Tuesday, January 23, 2018

Black Gangs are coming for us

We haven't been out for dinner for ages. Minister for Immigration tells us that people like us are frightened of African youth gangs and so we don't go out for dinner. It is rather more that our chief organiser of dinners out has been in hospital since before Christmas. (Font problem, I know)

Firefighting Nephew and his now wife lived in the inner western suburb of Footscray for over one year, full of those Asian and black African people.They dined out often, locally and cheaply. Maybe they never mentioned it to me, but I don't think they were ever fearful of going out locally for dinner, among all these supposed black African gangs roaming the streets. I am not aware that they had any personal crime problems in Footscray.

I tolerate nonsense by politicians up to a point, but when Minister Peter Dutton says that people in Melbourne are fearful to go out for dinner because of African immigrant youth crime, well, what possible respect can I have for him.

There is no doubt that there is an Australian youth of African heritage problem, especially those from Sudan, but hysterical statements like we afraid to go out for dinner are not helpful.

Maybe too many from Sudan were allowed in without the adequate support in place? The worst thing about all this is that black kids are all lumped together in the public eye. See four of them together on the street? Look out, and I must say, I have the same feelings myself, and I should not. They are kids. They will get up to some malarkey like all kids do but they are not necessarily out to do bad to anyone. I really feel for those black kids who are being judged by what a few of their own do.

Writing about race, religion and immigration never wins me friends, but write about them I will at times.

Image from the Footscray City College way back in 2001. What a pussy cat. He probably has bred a large family by now and has to work hard to support them.

Monday, January 22, 2018

Our New Bank Notes

$5 is our smallest note, then $10, $20, $50, $100. Eventually the $20 and $50 will be replaced and it is rumoured that the $100 will be scrapped as it is mainly used by criminals who have to hoard cash. $100 notes are released and just disappear.  I think a few years ago I was given a $100 note as payment for something and I quickly got rid of it. I really like our new notes. Each note as it increases in value is slightly wider, a few millimetres or say 1/8th of an inch. The height does not change.

The old note followed by its replacement, both sides.

I think the old picture of Queen Liz is quite awful. The new picture looks more like her.

The features on the clear part of the note only light up at certain angles. The notes would be very hard to counterfeit.

Federal Parliament House in our Federal capital city of Canberra in the Australian Capital Territory.

Some old duck.

And a nicer picture of said old duck.

Some old bloke.

A nicer picture of some old bloke.

Ok, that was appalling of me.

The old duck is Dame Mary Gilmore, a leftie rabble rouser, author, poet, media presenter and has so many other achievements. In spite of her anti establishment views, she was knighted for services to literature. 

The old bloke is Aussie poet Andrew Barton Paterson, aka Banjo Paterson. 

I had written him a letter which I had, for want of better
Knowledge, sent to where I met him down the Lachlan, years ago,
He was shearing when I knew him, so I sent the letter to him,
Just 'on spec' addressed as follows: 'Clancy of The Overflow'.

And an answer came directed in a writing unexpected,
(and I think the same was written with a thumbnail dipped in tar)
'Twas his shearing mate who wrote it, and verbatim I will quote it:
"Clancy's gone to Queensland droving, and we don't know where he are."

Sunday, January 21, 2018

The Cat Lady, aka Mother

Mother amazes me at times. She manages to cultivate help and assistance all around herself while she lives a lonely life at home totally dependant on her children and those who she cultivates. The point will come at the end.

Over forty years ago Mother moved into her house, bought for her by her father. My three siblings grew up there, but I was older and did not. A few doors up from Mother's house is Princes Highway, Australia's Highway Number 1, now not so important as the town has been bypassed by a freeway. On the corner of Mother's street and the highway was a former petrol station that had become a pizza restaurant, a cafe, and a pinball parlour. Stray cats hung around the back of the pizza place, no doubt savouring the various varieties of salami.

The pizza place closed down and Step Father took on the starving cats. He looked after them well, without much veterinary care. He knew his stuff about animal care. While his mantra was 'Save the Environment. Plant a Greenie, head down in a hole', he loved animals and birds, just not perhaps the environment. Sister and Step Father had many a verbal battle over the environmental matters, yet they loved each other as a father and daughter. He was very kind and generous to my siblings.

So, when he became unwell and died, Mother took over the feeding of the cats, about eleven, but not with the same standard of care. She fed them expensive cat milk and top brand cat food, but that was all she did. She never actually cared for them. I remember saying to her, take on your favourite Ginge as a house cat and get rid of all the others. Ginge was killed on the road shortly afterwards. A neighbour complained about the cats and some were incompetently trapped by the local council. Ever so slowly the cat numbers were reducing from the highest point of eleven.

By December 2017 she was down to two cats, a mother who was tame for Mother, and the mother's  daughter who was not at all tame. The mother cat was looking poorly. R arrived at Mother's one day to take her out for lunch and shopping and he was confronted by a rough lad who asked if they were his cats? R replied, kind of. The bloke then went into a diatribe to R about neglecting his cats and not feeding them. It seemed the mother cat had either mange or scabies or something else. I really can't remember now. R was quite distressed about the accusation. Mother went to a veterinary surgery  and paid $45 for a medication to fix the problem. She was convinced the cat was improving. R thought not.

I suppose it was by the same accuser of R's cat neglect who started leaving tuna in bowls in Mother's driveway. I suppose the same person who accused R of cat neglect reported Mother to the Royal Society of Animal Protection Australia. The aggressive young woman from the RSPCA knocked on Mother's door and was let in. Mother explained, gesturing to all the cat food and cat milk and showing the receipt for cat medication and the RSPCA person became very nice. She advised Mother that the mother cat was very sick and needed to be euthanised. She set up a trap and overnight, the Mother cat was caught. She returned the next day and took away the cat, but asked Mother about the kitten. Mother ummed and ahhed, but eventually said yes, take it, but I don't want the worry of hearing a trap door shut in the middle of the night and a cat crying. Here is where the people who Mother cultivates comes into action. Before he went to work at 5:30am, the bloke across the road set the trap. The kitten was caught and not too much later, the RSPCA returned and collected her too.

Much praise to the RSPCA which acted so professionally and yet caringly.

At some times Mother has said, the cats are the only reason I get out of bed in the morning, but sans cats, she still seems to get out of bed. The cats have given Mother and her children untold stress over many years, and finally there are no more cats. Such a relief.

All nicely tied up? No. Mother was so incensed at being accused of animal cruelty she contacted the local newspaper, but then was not game to do an interview with the reporter.

But the couple across the road are people who Mother has cultivated and they seem devoted to her, as were the ever so kind and caring dykes who lived next door to Mother. Mother spins her silken web, and pulls them in.


This letter appeared in the local newspaper, written by the neighbour across the road who set the trap. The shelter? Well they do go under Mother's house.

Saturday, January 20, 2018

Saturday Extra

Last Monday R took Little Jo to one of her favourite places, Scienceworks Museum.

"Oh no", she proclaimed. "I have forgotten my ear studs. I left them at home".

She was allowed to have her ears pierced once she turned ten. She was worried that the holes would close after three days with no earings. R texted Sister back and forth and for some reason Sister sent one of the texts to me, which said buy her a pair and I will pay you tomorrow.

I texted R, no need, Auntie Andrew has earrings. I got them out and soaked them in Coca Cola and rinsed them. None would have been worn for at least twenty years.

I must speak to Household Management about dusting.

Take your pick, Little Jo. She chose a pair of studs with 'diamonds'. I asked if she wanted any others. She said no. Uncle R is her favourite, but she and I get along well enough.

"Auntie Andrew, are they real diamonds?"

With a drawling drag queen voice, I said, "Honey, if they were I wouldn't be giving them to you."

She laughed. 

I haven't opened that box for years. I wondered what happened to my Boy London watch and belt buckle. Fire Fighting Nephew went through the box more than ten years ago and selected a number of beads to drape around his neck. 

Up the Workers

NSW train drivers are asking through their union for a 6% pay rise over four years. I saw some figures online. A Sydney train can carry 1000 passengers, and probably do, often. A Sydney train driver earns about $110,000 per year. I am sure this would be inclusive of overtime, working on days off and before or after the end of their shift.

Constance Andrews, the Transport Minister is very cross with the outrageous claim. She is also cross with the train drivers because they at times won't work overtime, leading to services being cancelled. Perhaps they are tired after working umpteen days in a row. Perhaps they are tired after a high concentration shift. I would prefer that train drivers were not 'actively encouraged' to work overtime when they don't want to. A weary train driver with 1000 passengers on board? Not great.

That there is such a hostile and toxic relationship between Sydney Trains management and the minister, and it workers bodes no good for anyone's safety.

Whatever, the train driver's union has power and a suitable arrangement will be reached.

Now, can we talk about the pay of nurses, teachers and child care workers, to name a few who do an honest days work, and compare them to financial advisors, bankers (yes, with a b not a w), consultants, public relation spin doctors, train managers and the many other overpaid leeches in our society.