Chris Burchett – Page 5 – Chris Burchett

Imagined

A Trans-Tasman tussle

Posted in Imagined

Liz was giving us her pre-game rah rah. “This is it girls. Two/nil and if we don’t pull this next rubber off, we’ll be the laughing stock of the whole country. The Constellation Cup will be lost again!”

Everyone was keyed up. Nervous chatter in the dressing rooms had quietened as the team absorbed the specific strategies and plays within the coach’s final instructions.

Peta Toeava’s injury was going to be a blessing. Her speed, accuracy and effortless court-work had terrorized us in the previous two matches. From her Wing Attack position, she had absolutely scorched Liz Watson, setting up countless attacks, exploiting our defensive weaknesses and enabling the machinery from across the ditch to fire, seamlessly.

Our decision to tell Gina to take her Hancock Prospecting sponsorship and ‘shove-it’, was proving a distraction. To some extent it had split the team – those wanting the security of the deal, against those awakening to the historical racism and the company’s impacts on planetary futures. A couple of the girls noted that Origin Energy sponsorship decals were still on our uniforms and were suggesting pinning a blank square over it. Safety concerns scotched that idea, but the inconsistent messaging was noted and agreement for further, future discussions.

There were a few nervous tears in the rooms before the game, but we were stealing ourselves, rebuilding the aura that had us on top of the rankings over the past few seasons. There was a capacity crowd inside Melbourne’s John Cain arena, the cacophony was deafening and as the teams made their way onto the court, the cheer squads were working the crowds. It went quiet.

The Kiwis took the first pass, and away they went. A huge court-length pass saw the first of six unanswered goals. And it all went black for most of the opening session. The crowd were on their feet, whistling, cheering. Excitement was building. The camera’s picked up Julia Gillard in the crowd, sitting next to Julie Bishop, both wearing green and gold and cheering madly.

Quarter time saw us down by four goals. It could have been worse, save for some brilliant attacking from Sophie Garbin. A great decision to have her as GS, complementing the precise work from Steph Wood at GA. Watson was demonstrating her skilful midfield play and the Diamonds had swung the early deficit into a 31:22 halftime lead.

There was raw energy on display, the girls sensing a gear-change, arrow-straight attack work that was delivering a confidence not seen in the previous two games. But the Ferns mounted a challenge, bringing the deficit back to just five points.

Gina was spotted in a corporate box, cheering as the Ferns delivered three straight goals. The commentator proffered that she might be about to make a New Zealand sponsorship offer!

The rest is history. The diamonds needed a three-point lead to avoid a dead rubber in the fourth. The 62:47 final scorecard ensured our girls were a step closer to reclaiming the Trans-Tasman cup.

Family

Ode to my Mum

Written by Chris Burchett

Posted in Family

I remember being with Mum, after school, in the kitchen. I sat, feet swinging, humming, with my milk, a hugely thick slice of bread, fresh from the oven. Blackberry jam was spread generously and topped with recently scalded, clotted cream. I had been anxiously wondering whether I would follow Dad into complete baldness. Mum reassured me – “Look at Grandpa – 85 and a full head of hair!” My anxiety lessened.

She loved painting, dabbled with embroidery and had a garden that received a sizeable slice of her enthusiasm. But it was food that beguiled her. The kitchen was her Command Centre, the place from which she mustered her resources, contrived and served us delicious fare, meal upon meal. I can only think of one failure – Dad leading the family’s rejection against Mum’s Nettle Spanakopita – a lethal weed, beyond the pail! Not that we children gave much consideration to that fare. Tasty meals just happened. It was what Mum did; always!

Later, as family fortunes improved, she and Dad began travelling – Ceylon was an early trip – coming home with new ideas and recipes. The chilli wasn’t a huge success, but papadums remained a family favourite, as did the numerous small bowls of complimentary ‘sides’ to modestly warm curries.

The sub-continent was followed by Japan, Greece, Italy, Yugoslavia, China and Cambodia. England and France were on multiple itineraries, with Dad’s brother, Wilfred living in Paris, where he was following the Vietnam peace talks. That house provided a convenient base for extensive European touring and eating.

She was writing articles for the Gourmet Traveller, delighting in being an accredited columnist, complete with business cards that she told of leaving under the side of her plate, sometimes with a brief note scrawled, complementing a chef, or querying an ingredient. I surmise Dad might have been envious of those little fillips.

Changes were afoot. Soft smelly cheeses, garlic, olive oil, and a coffee dripolator were being incorporated into the household. Dad’s flathead catches could appear as rolled raw fillets of fish, served with side dishes of wasabi or soy, following an autumnal Japanese excursion. She took the occasional squid catches to a concrete block out the back, ink-stained, splattered, where she applied Mediterranean observations, bashing the squid into submission.

I could never identify the source of the Fairy Floss recipe, but my mind’s eye sees burnt, blackened saucepans soaking in the sink. They had been to Troy, to Ephesus, I figure maybe the Floss was a sugary substitution for Turkish Delight? I seem to remember an ochre-coloured sheepskin, also from that Turkish adventure. Maybe again, a souvenir of Jason’s epic quest for the Golden Fleece?

I have a copy of her first book – Through My Kitchen Door, a treasured possession. I also have a manuscript of a never published recipe collection, typed and over writ in red biro. Her fingers rarely aligned with her portable Olivetti’s keyboard!

I said goodbye at Darwin airport. I never thanked her for being Mum. She died at home the next morning.

Peccadillos and Pecados

Cougar showing

Written by Chris Burchett

Posted in Peccadillos and Pecados

“OK. Let’s be upfront with this stuff. It has relationship-defining consequences if we don’t get things right at the outset.”

That sounds way too structural, but I agree to play his game. “Yes. OK. Sooo, I like to start way up high; a gentle massage, scalp to toe, stopping at strategic points for extra attention – ears, lips, nipples, inner thighs, buttocks, soles of my feet. Kissing throughout your bodywork will yield results. My nipples probably need extra attention on the return journey, and light brush strokes across my clit, as you pass. Reactions will alert us to the effects of your work at each station.”

I could see his hesitation, the wheels turning, cogitation and a smile slowly starting to form. “OK, yer, I also like a little head focus, a playful start that can bring me to attention. Fingers, playing incidentally across my nipples, not too much oral exploration, some nut-grappling, but I like to get down to dick-central pretty quickly.”

“How long until you are ready for me” he asks, “I mean, should I get ready? Do I need extra lube on the ol’ fella? Are there signals I need to learn, to ensure we’re both ready for ‘rootin’? It’s important that our journeys come together, eh!”

Youthful ignorance to overcome! “Absolutely, mon ami, absolutely! It can be the difference between the sticky, delicious nibbling on fairy floss, the flow of sweetened nectar or the cold heaviness of a wet concrete block. And we don’t want that dampener, do we, mon cher. Oh, and what exactly do you mean by rootin’?”

The Q&A is starting to wear thin. The lad’s naivety, the forty-year age difference, does it matter? He’s not concerned, so I will ignore my own anxiety.

I really wasn’t in the mood to be his instructor, but I sense long-term returns! I’ve just got to work around those “relationship-defining” issues!

We are lying back on a sheepskin. His nipple work is ok, albeit blind, with his mouth, tongue and teeth engaged elsewhere. He abandons my nipples. “Get back there!” I command, and his fingers roughly reengage. Moments later “It is time, mon cher” I whisper into his ear, as I move to better respond to his straining prick. We move in delicious unison.

I notice a steamy mist, small rivulets moving down the bay window. The room is warming, ‘things’ are warming, tentative movements become assertive. Someone gasps, we both do, breath catching, muscles tensing, gathering.

We are reaching a shared urgency, our involuntary tremors, a noisy animalistic duet fills the room. But he is staring, unsure. A dawning to hitherto unknown delights, his eyes now tightly shut. He concentrates, as my fingers explore his arse. There are lessons to teach! I will be his teacher.

We slowly, deliciously descend into the sheepskin. Relaxing heaviness; we smile, an embarrassed giggle, an involuntary shiver, despite the warmth. Time slows, and the late afternoon light hits the loungeroom wall, way up high, higher even than the chimney tops.

Animals

An Anchovy adventure

Written by Chris Burchett

Posted in Animals

“Turbulence! Did you say turbulence, young fella? By God, I’ll tell you about a turbulence that’ll have your scales standing upside down and turning white at the tips!” Mmph. A phlemy expectoration, she used a subtle, sideways slip to steady a sudden, slight instability. “Where was I, ah, yes – there we were, our tightly assembled three hundred and forty thousand, facing an enormous abyss.” Rheumy eyes took on that scrunched, semi-closed disposition, and peeked back through the watery past.

“Our school had only recently drawn together. Discipline dictated our survival, and our every movement, our ordering, our turns, left or right, up or down, from the front, at the rear, or resting in the mid-sections practiced, over and over. We were uniformly sized, kitted and experienced.”

“Training was a series of endless drills. The Drill Sergeant was a mean Spratt, brooking no dissension. Over the generations, instruction had been reduced to jargon, scarcely understood through the junior ranks, mostly non-verbal signs that had the school moving en masse, this way, and that, one moment a silver phalanx, dense, solid, immense and in the flick of a fin, gone! On and on we practiced! Moving at ‘operational’ speed and in one flick, a turn and in that same instance, effectively achieving ‘escape’ speed. Wonderful!

“A manoeuvre that I took personal delight in, occurred when the school was moving northward, a bitterly cold, sparklingly blue above. For the trick to work, there needed to be shafts of silvery wonder coming down and through the school. With conditions aligning, the Maestro would give the signal, a sharp left-hand turn and we entirely disappeared. My God, I just loved it, and I chortled, bubbling as I pictured the rows of hungry, expectant mouths snapping shut, mostly empty!

“But the endless training paid off. We were a disciplined pack, and I participated and survived many potential devastations. I remember one time when our navigational leaders miscalculated. Instead of the open world, we were in contained, deep but narrow confines. Deputations of senior members sought manual observation to correct our navigational snafu. It meant moving up to where the silvery shafts appear. I was a member of one of those teams, and vividly recall the green steepness on either side. Everything tasted different too, things were warmer, stiller.

“And I saw them too. Hundreds and hundreds of birds, maybe they were ducks, in a row, and in the instance that our team members saw them, they saw us too. They rose as one, squawking in an echoey chorus. They wielded, dove, sploosh, beaks at the ready, following our panicked escape down into the darkness.

“We mostly survived. The turbulent energy generated as we turned and fled provided a safety shield, a barrier that both confused the birds and provided a slipstream for the school to ride into the depths.

A few months after the birds, the school was moving south, away from the world of ice. Warmer climes, plankton, better pickings. The school relaxed somewhat, maybe our guard slipped a notch, too! One moment we were cruising, the next there were beaked mouths at every turn, snapping, grabbing at the flanks of the school with frenzied success. There were turtles (or were they tortoises) coming at us from below, launching into our junior, central ranks from above, so many that our flight-turns were ineffective. Surface turbulence was attracting giant Pacific gulls and albatross. And when we thought it couldn’t get any worse, up from the deep arrived a pod of Blue whales. Talk about turbulence! They circled, tail-slapped, breached and scooped, baleen filters guiding thousands of my comrades into those dark vortexes.

Attempts to regroup were being tried, largely unsuccessfully until I noticed what I thought was a fixed, dark recess coming up from the watery depths. Assuming leadership, I gave the signal, our depleted force moved left suddenly, right and down maximising our collective forces and swiftly entered the cave.

The beaks continued for a while, snapping, some successful attacks. But with our rear and flanks largely protected, we were able to mount our own forward actions, collective and sustained nipping at flippers, eyes, legs. They wearied and retreated, while the whales were left to move over the battlefield, scooping up the remains of dead and broken bodies.

That was my last battle. When the school moved on, I decided to stay in the cave, moving out occasionally when hunger dictated. I had eggs to lay, youngsters to raise, a new generation of anchovy to nurture.

The North

Sandover magic

Written by Chris Burchett

Posted in The North

I reckon it took just a few minutes for the river to change, from a small trickle to a roaring, raging, hundred-metre-wide torrent. Timber, riverbed detritus, and a dead sheep all swept past, the water seething, pent up, raw energy spectacularly displayed, thirty metres from where I was seated.

It was in 1977, late summer, and I was working in the Department of Aboriginal Affairs, based out of their Alice Springs office. For reasons lost to my ageing memory, I needed to talk with the community leaders at Utopia Station.

I turned off the Sandover Highway for a short fifteen-kilometre drive along the gravel track. I got to the Sandover River crossing, a dry, stony causeway. It was fifty metres wide, and on the eastern bank, I was surprised to see one of the teachers from the Utopia school, seated on a chair in the shade of a gum tree. His car was parked well back off the crossing.

“You OK”, I asked, thinking a breakdown as the likely explanation for his circumstance. “Yer, I’m fine. I’m just waiting here for the Sandover floodwaters to arrive.” I looked at the riverbed, along the barren, dry expanse. I looked up into the blueness above. “When do you expect them?” I queried and was told, “Anytime now.”

As there hadn’t been any rain in the area for quite a while, I briefly wondered about his sanity. I did briefly consider my capacity to return to Alice, should his local knowledge and riverine expectations prove correct. “OK. See ya later”, as I drove off. It was a further eight kilometres upriver, to the township.

Utopia sat on a slight, gentle rise, three metres above the river banks. It was still a dry water course and I mentally decided the teacher possibly needed a medical check-up.

I sat down with the elders to discuss matters of some import. We had been talking for about an hour, and discussions were concluding. I looked down towards the river and noted a small trickle of water creeping along the deepest, middle channel. Ten minutes later, it had turned into a 100-metre-wide, raging, broiling torrent.

I leapt into the car, wondering about how many days I was going to be cut off. I reached the crossing, the teacher was still there, the riverbed – still a wide expanse of sand. I updated my assessment of his mental faculties; I also updated him on the state of play upriver, of the imminent arrival of the flood. I bade him adieu, and made a hasty crossing.

I parked on the western bank. I waved back to him and waited, expectantly. Ten minutes: nothing! 15 minutes: nothing. 30 minutes and I was about to call it quits when I noted that same, tell-tale trickle of water appearing in the middle of the riverbed. Another ten minutes and all hell had broken loose.

That insignificant snout of water changed. It wasn’t so much a ‘wall’ of water, but rather a wave, breaking constantly onto the sand, then disappearing, sucked into the sandy gravel in front of itself. It grew, widened, and matured into a fully-fledged flood, all within the space of minutes. Fifty metres in front of this spectacle was still a parched dryness, until the water, unhurriedly arrived, saturating all in its path, and transformed the watercourse into a foaming behemoth.

It was spell-binding. Vast amounts of angry, ochre-coloured water, being sucked into the sand, then drenching itself, being repeatedly regurgitated, before swallowing the next, and then the next section of the river bed, moving inexorably downstream, filling the space between bed and banks to capacity.

As the wave passed, the sounds of the flood demanded my attention. Three-toned – a deeply powerful, pulsing roar – a thousand horse’s hooves, close by. Then there was a higher-pitched, urgent burbling, as the flood moved up and around barriers in its path. Finally, you became aware of an underpinning, a series of thuds and scrapes as stones were grinding along the river bed.

It was time to retreat back to the surety of the bitumen and Alice, my mind buzzing, questions posed, with an excited soliloquy about what I had just witnessed. Nature, such a force; regal; frightening; inspiring, and ever-ready to demonstrate the folly of humanity’s occasional interventions. As I drove, I was on an emotional high, an eagerness to share the experience back in town that evening.

I did check out the weather data over the previous weeks. Bushy Park and Alcoota Stations, both well to the south, but within the Sandover Catchment, had reported big dumps the previous week – in the order of two to three inches, each. But since then, nothing.

I had briefly wondered how the teacher had known of the flood’s timing. I chuckled as I realised the simple reality: he would have been briefed by the Anmatyerre Senior Forecasters. Tens of thousands of years of weather observations would have refined forecasting pretty neatly! The young kids would have been sternly warned off playing in the riverbed. Life went on.

Characters

Something overheard

Written by Chris Burchett

Posted in Characters

You can’t ignore that loud voice. Even above the noise of the tram groaning along Gertrude Street, nobody need eavesdrop; that voice scotches any demand for such social impropriety.

And those wonderfully raw, dropped consonants. You won’t hear those from a private school! “Ya know dear, walking from ta tram stop, ya turn left inta Gore Street, that’s where they found ‘em, ta bodies, some ‘eadless – in that old derelict ‘ouse …”. The tram rattles on, but with that last titbit, you, and the others, are hanging on her every word. You can just imagine the headless bodies lying around the house.

Hang on, she is getting off. She knows she has you, and most of the other travellers, all wanting a conclusion, or further details. You’re going to get off too? And those other couple of women, gathering things together; there are flurried movements on the tram. You are all wearing that harried look, despairing of missing out on the ending, driving you, like Lemmings, towards the door.

On the pavement, you all hesitate, pretending to straighten skirts, adjusting demeanours, playing for time until she declares her path. Then off you all, independently, troop.

She is still gabbling at the top of her lungs. “…Police was called, but …”, and “…ya know, like dem Spanish tarts tangoing, cass-nettes, Ole’, ‘uge earrings …” and then, “… reports of loud, racy music in ta evenings. Old blokes, never any ladies, coming an’ going. Well, natchurley, wees’ all thort …”

You need to get closer, her voice has dropped, the words are being whipped away on the cool morning breeze. You catch a sneaky, over-shoulder glance, a grin. You sense that she is actually stringing you, and the other girls, along. Her voice drops almost to a whisper, as she confides more of the grisly details to her travelling companion.

You are so immersed in the story that you almost bowl her over, as she executes a sudden manoeuvre, a sort of a left-hand twist, at what must be her front gate? “Ta-ra, Doreen, see ya tomorrer”. You attempt composure, but you are all non-plussed, caught without an explanation for finding yourselves in unfamiliar streets, literally on the heels of this quite intriguing storyteller. You try a discreet shuffle, a whole-of-body movement as if to confirm an awakening, a realisation that you got off at the wrong tram stop. Two of your compatriots turn, forced into tactful retreats, back towards the next, onwards tram.

What the heck, the game is up. You open with “Hello. I couldn’t help but overhear…”.

With a triumphant smirk, she turns, and trumpets, “Well, as I was sayin’, wees’ all thort it was a knock shop. Been vacant for years. Last week, ta young kids

broke in. Theys found ‘eadless bodies: ta cops found old dressmaker’s dummies, some ‘eadless, with flouncy dresses, wigs, make up, ta whole nine yards. In ta lounge, theys also found an old broken, wooden sign, promotin’ Fred and Ginger’s Lido Dance Academy.”

Animals

Our mate Ollie

Written by Chris Burchett

Posted in Animals

Maintaining the wet-season grass on our five-acre Darwin block was a constant battle. It grew a metre per month, so it was akin to painting the Sydney Harbour bridge. It was mid-December, the humidity outrageous, rivulets of sweat and me hanging on for dear life, behind our huge, self-drive mower. It dragged me around shrubs and trees, below overhanging branches and overexposed roots and rocks. I tried to avoid the worst of the paperbark wasps.

I launched the mower towards a high pile of mixed grass and old branches. At the last moment, I desperately hauled left, but too late to avoid a large head that had suddenly appeared. “Oh shit, oh hell, nooo!” I cried, as I killed the mower and dragged it off the pile to reveal the headless, quivering body of a huge, beautiful, Olive python. She lay, her coils still surrounding a clutch of eggs. My emotions were in turmoil, I whimpered, as the tragedy sank in.

I rushed into the house; a glass of water bought me time to think. There was nothing to be done for her, but I started to wonder about her eggs. I gathered an old pillow slip and a box from the laundry and went back. I gathered her heavy coils, apologising and sniffling, as I slid her into the sack. I then picked up the soft, slightly sticky eggs and with some material in and around the clutch, put the box on the lounge room table.

Practical thinking returned. I gathered the pillowslip and went to see friends from Maningrida, who were temporarily living in town, away from their central Arnhem Land home. “Gidday Balang, Gamak?” “Ma-a, gamak” but my voice broke as I lifted the grim parcel and explained what had happened! Wamud looked inside, and a wide grin split his face. “Bush tucker, ma-a! No worries, she’ll be right.” We exchanged a few pleasantries, but … but, I had to retreat before my mind’s eye detailed the evening repast, in too much detail.

In the following days, most of the eggs turned blue and cold, but on January 2^nd, out popped Olive, a 12” long, wriggling mass! Parental instincts dictated nurture but Google was still 30 years away! I rang the Wildlife Park, and they suggested mincemeat; I was thinking milk! I compromised with a saucer of mince, Weet-bix and milk. She never looked back!

Over the months her saucer was replaced with an old camp oven. But the menu has pretty much stayed the same. Birthdays included additional Weet-bix (a whole box) and a haunch of buffalo, or wallaby. A vet check-up meant that Olive became Oliver, but gender reassignment wasn’t about to become an issue in our family.

There were minor adjustments to be made too; rules about who slept outside on their custom-made wooden frame and not in the bedrooms, toileting and the number of coils allowed when cuddling. But generally, we all just happily hung out together.

Politics

My Great Gran

Written by Chris Burchett

Posted in Politics

My great-grandmother, Jacqueline Ardour, became the first President of the United Australasian Republic, after successfully steering the unification of New Zealand and Australia. The move, discussed since 1894, finally came in the aftermath of the continuing waves of the Coronavirus pandemic, in the 20s.

I came across her diaries recently. They were on an old USB stick I found as I was clearing out Mum’s house. The library still had USB technology!

My Gran described her world in a surprisingly matter-of-fact manner. She interspersed notations of domestic and international issues with a note, that as winter is coming, she must remember to plant the broad beans and daffodils. It was also noted that she needed a new cardigan, against the invitation to attend the funeral of assassinated US President, Donald Trump!

There was a whole folder dealing with the Coronavirus pandemic: outcomes of the several strategies adopted to deal with the waves of infection that followed the relaxation of containment measures. Jacqueline noted how China, the US, the UK and much of Europe desperately competed to get their economies kick-started first, with their eagerness estimated to have cost two hundred and ninety million lives over the intensely infectious, first four years. I found it fascinating to read the assessment of the pandemic’s inability to penetrate the small Pacific nations and the largely forgotten Indigenous communities – a fortuitous consequence of isolation and government inaction!

She allocated a couple of pages to documenting the collapse of the oil industry, the shift of the geopolitical base towards South America, and the rise of extreme nationalism and civil unrest as borders closed against the pandemic. Jacqueline noted the rediscovery of home gardening!

She served two, four-year Presidential terms, and by the eighth year, her advisers were reporting that digital conferencing and home officing had slashed aircraft and vehicle movements. Combined with the breakthrough in battery technology, it seemed a reduction in Global Warming was achievable! Polar monitoring confirmed a decrease in ice sheet and permafrost melts, with climatologists confident the planet could repair itself.

An odd inclusion in her diaries was the transcript of the first line of the then, new UAR National Anthem. I suspect she had a wry smile as she wrote:

“I am, you are, we are Orz-tral-iaise-eon.”

The Centennial celebrations of United Australasia start next week. There is to be an unveiling of her statue in the Capital, to mark the occasion.

Animals

My perfect Sunday

Written by Chris Burchett

Posted in Animals

Tomorrow is the best day. She doesn’t go off in the car early. We get to sleep in, and if I am extra careful, I can sneak up onto the bed and cuddle up against her back! It is not like other days when I am rudely woken, pushed out the door, usually spending the rest of the day asleep on the old couch in the courtyard. Yes, it is dry, but I’m lonely, and the cold wind sometimes sneaks in around the corners!

Tomorrow starts late, and there are lots of chin scratches and smooching. I love it when she idly tickles my head, we laze there, blankets rumpled, the warm fuggy smell of the room.

When we are both up, I get weet-bix and hot milk for breakfast! Sometimes there is a dollop of golden syrup. And there is no rushing around. We plan our day together, and we always include the park!

One glitch might be the hose! It was just lying on the ground yesterday. That orange, hard bit at the end was too tempting, and yes, I admit, I did just give it a bit of a chew! I wonder if she will notice it?

Poems

I lost Autumn

Written by Chris Burchett

Posted in Poems

Autumn passed by me, in barely a trot

One moment twas hot, and then, well, it was not

Yeh, I did see the changes, the trees turning brown

From the lounge room bay windows, the leaves falling down

But closed up inside home, your cut from the world

And the friend’s front-gate banter has all but been furled

So while sunshine was there, on one or two days

I know winter is coming, cos we’ve done most of Maze.

Domestics

Covid 19 and I

Written by Chris Burchett

Posted in Domestics

With the current social distancing restrictions and the semi ‘lockdown’ at home, the last thing I expected was to be happy with my personal situation. I thought I would be climbing the wall, bored, anxious, possibly argumentative. But I am surprised at the ease with which I exist within this Covid bubble!

I have an extensive vegetable garden. My quinces need stewing, the cumquats to transform into marmalade. The strawberry guavas and feijoa will be ripening in the next few weeks.

I have unpacked, recharged and loaded my e-reader. There is the daily newspaper quiz, crossword and sudoku, and I have found the SBS Movie channel.

As a pensioner, I’m told that I am at risk, but think I am fortunate. My thoughts are with those who have lost family and friends, the hundreds of thousands, their livelihoods, have tenancy fragility and the future burden of a $230,000,000,000 mortgage to service!

Domestics

On the rack

Written by Chris Burchett

Posted in Domestics

I presented a beautifully crackled Pork Belly, with our homegrown broad beans, broccoli and freshly dug, roasted kipflers. There was also our apple sauce and, a spicy, plum sauce.

It had taken me years to predictably get the crackling to work. Stephanie advised fridge-drying the cut for eight hours, getting the oil and salt into the scored skin without penetrating the flesh, and then, on the rack, into an extremely hot oven for 30 minutes, reducing the heat for another 30 minutes, resting and serving!

I awoke with a start – Mon Dieu, had I killed the pig before roasting it!

Characters

A soliloquy

Written by Chris Burchett

Posted in Characters

My troublesome neighbours are, in fact, delightful companions to have next door! A few parties, and a wandering cat. But you’ve gotta pick when to pop in! The other day I desperately needed a smoke. I had run out. Their front gate squeaked.

“Hiya, wanna cuppa? Kettle’s just boiled.” Julie was hunkered down in her favourite seat on the verandah, out of the wind and catching the watery, winter sunshine. “Here’s the rollies, help yourself.”

“Kylie popped in the other day as I was sitting here. She needed to use the loo and suggested we should go shopping. She’s after one of those new earbuds; the ones with the pink and grey stripes? Nichole got a pair last week. Apparently, they deliver great sound, and you can just imagine those colours against her new green cardigan!”

“Talking of being caught short, I was in the kitchen making scones earlier, and I ran out of self-raising flour. I luckily had some baking powder, and I mixed two tablespoons into the plain flour. It worked a treat, and with the lime marmalade, they will be great for morning tea. Jason will be home shortly. He had to go to the doctor for his annual prostate thingy. Ya know where they stick their finger up – oh yer, ya know all about that, don’t ya!”

“It levels the playing field a bit – we ladies have all of those fingers prodding, and those bloody cold speculums and it, well, ya know, it sorta levels things a bit.”

“I was talking to Melissa last week, and she has found this amazing recipe for spaghetti bog. Ya fry the onions first, then add everything else quickly, so ya don’t burn it. She uses the premium mince. It doesn’t cost that much extra and, while there is still a bit of water in it, it’s nowhere near as much as the ordinary stuff!”

“We are going to have plums tonight. I thought I would give Jason a treat. Renee says she sometimes adds vanilla to her custard as Darren really likes that. I cheat and buy the ready-made stuff from IGA. It is only $3.79, for nearly a litre!”

At that moment I made a commitment to never, ever, run out of smokes again!

Politics

A Canberra voyeur

Written by Chris Burchett

Posted in Politics

In a bedroom, somewhere within the Canberra ‘bubble’, a fly, on the wall, is listening!

“Jude, it has been a hell of a few weeks; I don’t seem to be able to take a trick. Do you reckon they would come at a new, multi-million-dollar research facility, to finally nail down Clean Coal? Could I convince the faithful that the pictures of me holding that lump of coal were manipulated, … you know, fake news? Arsonists have lit over 35% of the fires and yet we are still being blamed! It’s as though they expect me to man the trucks!”

“This climate thingy is a global phenomenon and, our share of emissions is only 1.3%. We are doing our fair share. We have to protect the economy – jobs and growth! But how do I convince those woke, inner-city lefties?”

“Relax hun; you need to relax! Your marketing spin will win the day, it always has. Thoughts and prayers might help, too! “

He ponders and absent-mindedly starts considering options. He settles deeper into the pillows and starts to relax. “OK Jude, we need to cuddle so where the bloody hell are you!” The mood softens and the fly retreats.

In the morning the fly has moved to the kitchen. The couple are sitting down to breakfast. The bloke is distractedly licking excess jam and crumbs from his plate. “What about the religious discrimination business? Or a media stunt, demonstrating my record of under-promising and over-delivering! Maybe ‘throwing somebody under a bus’. Enthusiasm lifts his spirits – yer, that’ll work! What’s her name, you know, the girl who runs that sports funding program – er whatsername!”

The mood lightens significantly as the idea begins to take form.

“You know Jude, I reckon we deserve a holiday. Why don’t we leave all of this behind, for a bit. We can take the girls to, err … weren’t they talking about Vanuatu? We can slip away quietly and be back before anybody knows we’ve gone!”

Childhood Memories

Grandpa

Written by Chris Burchett

Posted in Childhood Memories

65 years ago, I often climbed into bed with my Grandpa, who slept in the room across the hall. He was a wonderful storyteller, ever ready to lead me into the wonderous adventures of his own early childhood. Tales of clearing tall timber in Gippsland, about huge, vaguely controlled burns, subsequent windrows of potatoes, the first dairy cows purchased, a growing herd, frosty, barefoot mornings in the milking shed, surplus milk going to the Poowong butter factory.

I absorbed stories of family tragedy, his late-night trek through a dark, trackless bush to fetch the midwife, the loss of a young life, a small coffin in a darkened front room! He showed me a faint scar running across and down the sides of his nose. He told of a sliver of tin, thrown high by his brother leaving his nose hanging by the septum and of another neighbourly dash for medical help, stitches and eventual bragging rights! He retold of the day he returned from school to find the house burnt, a pile of smouldering timber, the tears at the loss of his teddy!

The neighbours took in the whole family – there were eight children and the subsequent town project over the next few months to rebuild the house. Donated or loaned furnishings – he remembered a new teddy!

There were snakes, huge ones slithering into and through his life. One was found in his sister’s bed, another underneath the Coolgardie meat safe on the back verandah. Many years later I witnessed Grandpa, loaded shotgun across his knees, sitting in our lounge closely watching a saucer of milk placed to entice a Tiger’ out from a crack near the fireplace.

And then there were the black jelly beans – a bag full, kept high on a shelf in his wardrobe. My efforts to increase the ration achieved a broken chair and a smacked bottom.

As I got older the stories moved to the verandah and refocused on living in Ballarat, his worldview and his political interests.

With the death of his daughter, he abandoned Christianity for Communism, explaining to me “…to punish God for abandoning him.” He maintained a commitment to charitable works, but his context broadened dramatically. He threw himself into the Jewish Welfare Society, helping to resettle refugees fleeing Nazi Germany. He followed the Indian Independence Movement, calls for Aboriginal Citizenship and the impacts of the Depression.

He remained a ‘concerned, vocal citizen’ throughout his life, ever writing letters to The Argus and The Age’s Editor, and I suspect would have been ashamed of the notion of “the quiet Australian”, the government’s leadership failures, rampant corporate greed and the disengaged electorate.