its champions. They ensure we, the alpha-males of the natural world, do not have it all our own way. They are not deadly, but they warrant our respect. Its great that there is still so much in the animal world that can replicate the terror that happens in Hollywood horror Here we get the right royal heebie-jeebies from creatures a fraction of our size. It just takes a Hitchcock to start the ball rolling and put the doubt in our minds.

James Norman’s article = http://www.smh.com.au/comment/even-a-swooping-magpie-is-a-reminder-of-the-natural-world-20170911-gyevsi.html

They were men of a regional and industrial town, were Fred and Rupert. They were blue collar, white singleted, gladstone bag toting, Labor-leaning and salt of the earth types. They had an affinity with the bush and to them hard yakka was a constant, not a glib expression. One heaved a bus around the burbs of the North West, the other was part of Burnie’s largest workforce, making paper. The raw material for this was wrenched from our island’s pristine forests without thought. Once upon a time paper was king, but not anymore. Once the government owned and operated the bus service, but not any more. During the working lives of Fred and Rupert manufacturing, mining, forestry and fishing knew no bounds – little ruminating time was set aside for tomorrow or future generations. They both had their passions, of course, but money was always tight – little spare for splurges and they knew the great art of making do. Rampant consumerism was decades away. They had known economic depression and world conflict – and well knew what both could do to dreams. Rupert and Fred built lives for themselves in an industrial town, married well and for life, raising a family.

Of course and sadly, the generation that knew Rupert and Fred is almost gone and yes, Bernard Salt, they did display some elements of Green thinking. Out of necessity they did so – because the alternative was the road to ruin. I liked what you scribed, Mr Salt, but, really, it’s drawing a long bow. I wonder, often, what the likes of Fred and Rupert would have made of today’s world. They would have adapted. They were nothing, that generation, if they were unable to adapt.

The eldest sons of Fred and Rupert bonded in that industrial town – a town blighted by belching smoke-stacks and a toxic sea. These two eldest sons shared enough in common to bring them together – the same classes at school and a fondness for the Burnie Football Club. One would take the other, in his car with the suicide doors, to watch the Tigers play, up and down that coast, come rain, hail and those howling winter westerlies. In the big picture one was a Collingwood tragic, the other was in the process of making the change from the Saints to be blessed by following the ‘piss and the poo’, as the other cruelly referred to the mighty Hawks. One loved the gees-gees and tennis – he was almost unbeatable on the local scene in his pomp. The other’s passion fell more the way of music and literature. As adulthood approached they both found themselves in a position to do what would have been unthinkable for Fred and Rupert at the same point in their lives. A generous government made it possible, with some family scrimping and scraping, to head south to university.

At UTAS – it was never called that back then – the duo of eldest sons was joined by a blond-haired, blue-eyed offspring of a Red Hills farmer, thus immeasurably upping the quotient of good looks possessed by the trio. Through the four years of tertiary study, living at a residential hall (lads only), the three were as thick as thieves; the best of mates.

At some stage during these formative years one of the eldest sons was drawn to a movement. The members of it were trying to save a lake; a lake like no other. Pristine, in the wilderness of the South West, its wide beach of shimmering sand was unique. It was earmarked to go under in the name of progress and jobs. An election was imminent and the little group decided to put up candidates as a means of getting the message out. Thus was formed the United Tasmania Group (UTG), now recognised as the planet’s first Green political party. The eldest son of Rupert was, proudly, a founding member.

Uni finished, careers called and the inseparable trio began to drift apart. Marriage and eventually children came their way, new friendships arose; new priorities.

The Original Green married another warrior for the cause – a woman who became leader at both state and federal levels, following the remarkable Bob Brown. This eldest son devoted himself to raising his family and teaching how to be humane and socially conscious to a legion of students down through the decades.

Sadly the marriage didn’t last and times grew harder for the son of Rupert, that original Green. An illness of body and mind took its toll and he made the decision to move back to that industrial town – to family and his roots.

And, one evening, the two old mates reconnected. A new chapter began in both lives. For very different reasons each was in need of companionship and they gave each other that in spades. Fridays nights at 15 Lane Street became something the son of Fred looked forward to every week. He prepared an evening meal, then settled back with the Original Green to watch the footy on tele – as long as Hawthorn wasn’t playing his pal’s beloved Maggies. The OG would become quite animated, particularly if the umpire made a blue. With both fortified by liberal amounts of cheap reds, much bullshit was spoken, grandiose plans were made and world problems solved.

By now the son of Rupert had another passion – the plight of Burmese minorities – and he spent much time in South East Asia helping out with their cause. It was in that region there occurred his watershed moment – the instant that changed his life markedly for the better. In a Bangkok temple he spotted a Thai village girl releasing a dove to the sky. He thought it was a magical instant, that it was a rare and beautiful thing that he was gifted the witnessing of. To his credit he made his feelings known to the young lady – and finally this son of a Burnie Pulp worker had found his soul mate. It was a deep and abiding love that would survive till the end.

When he was back in Tassie, now accompanied by his new partner, ever widening her horizons, the Friday nights continued – continued with the bonus of her company.

The other Burnie son had by now transitioned from a Labor voter to embrace the Greens, but he was definitely a lighter hue to his best mate. Great arguments were had in great spirit, as one couldn’t bring himself to go the whole hog. He was quite happy for there to be roads into the Tarkine, a cable car to proceed up kunanyi’s ramparts and sensitive tourist developments in the wilderness. To the other that was all sacrilege – a line in the sand just had to be drawn and he was prepared to do that. And don’t dare call this original Green dark. He was true Green – end of the matter.

The two eldest sons had much to look forward to. Son of Fred was invited by son of Rupert to join himself and his beautiful lady to sample village life in Thailand. A plan was hatched to travel to Sydney to reconnect with that son of a Red Hills farmer.

At least the latter partly came about. For, you see, that eldest son, that original Green, that son of Rupert is now engaged in a battle that he knows he cannot win. By the time this is read it may already be lost. But he is fighting it valiantly. Radical new drug therapy may give him some more time and for that he has had the need to fly to Harbour City. On one of these trips he was blessed by the third member of the old uni threesome paying him a visit. The Original Green returned to the former industrial town with such joy in his heart from that encounter – and he gave much joy relating it back to the other member.

So my dearest, oldest and most valued friend is preparing to make the journey up there to beyond the silver lining as Fred, Rupert and the Red Hills farmer have done before him. He is slipping away as I write – but throughout these last weeks and months he has been courageous, stoic and positive. His gorgeous Meimi has tendered him all the way with all that bounteous love she possesses. I will, when the final time comes, grieve for an irreplaceable loss, for what now cannot occur and for those raucous Friday nights of blathery and jest. When it comes, something rare and special will have been lost. My life has been immeasurably enhanced by his presence in it and I too, as soon as is possible, will make a journey to Sydney.

RIP Neville H Milne (27th September, 1952 – 28th October, 2017)

Bernard Salt’s Column = http://www.theaustralian.com.au/life/weekend-australian-magazine/conservation-a-part-of-life-for-past-generations/news-story/c697b4cc381f6fbde7e2c40a245ce357