He’s a big boy, is Dave O’Neil. When thinking of him, I am drawn to another large fellow, Sir Harry Secombe and his nick name,’Circumference’. I doubt DO’N will ever espy this so I won’t apologise for the analogy, but his recent musing in a recent ‘Shortlist’ supplement of the Age also had me thinking. It was on one of his favourite topics – tucker. And you can see this man enjoys lusty helpings. Like me, he’s no gourmand, but he knows what he wants and in ‘Why I’m Not Sharing My Food’, riffed away on some recent restaurant trends that have caused him displeasure. He rails about the sharing of courses, about tapas and whines about the new necessity of lining up for a table, rather than being able to pre- book. So let’s examine this complaints in reverse order.

Once upon a time one took up a phone, rang a restaurant, gave time and number of diners and an evening meal was assured. But another practice has now even reached my far-flung corner of culinary delights – here local eateries have, in increasing numbers, taken to not accepting reservations unless you’re a party of seventy-six or some such number. If we are a couple, or even worse, a single – then a gamble has to be taken. Yep, this involves lining up – or getting quietly sozzled at the bar whilst awaiting a placement. Neither are my idea of a fun night out. If I am away, in a mainland city for instance, I am happy enough, within reason, to get in a queue, as generally I am coming in off the street. In this situation a fullish establishment is usually a sign that the food is more than agreeable. It also gives me a chance to gauge what is on the plate. In the cut throat market that exists in Melbourne or Sydney, a meal provider with idle staff is patently heading for the rocks and there’d be a good reason for that.

In Adelaide, recently, my darling loving partner and I came in off North Terrace to sample a certain restaurant’s fare and ended up having a ninety minute wait before a harried, novice maitre d’ could seat us. In the end it turned out worth it as there was a quality waiter; as well as quality random fellow diners, (these almost seated up under our armpits – imagine if they’d been dicks) – and then added in was the quality of the dishes we ordered. Together these more than made up for the delay. It gave my lovely lady and I one of our best dining experiences in recent times. Jamie Oliver’s Italian was extremely busy that evening – a great sign considering it was a Monday night. It had a vibe and ambience that perhaps would not be suited to a romantic night out, but gee, if we ever get a franchise of it in Hobs, I’d be a regular.

Now I have a mate who uses a different system when he is away from home for selecting a restaurant to meet his needs. For him the tucker and the room’s fullness are secondary. He does his best to ensure that his choice is based on the number of attractive women it possesses as wait staff – and when you reach the age he (and I) are at, being attended to by a beautiful woman plying one with adequate fare is not to be sneezed at. For me, though, that would be a bonus on top of what is, in quality and amount, served up. I wonder if my pal’s methodology has ever entered DO’N’s head?

‘No, what I want is large, tasty servings on a normal sized white plate.’ states DO’N. I’m in agreement. A night of tapas or finger food delivered at intervals at a function where one is gormlessly standing around, racking the grey matter, searching frantically for something remotely interesting to talk to fellow invitees (most only remotely known) about, is, in my book, the pits. The weather is usually quickly exhausted, so then some subtle questioning needs to take place to discover if your fellow sufferer is into any topic we may have some inkling of in order to strike a chord. If it’s male, footy or cricket, even politics are options – for female, try books or movies. It’s hard work and rarely enjoyable as you struggle to get enough down the gullet to be remotely satisfied. More often than I care to remember this small-talkaphobe is stumped for said topic and I end up staring woefully into my drink. Now if one is seated at the table, with some relative unknowns, for a proper dining experience – well then the menu delivered will provide a most useful initiator for establishing common ground. Many, many times I have gotten quite ‘Mr Wobbly’ having the time of my life at a large table with people I’ve never met before, nor likely to meet again, having a hilarious time. With generous amounts of craft ale or luscious reds thrown in on top of great tucker – then these are simply the best nights. Nights that will linger despite one’s woozy state. I intensely dislike the notion of ‘circulating’, trying desperately to be jolly whilst furtively clock-watching, wishing the whole damn thing was over and I can get the hell out of there.

Now tapas. I avoid tapas bars at all costs. As DO’N says, export the bloody stuff right back to whence it came. The whole odious notion of the Spanish affliction put me in mind of similarly portioned, equally odious food fads of the past. Do you remember them – fondues and nouvelle cuisine??? I have recollections of, in pre-Maccas times, when these were in vogue and a night out, suffering through it all, required an obligatory detour to the fish’n’chippery on the way home. There is nothing remotely positive about fiddling around with cubes of bread and vegetables and a pot of molten lava like cheese. Neither is there any satisfaction to be attained with being served exquisite morsels of food the host’s wife or chef has spent a solid twenty-four hours straight preparing. The ‘n’ in ‘nouvelle’ could just as easily stand for ‘noxious’, ‘nauseating’ or simply just ‘nothing’. So please don’t get me started on today’s trendy diners that serve microscopic amounts of rare foods, admittedly as gorgeous looking as miniature art works, with smatterings of jus or foam, on plates the size of bathtubs – and charge exorbitantly for our displeasure. Quelle horreur!

As for food sharing, I do disagree with DO’N here to a degree – occasionally it can work if the proprietors of the restaurant are generous enough. A second Adelaidean experience saw my beautiful lady and I sampling Korean with another couple. Here the shared portion was ample in volume and delicious to boot. But usually I inwardly shudder when the suggestion to divvy up a number of menu listings is made by someone in our party – usually after I have already selected a couple of servings for myself from the bill de fare that already have my juices flowing in expectation. Then the dish turns up with an amount of offering that would struggle to get a Bangla pauper excited. Invariably the same person will suggest the cost of beverages are also shared, promptly ordering the most expensive bottles the venue’s cellar possesses. Generally I prefer an ale with my meal when out, solely because of the minuscule amounts of wine poured by drink waiters, these days, to ensure maximum profits will be made in keeping the customer well lubricated.

Yes DO’N, dining out in the modern age is a minefield, so when you (or I) find an eatery with your simple definition (‘…what I want is large, tasty servings on a normal sized white plate.’) then we should religiously frequent it, recommending it’s name to all and sundry so we do our best to keep it serving up great tucker. We must then stick to our guns to ensure those eateries that misfire (pun intended), in any of the above ways, have their comeuppance by going pork-belly up (tee-hee).

Dave O’Neil’s article = http://www.theage.com.au/comment/why-im-not-sharing-my-food-and-why-we-should-send-tapas-right-back-to-spain-20140923-10ko0q.html

The Man Booker winning author was asked to describe, at short notice, the city of Hobart – the city he has chosen to be his home on my island in the southern seas – in a couple of sentences. This is what he came up with:-

Nestled between the foothills of a mountain and set against one of the most picturesque harbours in the world, yet urban and urbane, Hobart resists clichés . Old but young, gentle yet vital, cultured and vulgar, Australia’s oldest pubs and newest museum nudge and jostle each other into a city that belies its size with the charms of another country still undiscovered by most Australians.

“I had today a message received from the Gurindji,” Mr Snowden said in Federal Parliament. “It says: ‘Very sad we lost that old man, but good because now people all over Australia will be reminded of his great legacy and the great thing he did with our leader, Mr Lingiari. That old maluka, old man, understood our important role in land rights. We will meet today to plan how we will mourn him’”

We did. We really called him Super-Gough back then. Just for a very short, blindingly bright moment in time we thought that he could walk on water; could part the Red Sea if he put his mind to it. And we, as Australians, could follow him in doing so.

Except for a few mean-spirited Murdochites, all sides of politics have come together in tribute at the great man’s passing. So too have us ordinary guys who can remember him putting our giant red soporific ship on a brand new course. He changed lives – he changed a whole nation for the better. To me the best of the reported tributes is the above. Of all the iconic snaps taken of Super-Gough during his brief time at the helm, one linked to these words is clearly the stand-out. Sure, it’s not the one of a t-shirted SG flanked by a buxom young pop-starlet telling us all ‘It’s Time’. It’s not the one of him sitting, chewing the fat with Chairman Mao on his ground-breaking visit to China whilst Leader of the Opposition. Remember our odious political midget of a PM back then telling us all how inappropriate this was as Communist China was a pariah-state. He did this on the very day President Nixon announced he was about to follow in EGW’s footsteps. It also isn’t the one of a stentorian SG standing on Parliament steps, behind David Smith as he read aloud that infamous document. Whitlam was about to unleash his contained rage. No, for me the image I cherish most, from those heady days, is a handful of red dirt being poured from a white hand into a black one – two mighty leaders of their people finally being on the same page. In Vincent Lingiari’s words, ‘We can all be mates now.’ If only.

Sure, as some witless souls have printed in recent days, the cabinet he presided over became more and more shambolic as time headed towards November, 1975 – a new week, a new scandal. There was the Loans Affair, as well as an affair of a very different nature featuring femme fatale Junie Morosi – just to cite a couple. So it was possibly appropriate that SG was unseated in a similarly outrageous manner, a way that we will never forget, by ‘Kerr’s cur.’

It says something of the man that he is now, or was, best of mates with the ‘cur’. For several decades together they became the conscience of our land. I have no doubt Malcolm Fraser wept again when the news reached him of SG’s passing. It is ironic that he is now the venerable figure on the landscape that points us towards ‘the light on the hill’. He leads the railing against the deplorable policies of Abbott and his abysmal cronies, as SG would surely have done in his pomp.

I remember exactly where I was when that other, earlier news reached me. On that eleventh day of an eleventh month I had finished my morning’s teaching and was heading for the staffroom to enjoy a break. A colleague, Sandra Skeels, passed me, coffee in hand, on her way out for duty. ‘Have you heard, Steve?’ she intoned. ‘They’ve sacked Gough.’ There was little enjoyment for me in that room of refuge back in ’75. All teachers then were Labor to their bootstraps.

No doubt, up there beyond the silver lining, Super-Gough will seek out Vincent Lingiari one more time. ‘Walk with me a little old fella comrade – talk with me. Remember a time when you and I sat down together as one. We started something, you and I. From that little thing, that pouring of dirt, something big may yet grow.’

The ‘White Queen’ – the DVD of a the historical series for the small screen was just the stuff I love to binge watch – Machiavellian plotting in high places, gorgeous women in and out of period dress (that’s the male bit of me) and unusually, presenting the tale from the point of view of feisty female protagonists instead of hairy-chested males (that’s the feminist bit of me).

Now ‘The White Queen’ is based on a novel of faction by Philippa Gregory. As a best selling writer of stories revolving around the kings and queens of Britain, this author has broadened our view of powerful historical figures, particularly the women of royal lineage whose stories, hitherto, have often been just vaguely sketched footnotes. Some, such as the maidens and dowagers in the aforementioned series, have even largely been erased from view because of a lack of contemporary accounts. In the past the commentary on events was largely written by males of males. My DLP (Darling Loving Partner) enjoyed this only season of TWQ as much as I, so I purchased for her the recently released print version of that saga’s sequel, ‘The King’s Curse’. Hopefully this will also be transformed into a visual presentation. Now this male has never read Ms Gregory – but there’s no aversion whatsoever to doing so. I have enjoyed many, many tomes written by women – a sizeable number of which I suspect were intended almost solely for women. As a result of that, I also figure my world view has been widened, hopefully for the better. No, my problem is not that a book is lacking hairy-chestedness and written by a non-male. It is another issue entirely. It is one not mentioned by Aviva Tuffield, but one which perhaps also needs addressing before what she wishes can come to pass.

In her excellent opinion piece, ‘Female Authors Help Broaden Men’s Horizons’, Ms Tuffield examines the great divide between the reading histories of the two genders. She postulates that the ‘world views’ of the majority of young to-be menfolk are limited by the literature selected for them at school, thus guiding what they choose for themselves later on. I know all about the former as, in my time, I have fronted innumerable heterogeneous classrooms – proficiently so I feel. Part of doing so is taking the path of least resistance when it comes to the selection of such reading material. This is not something I am entirely proud of – but if one looks at the priority of getting kids to read – it is a position I felt somewhat justified in adopting. Largely speaking, girls are self starters when it comes to taking a book (or kindle) in hand and devouring the printed word contained within (on?). Therefore tomes selected for classroom use often are (were in my case) designed to entice the lads to be similarly enthused.

Ms T worries about what are termed the ‘dick’ tables. These seem to be positioned to the fore in airports and at the chain sellers. On these, male penned novels, biographies and sporting non-fiction reign supreme. As far as the selection of works to be reviewed by critics in our major dailies are concerned, again authors with xy chromosomes are decidedly in the ascendency – do more males write books? Perhaps there is a correlation, although it should never be used as an excuse, if that is the case. In fairnesses, both these imbalances should be rectified.

Overall, Aviva T asserts that all of the above ‘…thwarts girls’ ambitions.’ My feeling is that that maybe a tad strong. I also suspect that secondary girls who don’t ‘…know women could write books.’ would be very much an extreme minority. I do praise the creation of the Stella Prize as a means of overcoming this sexism in literature, an award for which, to use a non-politically correct term, only authoresses are eligible. Those guys who whine, ‘Where is the one for male authors?’ should very much be put back in their boxes, with the lids slammed down hard.

But to address the opinion that ‘…boys and men prefer to read only books by and about males.’ then, in my view, there is something else at work here. Something bloody well needs to be done about the covers of many books written by women. Although this is at it’s most off-putting to younger possessors of xy, it has also discouraged someone as ancient and hoary as myself from taking down from a shelf books by favourite novelists of the feminine persuasion. Some cover art, by its design or colour (pink), screams out, ‘Don’t even think about it unless you’re xx!’ I suspect this perhaps works both ways too, Ms Tuffield. Pointedly, the less gender specific the outward wrapping is, the more likely the issue that is causing your concern could at least be alleviated back to a more satisfactory balance.

Aviva T’s article = http://www.theage.com.au/comment/female-authors-help-broaden-mens-horizons-20140922-10k5x4.html

As weekends go, it was a ripper. A northern weekend – back up in the family homelands. Yes, it was a weekend all about family.

It commenced with my teaching family, on Friday eve. To Somerset I journeyed. It was the retirement function of a colleague who’d graced the classrooms of Cape Country – of Wynyard and Yolla. It was magic being amongst people I love and respect – those who have in the past enhanced my life, joined with those who continue to do so. And they so enhance the lives of those young people who are fortunate enough to come under their care on a daily basis.

Then there was Saturday and it was all about my mate, Little Ford Man. He was celebrating his second year on the planet and my, did he celebrate! Sundry Lovells. Newlings, Kleins, Maskells, and Gordons turned up for the event, as well as an assortment of friends old and new. We were there to share in the delight of Brynner Newling’s dinosaur party. Our Sheffield hostess, Ilsa, together with the weather gods conspired to produce the perfect spring day and the little people went for it. They threw themselves into that freedom permitted to their age – that of being able to spread their wings on amassed mini-vehicles, as well as to gorging themselves on jellybean dino-droppings and other carefully planned and constructed fare. The green dinosaur cake was a humdinger – and Victor the goat observed from a respectable distance and approved of all he surveyed.

Sunday dawned with, as befits Fathers Day, wonderful messages in print, picture and voice that made me feel special. My son caught three flathead to mark the day and my daughter shared images of the place she loves – her in-law’s bucolic Aberdeen haven.

And later that day I read Sam de Brito. One of his Age columns was a paean to the first Sunday in September. Recently I have accused him of being jaded and curmudgeonly, but in ‘The Sound of ‘Daddy’ he lovingly encapsulates all that fatherhood is about – the feeling that I had/have for my Katie and Rich – even if they’re twenty-five years or so older that his precious, adored little mite. My two – by the people they are, by what they’ve been through and come out the other side of, as well as because of the terrific souls they’ve chosen to partner them in life – make it so easy to give them my unconditional love.

And then there’s Tessa Tiger – so I get what Sam has all over again. Using his words, Tiges is ‘…such a kind, smart, funny, fierce, beautiful and brave little person.’ The best bit is that I’ll always be her Poppy. And, boy, did she enjoy the dinosaur party. She milked it for every ounce of adventuring. With her and her ‘cousin’, Little Ford Man, my life is complete.

Read Sam’s column attached and you will no doubt react as I did. He so gets it. His piece, like my weekend, is a ripper.

Oh! And did I mention it? The mighty Hawks won too.

Sam de Brito’s Fathers Day column = http://www.smh.com.au/lifestyle/sam-de-brito-20140902-3erak.html

She was not pleased – I could tell. She was not pleased at all with my flossing. I had patently let her down – my technique, despite her best efforts to coach me, was less than satisfactory. Did she chide me? No, she is far too gracious for that. To do so would be far too against her nature – my angel of the molars. She is gentle, she is calming – she is simply the best I’ve ever had. Still, despite her many virtues, a trip to her rooms still gives me sweaty palms and an unsettled tum. I think, even though I’ve nothing to fear in the least, it is a hangover from my tender years when dentistry was associated with steam-punk drilling devices and pain. Practitioners back then, all male, seemed curt, unfeeling and their ability to produce excruciating aches, when supposedly having completed their best efforts to get my teeth in some sort of order, was the stuff of childhood nightmares. Yes, I know. I was and am a wimp. It seems to me that male dentists expect you to be all hairy chested about what happens in their chair and patient discomfort goes with the territory. This, though, is not the territory of my paragon of dental tenderness. Never, in her competent care, have I felt more than the slightest twinge – and even that causes me to flinch like a baby. She soothes away inter-molar detritus with aplomb and probes with dexterity. I don’t think I’ll ever lose my nervousness beforehand, nor the relief when another pain free session under her auspices is over. My bicuspids and their colleagues have lucked in to have this marvellous woman in charge of their fortunes.

In the years before my move to Hobart my dental care had fallen by the wayside. Once upon a time I had another angel in a white coat – a blonde, cool, almost austere Slav who was constantly congratulating herself on her heroic deeds in saving some of my deplorable excuses for teeth. But she, too, was gentle and my experiences with her were always positive. But then her practice burnt down and that was that. My dental hygiene was cast out into the wilderness again. It took the urging of my beloved to get me back into the chair. She had been extolling the virtues of her amazing Dr Gupta for some time to build up my confidence – and after the first visit I knew – I was hers for life.

I am not solo in recounting my dental experiences in recent times. Age columnists Anson Cameron and Benjamin Law have done similar – recalling with incisiveness expeditions into the realm of the remediation of their incisors. The former’s description of his humiliation, when his dentist placed what she found in his oral orifice on a magnified screen above his head, is priceless. My angel has never been as heartless as Cameron’s Dahlia Fink, but this dentist’s skills seemed to have been up to the task of remedying the mess he stared agape at. But when it comes to price, it would seem my goddess wins hands down – very reasonable for what she has to put up with in me. Mr Law, meanwhile, regales us with his school time’s excursions to Fran, who never failed him in her unrelenting search for cavities to painfully plug. He tells of a Hong Kong mother addicted to sweets and what is amiss from ‘Downton Abbey’ from a dental point of view – and gives us all a few hints about our techniques with dental husbandry as well. As competent as Fran and Dahlia were with their ministrations, I wouldn’t change my dental angel for the world. I at last feel virtuous when it comes to my enamelled tombstones as I am now a regular attendee at Hopkins Street Dental, instead of avoiding its ilk at all costs. I know my saviour probably regards me as the biggest wuss of all time – and a sook too – but, such is her way, she would never countenance a hint of that as she does the rounds of my chompers. Whether or not I will ever lose that jelly-legged feeling when it comes to dentistry I do not know – at my age there seems little chance, but we’ll see. For now I am not plagued with fear and I am thankful for that. So thank you, dental angel, for your care of this old fellow and his sensibilities – you are worth your weight in gold filling.

Mr Cameron’s dental recollections = http://www.smh.com.au/entertainment/hells-teeth-20140725-zwtlz.html

Mr Law’s dental recollections = http://www.theage.com.au/comment/unwritten-law/holey-molars–take-care-of-your-teeth-20140815-104dge.html

Isn’t that a beautiful simile for love? That’s exactly how I feel when I look at my beloved and count the many ways that I am so lucky to have her in my life. That she chooses to love me in return, even after all these twenty odd years, still gives me immense blissfulness

Who came up with that lovely allusion? It was twenty-three year old Julius Robertson, son of Kathy Lette and Geoffrey R.

I was right royally peeved last Saturday to discover my Age was missing its two best bits – ‘Spectrum’ and ‘Good Weekend’ – for my perusal the following week. It usually takes me that long to get through the weekend’s Australian and Age. Eventually, as well as inexplicably, they both turned up in Monday’s edition. I was delighted they did as they contained even more exceptional writing than usual – such delicious reading. It was ‘Spectrum’ that featured young Mr Robertson, as part of its ongoing ‘Two Of Us’ segment. Here we have a take on the ‘he says/she says’ format, with two connected persons telling of their relationship from their individual perspectives. Over the years this single and singular page has featured couples from all walks of life, as well as from all degrees of fame. Without fail, whether the duos involved are celebrities or ordinary Joes, perusing their musings is always time well spent. Often what is read here leads me to the ether for more research on the persons involved. The linkage between the two participants needn’t be one of love, but I mostly find it more interesting if it is.

As for the twosome in last Saturday’s offering, there certainly exists a great deal of affection between Julius and his mother Kathy, although the former has a unique way of expressing it. You see the young man is on the high end of the autism spectrum. In fact he has Aspergers.

Over my teaching years I have taught many a student diagnosed somewhere on the continuum. Hand on my heart there were a number I found it extremely difficult to contain, but with those I could connect with it was a hell of a ride – in a positive way. They were so intriguing and gave so much I felt privileged to be in their orbit.

Some, as with Julius, have a prodigious memory and are quite obsessive. As his mum puts it, he has fixated on everything from Serena Williams’ posterior to Hamlet, which he can recite rote. It’s the way their brain works. I found it fascinating with some of my students. Some of these guys ask very curly questions in class and were often responsible for very perceptive replies to mine. The article gave examples of Julius’ amazing queries:-
‘What is the speed of dark (if light has speed)?’
‘Is a harp just a nude piano?’

The wonderful Stephen Fry is the young man’s favourite from the cohort of his mother’s friends – describing him as ‘…like a honeybear.’ Kathy was once flirting with Hugh Jackman, only to have Julius draw the thespian’s attention to the dark hairs on his mother’s top lip, just in case Hugh hadn’t noticed them for himself. On meeting Kevin Spacey he was transfixed by ‘…his moonhead’, bald for a play. He regards his mum, Ms Lette, as ‘…the modern Shakespeare’, but wishes he could display the same emotions as she does. He is bemused by her gait, describing it as like ‘… a dolphin’s.’ Pleasingly, he reckons people are generally happier in Oz than the UK (I suppose you wouldn’t have to be all that bright to figure that one out!) and he thinks the animal his dad most resembles is a polar bear. He knows his authorly mum wouldn’t mind if he was gay, but he confesses he is’…very attracted to women’s bodies’ – and so he goes on. Despite his occasional social faux pas, there is no doubt of the adoration one of our best known ex-pats has for her boy.

Their relationship has been shared with the nation in print form elsewhere as well, including in the Womens Weekly. Her novel, ‘The Boy Who Fell To Earth’, tells the story of a single mother raising such a boy with Aspergers. This will soon feature in a Hollywood movie.

‘My love for you my DLP is like the foam on the crest of a wave.’ Try that line with your very own partner sometime soon. I am sure you’ll be happy with the results.

The ‘Two of Us’ column = http://www.smh.com.au/lifestyle/two-of-us-kathy-lette-and-julius-20140728-3coal.html

The ‘Women’s Weekly’ article = http://www.aww.com.au/news-features/in-the-mag/2012/2/kathy-lette-my-son-has-aspergers/