The Durban Passion Play was (and probably still is) a massive production, done in conjunction with the Durban City Council. It was performed over two weeks in the Durban City Hall and attracted audiences from all over the country. It had a cast of over 100, with the majority being in crowd scenes. While it was an amateur production, it did have a number of fine actors in the major roles, particularly that of Christ.

I was 34 at the time, so I was about the right age for the lead role, so I auditioned. Naturally, I did not get the part, but I got a small speaking role as one of the Sanhedrin. I think I had about three lines in all. Mother Superior and our three children were part of the crowd, with Mother Superior also being one of the wailing women.

Being in the Passion Play was a huge commitment. Rehearsals started six months before the opening night. Those with speaking roles had to go every Thursday night, while everyone had to be there every Sunday afternoon. Those Thursday nights were very tedious. I would spend most of the time waiting to say my three lines. Some of those with large parts could get quite petulant and throw tantrums. The director was a rather severe woman, who only spoke directly to those who had major parts. She communicated her displeasure or otherwise to those with minor roles, like me, through her underlings. I was absolutely terrified of her.

The Sunday afternoon rehearsals were somewhat better because I had Mother Superior and the children with me. It was generally chaotic because of the large number of people, and we had to rehearse the crowd scenes over and over. For six whole months our Sunday afternoons were tied up with this. Mother Superior enjoyed it because she met a few people, and they were generally a nice crowd. There were a few eccentrics among them with delusions about their acting abilities, and there were some outright nutcases. Of course our dear aunt Martha and uncle Jude were there as well. They were old hands at it.

The men in the cast were encouraged to grow their hair and beards to add authenticity, so eventually we looked like a group of hippies.

As we got closer to opening night, we moved into the City Hall, where the fun and games started. The main body of the cast was given the vast basement as a communal dressing room, while the upstairs dressing rooms were allocated to those with speaking parts. Mother Superior and the children ended up in the basement, while I got a dressing room that I shared with about 20 other men. Some of the main cast members threw significant temper tantrums as they laid claim to other rooms. Some argued that they were so important that they did not have to share with others. I was quite happy with where I was placed. I spent most of my off-stage time in the basement anyway. The basement was set up like a refugee camp, with dining and crèche facilities being brought in.

For the dress rehearsals and performances, we had to arrive two hours before the curtain went up. As most of us were of fair complexion, two inflatable paddling pools were filled with brown colouring for us to darken all exposed skin. We also had to submit for inspection from the director’s assistants to make sure that we did not have modern jewelry and wrist watches on. After that we had to report to a make-up person to have our stage make-up applied. Mother Superior had managed to acquire some water-based stage makeup, so she applied mine. It was so easy, at the end of a performance, to just shower off my makeup, while others were dabbing at their grease paint with liquid paraffin soaked pieces of cotton wool. The one drawback was that it could run if I got sweaty.

When I was a child, my parents took us to see the Passion Play. Uncle Jude was in it in his usual role. Aunt Martha was also in it, but we did not know her back then. I remember that they had young girls as narrators and the Durban City Orchestra provided the music. For our show, the narrators and orchestra had been replaced by a booming recorded voice and recorded music. Apparently, they had decided to dispense with the orchestra because some of its members were quite mercenary, and went home if the play was running over time. The booming voice was in a number of languages to cater for the diverse audience.

Because of the intense religious significance of the play, the audience was requested not to applaud. It was quite eerie to be on stage with a silent audience. However, it was the correct thing to do, and it added to the solemnity.

The play opened with a palm procession, which involved the entire cast, including the children. They, along with Mother Superior, were in a crowd waving palms that entered through the audience. I was on the stage as a member of the Sanhedrin, where I spoke one of my three lines. Muppet was barely walking at that stage but, on one performance, she broke free from Mother Superior and ran across the stage towards me yelling ‘Dadada”. A ripple of laughter went around the audience. The director was not amused.

After the opening scene, the children did not reappear. Mother Superior and I were in many of the remaining scenes, so Muppet was left with a baby sitter after Mother Superior bathed her in a wash hand basin and put her into her pajamas. Spiderman and Muti Man were both of Primary School age, so they were left to their own devices. They befriended the sound and lighting men, who were situated in a box high above the second gallery at the back of the hall. The boys spent most of their time there, and they really enjoyed themselves. They even decided to have some fun at my expense. There was one scene where a group of people were gathered around a fire in a courtyard, when I appeared to tell them to come inside. On one evening, as I entered the stage to deliver my line, I was startled by a flash of lightning and a clap of thunder. The boys up in the control box shrieked with laughter. I came very close to forgetting my line.

The most intense scene of the play was the crucifixion. It was very realistically done, with lots of fake blood. I was one of the ‘baddies’, but it was hard to remain stern. Mother Superior took it in turns with a group of fellow actors to be on the stage for this scene. She could genuinely cry. The audience also tended to get quite emotional. The cheaper seats on the top gallery were almost always full of black people who had been bused in from rural villages, and they got caught up in the sadness, openly weeping. I could feel vibes of hatred towards me as a jeered at the pitiful Jesus on the cross. It was very draining. One evening there was a sudden flash next to me, which gave me quite a fright. I was surprised to see that a photographer in the audience had actually come up onto the stage with his camera, and was flashing away. I was somewhat amused when he was promptly marched off the stage by two Roman soldiers in full regalia.

The final scene, the Resurrection, was beautifully done. The stone in front of the tomb rolled away to some dramatic music, and then Jesus appeared to rise in the mist. This was achieved with strategically placed lights behind a fine curtain and a smoke machine. The latter was quite temperamental and did not work at every performance. Many of the cast sneaked into the back of the hall to watch the scene.

It was a great relief when the play finally closed. We could at last get our life back. I saw it as a pilgrimage where the Easter message came to life for us. Many in the cast had taken pert for many years. My dear uncle Jude received an engraved crucifix to commemorate ten plays over 50 years. He gave this to Muppet who, to this day, has it hanging over her bed. Both uncle Jude and aunt Martha have since been called home to take their places among the saints. They were true instruments of God’s love and peace.

A few years ago, our family members were involved in a local Passion Play, No Greater Love, performed by the Simon Peter Players in Ocean Reef. This was a much smaller production, so I got the large part of Caiaphas, the High Priest. Spiderman was Saint Peter and Petal was Veronica, who wiped the face of Jesus. Mother Superior was again one of the wailing women. I had many lines, but the one I enjoyed the most was bellowing “He has Blasphemed”.
This was also a fulfilling experience, because it enabled members of our community to use their extraordinary talents to reveal the gospels in a meaningful way.

I feel privileged to have been part of these productions, and grateful to my wonderful family for experiencing them with me.

As I have mentioned already, my saintly mother is a wonderful person. Mother Superior has often remarked on how she is an inspiration to her, and how she has tried to model her own motherhood on Mother Provincial.

 Mkulubaas, my father, is very supportive of his children and is a wonderful father and grandfather. He was an extremely generous man who would literally go to the ends of the earth for us. He was also highly regarded by the local church and business community. Unfortunately, as with most of us, Mkulubaas had a dark side. He had a very quick and explosive temper, and it was best to stay out of his way when he was in a bad mood. When his eyes started flashing from side to side, we all knew it was time to duck for cover.

 Mkulubaas came from a generation where the wife did everything in the house, even though she was working full time. He was generally not a very fussy eater, but he did let us all know when he was not happy with what was put in front of him. These days, if I ever dared to complain about  my food to Mother Superior (not that I have any reason to – she is an excellent cook), I would be doing the cooking in future. I remember a meal when Mkulubaas grumbled that his meatballs were not cooked properly. He threw his plate across the table and complained bitterly. In a moment of madness, I sprang to my mother’s defence, stating that the meatballs were absolutely delicious. The next thing I knew, I was lying on the floor with stars in my eyes. He had slapped me across the head. I learned from then onwards to only challenge Mkulubaas when he was not within swiping distance of me.

 When my elder brother, Sangoma, and I were in high school, Mkulubaas decided that we would enjoy sailing, so he borrowed this old boat and we headed to Murray Park to sail it. The lake at Murray Park was large, and was originally a dam holding the run off water from gold processing. Behind it was an old mine tailings dump. The town council put topsoil over the dump and planted grass. The result was a rather attractive lake with a grassed hill behind it. It was the perfect place to sail a dingy. God knows what was in the water, though. It had a yellow tinge, and was completely devoid of any life. I am not sure how healthy it was to swim in.

 The boat was apparently a Sea Flea, but it was more of an ugly duckling. It was no more than an oversized surfboard with a rudder and centreboard. It had a short mast that supported a green sail that was shaped like that of an Arab dhow.

 During the morning and early afternoon of that first sailing, the wind was low, so we had great fun sailing the little boat in the lake. As the afternoon progressed, the wind became gusty, and Mkulubaas was keen to call a halt to the fun. Being a real smart-arse, I disobeyed him and took the boat out on my own. It was really moving now, and I thought I was big stuff. As I was whizzing along with the wind behind me, I looked back to see the centreboard floating away. Not knowing much about sailing, I jammed the rudder across to turn around to retrieve it. Of course, the boom came flying over, and the next thing, I was in the water. I surfaced next to the upturned boat, and there, in the distance, was Mkulubaas furiously swimming to me.  Before he got to me, another yachtie saw my plight and come to the rescue. When he saw that I was not wearing a life-jacket, he lectured me on how irresponsible I was. We got the boat to shore, loaded it onto the car, and drove home in silence.

 The following week, Mkulubaas arrived home from work with two lifejackets. I have no idea where he got them. Shortly afterwards, he bought the boat and gave it to us as a Christmas present. What a great present! He took the broken centreboard to work and returned with it not only fixed, but modified to prevent it coming adrift again.

 We had many happy sailings at Murray Park with that little boat. The family often had picnics on weekends.  During one of these occasions we nearly lost the boat because Sangoma and a friend were caught in a bad storm. They were rescued by other boats, but our boat was left adrift in the middle of the lake. Mkulubaas was all for leaving it there but, because of our protestations, went back and borrowed a canoe to fetch it.

 Our fun with the boat continued in the school holidays with Mkulubaas dropping us off at Murray park on the way to work, and picking us up on the way back. Mother Provincial made us sandwiches, and we had a great day where we were really sunburned. We did not know of skin cancer in those days.

 The sailing with Mkulubaas continued until one fateful Sunday afternoon. We were at a family picnic when Mkulubaas and I decided to have a final sail for the afternoon. All went well until we returned to shore. The lake water level was low, which meant the boat had to be carried the last 20 metres over knee-deep oozing mud. There were some kids playing in the mud, and they came to give us a hand. Unfortunately, they were more of a hindrance than a help. A gust of wind caused me to lose my grip and the boat flipped over on top of Mkulubaas. He ended up flat on his back in the mud with the boat on top of him. All I could see was the bottom of the boat and his head. I made the mistake of laughing, because it did look very funny. However, one look at Mkulubaas’s face indicated that he did not share my amusement. It was literally purple with rage and his eyes were flashing from side to side. I knew that the only thing that was saving me was that he was pinned under the boat. I decided to make myself scarce, and returned to my mother at the picnic site, hoping that she might protect me. In the distance, I could see Mkulubaas struggling to extricate himself from the mud under the boat. He was surrounded by kids -some of them laughing. Mother Provincial chastised me for abandoning him and told me to go and help him.

 Fearfully, I made my way back to the boat. I was about halfway there when Mkulubaas freed himself. The next moment, there was this enraged mud-covered person running towards me. I nearly died of fright. I knew I was in serious trouble. I turned tail and fled, and he chased after me. Instead of running to Mother Provincial, I ran in the opposite direction across the park until I came to the crowded swimming pool.

 In desperation, I jumped into the pool, hoping I would get lost in the crowd. Horrors, he jumped in after me and eventually caught me. My life flashed before me as he proceeded to hammer the daylights out of me. I thought my last moment had come. Then came the voice of my saviour. “Hey you. Leave that kid alone”, a man yelled from the side of the pool.

 Mkulubaas let go of me and waded to the side of the pool to remonstrate with my hero, telling him to mind his own business. Taking advantage of this miraculous reprieve, I fled to the sanctuary of my mother.

 We packed up the boat in silence. On the way home, Mkulubaas muttered about interfering people. He knew my saviour to be a local politician who was on the wrong side of politics. I reflected to myself that, no matter what his policies were, I would vote for him if the opportunity arose.

 When we unpacked the car at home, I attempted to help get the boat off the roof -rack. Mkulubaas stood on my feet and roughly pushed me aside. He then went inside, and I saw no more of him that evening.

 The following morning, he was still in a foul mood, and slammed the front door on his way out to work. My mother just sighed and shook her head.

 All day during school, I worried about what had occurred. Mkulubaas loved jube lollies, so I took some of my pocket money and bought a packet of jubes for what I hoped would be a peace offering.

 When Mkulubaas came home from work, I was sitting at the dining table doing my homework. I was trying to pluck up courage to present my peace offering, when he entered he room. I froze. Silently, he placed a tin of condensed milk on the table and left the room. I felt the warm tears of relief running down my cheeks. All was forgiven. We were friends again.

 I must say I did enjoy the condensed milk. I had a tin all to myself. Usually, when Mkulubaas opened a tin, he would give us each a spoon, and we would stand in a queue for him to pour some of the delicious sweet liquid into it.

 We did not sail much more after that. A yacht club was started at Murray Park , and we could not join because no one else owned a boat like ours. Weekend sailings were not much fun for us, because every time the members wanted to have a race, a man with a megaphone would yell at us to get out of the water.

 I am hesitant to publish this post because I fear it might portray my father as an egocentric maniac and a bully. It truth, he was a wonderful father who would do anything for his family. This and other incidences occurred because I was a cheeky difficult kid, and he simply lost his temper. He tried his best to help me realise my dreams and ambitions – even the hare-brained ones, like me wanting to be a performer.

 He is now contentedly living his twilight years under the care of Mother Provincial and my wonderfully selfless siblings and their families. His many grandchildren absolutely adore him.

 When we had our blowouts, Mkulubaas often told me that I would never get a girl-friend, because no woman would put up with my nonsense. When I look at my lovely Mother Superior, my fantastic children and my gorgeous grandchildren, I can only reflect on how wrong he was.

In the past few years, a new elite class has emerged.  The skills shortage,  caused by the mining boom and, more recently, our government’s misguided stimulus packages, has considerably increased what tradespeople can charge.

As an example,  we recently had an air conditioner installed. All up, the job took less than an hour, and it involved an installer with his young assistant (hopefully an apprentice) and an electrician. The cost was $750. At the same time, I had to undergo endodontic treatment. This took about the same time,  and it involved the endodontist, a highly skilled chairside assistant and some very sophisticated and, no doubt, expensive equipment. The cost was $780.

Yes, tradespeople are charging the same as medical specialists! However, they are not providing the same services. For example, if I want to see a medical specialist, I phone them and a receptionist will make an appointment. Often, we have to wait months to see a specialist, but at least there is an appointment, and I don’t have to contact them every day to see if they might be available.

A few months ago, we had a bad storm in Perth, which resulted in some minor damage to our house. I was initially pleasantly surprised when our insurer, GIO, told us to just get it fixed and they would reimburse us. Surely insurance companies are not that easy to deal with. I have a sneaky suspicion that they knew how difficult it is to get tradespeople, and I would likely end up doing the work myself, thus saving them having to pay out the claim.

Trying to get a tradesperson is not a pleasant experience. Many have advertisements in the local newspapers. I am not sure why, but maybe they like tease people. Generally the advertisement has a mobile telephone number, which one can allegedly use to contact them.

This is what often happens when you dial the mobile number:

Me: Dial the number with some trepidation.

TM: “Yeah” (Often with a foreign accent)

Me: “Hello. Is that the electrician/plumber/painter?”

TM: “Yeah”

Me: “Could I book you to…”

TM: “Sorry mate, too busy” click.

Some times they like to lead you on, and go as far as taking down your number and promising to call back. Of course, they never do.

Recently, I responded to an advertisement that had a fixed line number. This is how it went:

Me: Dial somewhat more confidently.

TM: “Hello” (Very young child’s voice)

Me:”Hello, I am looking for the roofing person.”

Child: “Hello”

Me: “Sigh”

Child: “Hello”

Me: “Can I speak to the person who does roofing? Is that your daddy?”

Child: Drops phone. “Mommy, there is a man on the phone”.

There is an audible groan in the distance.

Mother: Comes to the phone. ”Yes?” (Somewhat irritated)

Me: “I am looking for the roofing person”

Mother: Loud sigh and click of tongue. “He is really busy at the moment. If you give me your number, he will call you back.”

I dutifully give her my details, knowing that she is not even taking them down.

On one call, a woman answered the phone. When I told her what I wanted, she informed me that they do not go as far as Burns Beach. When I asked her why they advertised in the local community newspaper, she responded with great fury “You obviously don’t know that there was a storm a few weeks ago.” and slammed the phone down. Out of curiosity, I checked to see where these people are based that Burns Beach was too far away. It turned out that they are in Hillarys, which is less than 10 kms away. I can only assume that they do not have any transport, and have to restrict their jobs to within walking distance.

I have had some success in the past few weeks. A painter actually turned up to give me a quote to seal and repaint our water stained ceiling. Ok, he was a few hours late, but he did turn up. Even though he quoted me more than what it would cost to restore the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, I accepted the quote, hoping that the insurance company wouldn’t baulk at it. The following week the painter called and asked if he could do the job the following day. Both Mother Superior and I were working that day, so I made the fatal error of asking if he could do it another day.  Weeks went by, and I thought that I would have to start all over again in my search for a painter when, all of a sudden, he phoned again and asked if he could come the following day. This time, I was not going to let him go, so I agreed. He has since done the job so, hopefully the insurance company will reimburse me.

One tradesman who did come around quickly was one that I asked to look at a faulty air-conditioner. I am not sure whether this was due to the fact that it was autumn, and we required neither heating or cooling at the time. I was rather hoping that he would tell me whether it could be repaired and, if not, what he would charge me to replace it. Well, after having a grumble about where the outside unit was located, he climbed onto the roof  to have a look at it. He said that it was indeed faulty and not repairable because it was impossible to get parts for it. I then said “OK, what would it cost to replace it?”. “Don’t ask me,” he said “I wouldn’t be interested in doing it.” He then softened and said that he would consider doing it if I helped him and also removed all the fitted furniture from our study, so that he could get it through the window. He suggested that I go to the Good Guys to buy the unit. He then charged me $80 for the short visit and drove off.

All the new up-market areas are being populated by these cashed-up tradespeople. Unfortunately, this is evident in the hideous houses they are building. They are generally huge, and take up the whole block. They are true Macmansions, with all the bells and whistles. Some even have turrets. The bigger and higher the better. Unfortunately, the houses are so huge that there is no provision for parking. They often have triple garages, but they are normally filled with junk, so the verges are crammed with trailers, 4WDs and boats. Walking around the streets can be quite hazardous. In Friday afternoons, the streets are often full of utes with trailers, and driveways have groups of rough-looking guys holding beers and swearing at each other.

Unfortunately, it is all a case of supply and demand, and the tradespeople have the upper hand. We really need more apprentices, but tradespeople also control that. Some do take on apprentices, but often they treat them so badly that they leave. The other solution is to take in skilled migrants. This often causes the tradespeople to bleat that they are “Tekkin ur jerbs”.

When the GFC hit last year, the one good that came out of it was that the demand for tradespeople eased, and the hope was that they would go back to being available and charging reasonable fees. Unfortunately, our government ruined that by creating projects to stimulate the economy. In theory, it was a good idea. Unfortunately, the lucky participants saw it as a way to make a lot of money, and now charge even more for their services.

Well, I had better pluck up some courage and phone some more tradespeople. You never know, I might strike it lucky and get someone. However, I doubt it. Once more, I will suffer abuse and rejection.

I was also hoping to meet some new friends. We met some nice people on the Pacific Dawn, but most of them came from Wollongong.

I am not sure whether I am jinxed because, as what happened shortly before we went on the Pacific Dawn, I developed a raging tooth ache – this time on the left side – that not even expensive endodontic treatment could resolve. Once again, I went on the cruise armed with antibiotics and pain killers.

The day of the cruise finally arrived. I had read all the reviews of the ship, and the main complaint seemed to be the paucity of laundry facilities, which had, in some cases, caused fist fights. Because we were not flying anywhere and had no weight restrictions, I thought we would bring enough clothes to not have to wash anything. We ended up with heavy suitcases.  Getting to the wharf meant dragging these cases down the road from our house to the bus stop, dragging them on and off the bus, changing trains in Perth, which meant dragging them over the horse-shoe bridge, and then dragging them the last few hundred metres from Fremantle station. Just before we got to the cruise terminal, I lost control of my case crossing a road in front of a big tourist bus and ended up with a bruised ego and a grazed ankle. By the time we got to the terminal we were exhausted and hungry. “Not to worry”, I said to Mother Superior between gasps, “we can check in and go and enjoy a nice buffet lunch on the ship”. Well, it was not to be. The scene at the terminal was utter chaos, with 2000 passengers vying to get onto the ship. I hasten to add that the Princess Cruises staff were not to blame. They were at the mercy of Customs and Immigration, and stupid passengers  who could not follow instructions. One does shudder to think what would happen if we had to abandon ship.

The upshot of it all was that we only got onto the ship three hours later – after it was meant to set sail. There was a kiosk selling food and drinks at the terminal, but I was determined to wait for the free stuff on the ship. As we finally got on, they were announcing that life jacket drill was to take place shortly. We were starving, so we went a grabbed a bite at the buffet before heading to our cabin to get our life-jackets.

Initially, our cabin was a shock. We had booked the cheapest (inside) cabin on the ship, so we were not expecting over much. However, it was tiny – barely bigger than the queen size bed in it. The shower and toilet were also minute. We comforted ourselves thinking that our box would only be used for sleeping.

The life-jacket drill for our muster area was presented by the band’s trombone player, and he took great pains to show us exactly how to hold our noses closed if we ever had to ‘step off the ship’ into the water. The captain’s very cultured English voice came over the tannoy where he welcomed us on board ‘the beautiful Sun Princess’ and told us all to behave ourselves. He mostly warned us about the vacuum toilet system and that only toilet paper should be flushed - otherwise they tended to block, with unpleasant consequences. I realised that a blocked toilet in our little box cabin would be very unpleasant indeed! I resolved that I would always do a test flush before doing anything of any magnitude in our toilet.

As soon as we got back to the cabin, I decided to test our toilet. I pushed the button and – nothing happened. I reflected that this was not a good start, and called our cabin steward. He came over looking a little agitated, and told us that the whole deck’s toilets were not working. I suppose he was thinking of all the shit he was going to have to clean out of unflushed toilets.

Anyway, we went to the top deck for the sailaway. The sun was setting as the big ship glided out of Fremantle harbour with a gentle nudge from the tug alongside. It was beautiful. Some people had even taken the trouble to wave us goodbye from the shore. We passed a large US aircraft carrier, George Washington, which was anchored offshore. There were multiple flashes from cameras of the personnel on the carrier as they took photos of our ship. I imagine they must have seen the same from us. The band played, and we were all  in a good mood as we danced together.

We went to the dining room the first evening wondering who our dining companions would be, and were sadly disappointed. We were seated at the same side of the table in anticipation of another couple arriving, but nobody did. Our waiter was this lovely polish girl with braces in her teeth. She was extremely helpful and extremely enthusiastic about the food – which was superb. Anyone would think she had cooked it herself. All around us groups of people around tables were introducing themselves and chatting happily. Mother Superior and I sat alone staring at the door. We eventually assumed that whoever was meant to be sitting with us were tired on the first night and had decided to dine at the buffet. The second and third nights, a couple from Mandurah sat with us after telling us they had asked to be moved because their original dining companions were too serious. They both regaled us with stories of how they just drank and drank during the cruise. They were in a balcony cabin, which was double the price of ours, and drinks on the ship are not cheap, so they were big spenders. He owned a boat hire business in Mandurah and, although they were about our ages, they hand not been together long – and they liked to party. I thought we were doing Ok with them, but we obviously also did not pass muster, and they asked to be moved from our table. After another two meals alone, I accosted the Matre’d and asked if we could be moved to a table with someone else. He asked if we wanted to sit with an elderly couple who had themselves requested to be moved from a table of rowdy women. They turned out to be a delightful couple, both retired academics. We really enjoyed our dinners with them from then onwards.

Anyway, back to the toilets.  After the initial problem, ours did work – but our joy was short-lived. The next morning, I got up to do my usual constitutional. Fortunately, I did a test flush first. The toilet bowl filled with water and stayed there. There is meant to be a bang and a huge shlurping noise as the vacuum sucks the waste into the very narrow pipes. This time I was left with a bowl of water and silence. How lucky for both of us and the steward that I did the test flush first.  I phoned the steward who told me he was at a meeting, and would come as soon as he could. I must say he did sound relieved when I told him I had only done a test flush. One can only image the horrors those poor people have to put up with – with so much food being available on the cruise.

I was really grumpy after not being able to have my morning sit-me-down. I muttered about how Princess Cruises could maintain their ships better until Mother Superior confessed to me that she had flushed a tissue down – and that had obviously caused the blockage. I was forced to use one of the public toilets, which I did not enjoy because I am not a public dumper.

Mother Superior decided that she would attend the line-dancing classes. I could not bring myself around to doing it, but it was fun watching. It was mainly women but, quite surprisingly, there were some male participants. Some of the women were hard-core line dancers who enjoyed showing off their skills to the novices. The good thing about Mother Superior getting involved, is that she met a very friendly lady from Mullaloo who introduced us to her family and friends. We formed a trivia team and did reasonably well at the trivia sessions. Anyway, Friendly Lady told Mother Superior that they too were in an inside box like ours, except they had their teenage daughter in there as well. Because of this, she liked to get up at 6.00 am to go to the gym that was at the stern on the top deck. She would run on a treadmill and watch the ship’s wake. Mother Superior thought that this was an excellent idea, so she set her alarm for 6.00 am every morning to go to the gym.  For the rest of cruise our routine was.

1. Mother Superior gets up at 6.00am, and takes the lift to the 24 hours buffet on the top deck.
2. She returns to our box with a cup of coffee and some Danish pastries for me.
3. She goes up to the gym to walk on a treadmill and enjoy the view.
4. I get up and go to a public toilet in the atrium to have my morning constitutional. I had lost confidence in our cabin toilet and, at that time, there were not too many people around.
5. I then do three brisk walking laps (one mile) on the Promenade deck overtaking many oldies shuffling along with or without frames. It could get quite frustrating to get caught behind a shuffler at the bow and stern because the access way was quite narrow there.
6. I meet Mother Superior in the buffet for breakfast.
7. When the weather warmed up, we would have a swim before the crowds descended on the pools.

Afterwards, Mother Superior went to her line dancing class, while I liked to attend Scholarship at Sea lectures in marine history. The lecturer was a very old man, who confided in us later that marine history was not his field. Nevertheless, his lectures were very interesting. I specially liked it when he told of his days as a boy being brought up in Phukett, which was one of the ship’s destinations. In his days, Patong beach was deserted, and only accessible on foot.

The ship stopped at Penang, Phukett, Lankawi, Kuala Lumpur and Singapore, before heading back to Geraldton and Fremantle. Unfortunately, you don’t get much time at each port, but it does give you an idea of how they are. We really enjoyed KL, and are thinking of going back there for a longer stay. Geraldton was a pleasant surprise, because the locals turned out to show everyone around.

After our initial hiccups, we really enjoyed the cruise. The food and entertainment were first class. It would have been nice to have been in a balcony cabin rather than our tiny, dark box, but they were double what we paid, and I would rather have two cruises in a box than one in a balcony cabin.

The Sun Princess is indeed a beautiful ship, and could be a hard act to follow.

Fortunately for us, we did not have drag our even heavier suitcases home because Muppet and Biggles were at the wharf to meet us. They took us home. Shortly afterwards Muti Man, Gifted One, Spiderman, Petal, Blossom and Dewdrop arrived. I think they missed us while we were away, and it was wonderful to have our family around us again.

Will we go on another cruise? Definitely – but Mother Superior says not for another two years, because we still have mortgage to pay. Ah well, I will just have to wait.

When Muppet and Biggles announced that they were in the family way, Mother Superior (AKA Super Granny), and I were very pleased. As you know, Spiderman and Petal have already given us two absolutely gorgeous granddaughters, Blossom and Dewdrop, so this was going to be the icing on the cake. Mother Superior was also looking forward to her daughter having child; not that this makes any difference to our relationship with Blossom and Dewdrop.

After giving us the good news, Muppet and Biggles swore us to silence because it was early days and, of course, anything could happen. Muppet had already more or less given the game away because she had declined a beer the day before – and we all know how much Muppet enjoys her beer.

Muppet finally announced to the world that Baldrick was on his way by posting the ultrasound images on Facebook and proclaiming that she had a ‘belly monster’. When she had a further ultrasound, she and Biggles opted to know the gender. Looking at the pictures, it was very obvious that the ‘belly monster’ was Baldrick and not Barbara!

Muppet then announced that she was not going to use disposable nappies, but she was going to make her own cloth ones. I confess I was very skeptical, especially after a work colleague told me her daughter had the same idea, but it only lasted a month after her grandchild was born. Undaunted, Muppet scoured the Internet for information, and ended up buying a device that put poppers on the nappies. She pulled out her sewing machine that we gave her for her eighteenth birthday and started making prototypes out of any material she could lay her hands on. She has since become a licenced seamstress for a design called La Di Da Diapers, and she is selling nappies that she makes. She has also bought a new sewing machine. I must note that these napppies are nothing like the old terry towling ones we used in our days. These are form fitted and made from modern fabrics like bamboo. There are also nappy forums on the Internet where members discuss different nappy designs like wine connoisseurs. They use terms like “bulk”. “leakage”, “absorbency” etc.

Muppet literally bounced through her pregnancy much like her mother did.  She spent many hours on the Internet researching nappies and parenthood techniques. When Muppet gets a bee in her bonnet, there is no stopping her. She also kept her Facebook status up to date by posting ultrasound images.

When Baldrick finally arrived, Muppet and Biggles asked Mother Superior if she wanted to be present at the delivery.  She was ecstatic, and was with them for the birth. I understand she was a big help – considering she is a trained midwife (albeit a long time ago) and she works at the hospital as a Registered Nurse.

I arrived at the hospital soon after the birth. Mother Superior met me in the carpark to show me the way to the labour word. She was very emotional, and expressed her supreme gratitude for Muppet and Biggles allowing her to share this very private and special time. She felt very privileged. In the ward, predictably, Muppet and Biggles were looking somewhat shell-shocked. As usual with me, I was too emotional to speak as I looked at my first grandson.  There was definitely no doubt of the parentage. He was a clone of Biggles. He was magnificent.

Because Muppet works at the hospital, she was moved to a private ward down the corridor from where Mother Superior works. Mother Superior  could not contain herself , and carried the precious bundle to show her colleagues.  They made the obligatory noises of congratulations and headed off to continue with things that nurses do.

When Blossom and Dewdrop were born, Spiderman and Petal were at a private hospital and stayed for a few days after the birth in a ward that was more like a hotel room – complete with a queen size bed. It gave them valuable time to rest and prepare for the future. Muppet was a public patient, she was only in the hospital for two days.  I had previously suggested to Mother Superior that we make our guest room downstairs into a ward for a few days, so that Muppet and Biggles could gain the same benefits as Spiderman and Petal had at the private hospital.  So, for a few days, Muppet , Biggles, Baldrick and Beagle, their dog, moved into our ‘hospital ward’. It ws very special to have Baldrick with us for the first few days of his life. Mother Superior was very very pleased.  Every morning, she would take Baldrick from them so that they could have a nice sleep in, and so she could have a cuddle. It was indeed a very special time.

Since his birth, we have had a very close relationship with Baldrick because they live quite close to us. Muppet does not drive, so she often requires us to take her and Baldrick ( and Beagle) to important places like doctors’ appointments and work. Also Biggles’s work takes him out of town for a week at a time, so Muppet, Baldrick and Beagle come and stay with us for the week. We are indeed very fortunate to have such a close relationship with our grandson, to the extent that I miss him when he is not around. He can be a challenge at times – especially if he is missing his mum. He will change from a delightful happy child to a screaming wreck in the blink of an eye.

Every alternate Thursday, we also have Blossom and Dewdrop around.  Muppet and Baldrick are also there until I take Muppet to work. We than have about an hour when all three grandchildren are with us.  That is also a very special time for us.

Muppet has been very active in preaching the gospel of cloth nappies. She contributes to many online forums and belongs to a mothers group that, very sensibly, meets in a pub. As I mentioned before, she makes and sells nappies, and has also converted many of the mothers group to using baby slings rather than prams, which can be awkward to maneuver between bar stools.

I am very proud of Muppet for doing this. However, when she announced that she would start Baldrick on the potty when he was a few weeks old, I thought she had lost it. She ordered a book and a small potty and, I kid you not, Baldrick actually uses it. I even ended up buying a a bigger potty from Ikea for us to use. On Saturday, I was alone with Baldrick when he started grumbling. In a flash of inspiration, I removed his designer nappy and sat him on the potty – and he did a big wee. I am not sure why, but I was so proud of myself.

Baldrick’s baptism was a very happy affair. Muppet was not going to let Baldrick wear a gown, so Mother Superior sewed him a white satin (at least I think it was satin) waist coat. Muppet had a bespoke white embroidered nappy made. He looked very smart. We all celebrated afterwards at our place with Sangria and sparkling wine. I even did a roast carvery, which was very well received.

Mother Superior and I really love little Baldrick, and feel especially blessed to have our three lovely grandchildren with their wonderful parents so close by.

As a young child, I absolutely loved reading books. These days, children are encouraged to read from a young age, but in my days that was not the case.  As I have mentioned in a previous post, I got chastised by my teacher when I dared to read more pages than I was meant to. My parents suggested I join the town library where I could satisfy my desire to read. I rmember going to the front desk to apply for membership. The stern librarian asked me what my age was. When I told her I was eight, she said that only people over ten could join. I was speechless. There was no amount of persuasion that would cause her to relent. I was old enough to catch a bus into town on my own, but not old enough read books. I left in tears. Stupid stupid stupid.

When I was about ten years old, I had my appendix removed. This necessitated a seven day stay in hospital, where I was looked after by reasonably kind student nurses and an absolute battleaxe of a ward sister. The night after my operation I tossed and turned. I must have flung my arms out because I sent a caraffe of water crashing to the floor. I remember crying almost hysterically. I really wanted my mother, but she was not allowed to be there. The ward sister really blasted me for breaking the caraffe. These days, the parents are encouraged to stay with their children when they are in hospital. At that time, parents were only allowed to visit their children between 3.00pm and 3.30pm – half an hour a day. I spent the whole day in my hospital bed looking forward to the thirty minutes that my mother would be with me. I did not see my father, because he was at work, and parents were not allowed to visit in the evenings. Down the passage there was a large ward with younger children. I remember so clearly, when the bell went at 3.30pm to indicate the end of visiting hours, and the parents shuffled out, the huge wail that went up from these kids. They sobbed and screamed hysterically for at least half an hour. The already hard pressed nurses had to try and calm them down. Who made these stupid laws? Surely it would not take more than a few brain cells to realise that giving parents reasonably unrestricted access made the nurses’  jobs easier, and probably made the children recover quicker. Thankfully, things have changed.  A few years ago, Muppet, our daughter, broke her arm rather badly. We were told to go to the recovery room to make sure that when she came around from the anaesthetic, she would see familiar faces.

I could go on. When Spiderman and Muti Man were born, I was allowed to look at them and then I was told to go home. When Muppet was born some years later, I was actually asked to hold her and cuddle her while Mother Superior recovered. I then brought her to Mother Superior, and was allowed to stay as long as I liked. It was a very special moment, and I am still angry that I was denied it with Spiderman and Muti Man.

When Spiderman was three, he became very ill, and had to have a kidney removed. The hospital ward was run by an absolute bitch named sister Brown. She obviously disliked children and parents, but some knucklehead had decided to put her in charge of a children’s surgical ward. Sister Brown decreed that vistors were only allowed beween 9.00am and 6.00pm, never mind that she was dealing with traumatised young children. The night before the big operation, we asked if we could stay with Spiderman. She flatly refused. We got there early the next morning, only to find that he had already been taken to theatre. The thought of this young child being woken up and taken by strangers to his operation still haunts me today. We waited sadly at his bed for him to return, and stayed with him the rest of the day. At 6.00pm, the bitch ushered us out, while he lay in his cot and screamed for us to come back. It was very hard.  The next day, while we waited to be allowed into the ward at 9.00am, we could hear Spiderman crying inside. Mother Superior almost went frantic with worry. The bitch informed us that Spderman was very badly behaved, and we should do something about it. This was a three year old who was recovering from major surgery the day before, and was denied the loving care of his mother. All I can hope is that the bitch is no longer running a children’s ward. The surgeon, who was a renowned professor, and obviously a very intelligent man, saw what was happening, and discharged Spiderman early to be cared for by his family.

As I have already said, fortunately, sanity has prevaled, and parents are encouraged, if not requested, to take an active role in caring for their children while in hospital. Fathers also participate in their children’s birth, and can now enjoy that unique time with their new family.

On the day, I took the train and bus to the exhibition. The first thing I noticed was that there was not the huge crowd of the previous years.  Last year, every second stand had someone selling solar panels, but this time there were only a handful. There were the usual spas bubbling away, and two stands that displayed beds and bedding. I am not sure what they were there for, because the staff there were trying their best not to be seen. I was interested in some latex pillows, and I had to hunt someone down to help me. I found a group of them talking together, and they were not impressed when I interrupted their conversation. I was shocked to find that the pillows cost $264 each, but I could have them for $226 as a show special.

There was the usual fellow flogging paint pads, another selling slurpex cloths, and yet another selling rubber brooms.

At the exhibition stands, there were some very helpful people and some not so helpful. It never ceases to amaze me how people will go to the expense and effort to set up a stand and then sit at a desk and pretend to be engrossed in some reading. If you ask them about their product, they throw a pamphlet to you and continue with their reading. Why do they bother? On the other hand, you get the roller shutter brigade throwing themselves into your path asking you to enter their competition to win $10,000 worth of roller shutters. I have previously entered their competitions, but this time I waved them away. Maybe, I am extremely lucky or unlucky, but my experience has always been a phone call afterwards where they joyously tell you  with much congratulations that, while you have not won the $10,000 worth of roller shutters, you have won the second prize of $500 off our roller shutters, and sound amazed and hurt when you tell them that you would prefer to forgo the generous prize. I takes about ten minutes of them pleading to come over to give you a quote to get rid of them. I start off trying to be nice, saying yes, I am delighted to have won this wonderful prize, but I have not budgeted for roller shutters this year. Unfortunately, they have an answer for everything. They would be more than happy to extend credit and, no, I would not be wasting their time if I did not like the quote, because a representative happens to be in our area, and it is totally no obligation. The only way to get rid of them is to be rude, which leaves me feeling dirty. I did once make the mistake of agreeing to let someone from the Modern group come over to give me a ‘no-obligation’ quote.  The initially friendly salesman turned up and proceeded to measure up my windows. All along, he was saying that he could see why I wanted roller shutters. He then told Mother Superior that we lived in a high crime area, exacerbated by our house being on a rear strata block. It would only be a matter of time before some maniacidal psychopath wreaks total devastation on us. Putting up roller shutters could be the answer to our problems, but we must do it soon. That was a big mistake. Mother Superior absolutely loves the area that we live in, and the quietness of being off the street. She also hates any of her things being criticised. The salesman does not know how lucky he was that I was there, and managed to restrain her. He lost any chance of selling his roller shutters to us. He proceeded to go through the ritual and told us that he was giving us a special price if we put up an advertising sign. I pointed out that we lived off the road, and no one would see the sign, but that did not seem to be a problem. He deducted our $500 prize, with much congratulations on winning it, and presented us with a total that almost took my breath away. Do roller shutters really cost as much as our whole house cost to build? Not to worry, he  said, and pulled out his calculator. After some furious activity, he presented an amended figure, adding that he could get into trouble for being so generous. Mother Superior had lost complete interest, so it was left for me to do the negotiations. He then phoned his boss, who answered the phone remarkably promptly. Apparently, I was in luck. It was the end of the month, and the boss still had some promotion money left in his budget. He then presented me with the final figure, which, although still high, was about half the first figure. By this stage, Mother Superior had had enough, and asked him to leave. He angrily picked up his things and said that he was wasting his time on people like us. After he left, Mother Superior turned on me with fury. She said that no roller shutter salesman was ever to cross our threshold again, or else the retribution would be swift and painful. That night, she wore a track suit to bed to ‘punish’ me.

Anyway, back to the Ideal Homes Exhibition. A young German fellow cleaning windows, caught my attention. He was selling this window cleaner that appeared to be absolutely amazing. He sprayed a piece of glass with hair spray and let it dry. Then, with a few waves of his hand and this window cleaner, it was absolutely spotless. I hate cleaning windows, even more so because we live in a double-story house. The cleaner cost $50, which apparently was bargain, because he produced a price list where it was shown to be double the price. I knew that there was no way that Mother Superior would have bought it, preferring the tried and tested newspaper method. I was also in danger of incurring her wrath for buying it, but I thought I would risk it. Of course, when I got home and tried it, it did not work nearly as well as the young German fellow had demonstrated.  I had fallen into usual trap. If there was a window cleaning act in the Cirque du Soleil, he would have been the star performer. It would be the same if I had bought a set of juggling balls from a juggler, and expected to be able to juggle.  Surprisingly, Mother Superior did not appear to be too cross with me for buying it. I suspect it is because I will have clean the windows from now on to justify the purchase.

I left the exhibition with my usual bag full of pamplets, which will remain on the coffee table until Mother Superior asks if she can throw them out.  I feel quite proud of myself that I did not enter any competition for roller shutters.

I was about five years old at the time.

In those days we used bus tickets that normally came in books of ten. Each ticket had a small section that the driver would tear off and, for good measure, would punch a hole in the ticket itself.

My mother wisely decided not to let me have the whole book of tickets. Instead, she would give two tickets to me each day. As a safety precaution, Sister Manus, our saintly bus monitor, had her own book of tickets, in case I lost mine for the return journey home.

I was a nervous child, and I sometimes chewed objects unconsciously. I remember getting on the bus one afternoon realising, to my horror, that I had folded my ticket into a tight pipe and had proceeded to ‘smoke’ it like a cigarette. I handed the driver a soggy bundle. Unbelievably, he unrwapped it slowly and managed to tear off his bit. When he tried to punch a hole in my portion, it was too soggy. That upset him, and he started to yell at me. I was, and still am, quite sensitive to criticism, so I began to cry. The next minute, I was surrounded by a habit and veil as Sister Manus stepped into the bus to resolve the situation.

I normally travelled in the bus with Sangoma, my older brother. One afternoon, I was on my own on the bus, and I rang the bell to get off. I was only after alighting that I realised that I was at the wrong stop. I tried to get back onto the bus, but the door had already closed, and it pulled off without me. I panicked and screamed at the top of my voice and ran after the bus.  My dear mother was waiting for me at the correct stop, which was not that far away. When I did not get off, she looked down the road and saw this hysterical kid in the distance. She had my sister, Mona Lisa, in a pram, and I think she was also expecting Dalia Lama at the time. That didn’t stop her. It was such a relief for me to see my mother and the pram hurtling towards me at full speed. When we met, she picked me up in her arms while I just sobbed with relief.

The bus we took home from the convent also stopped at the Springs West state school to pick up kids. Instead of the gentle Sister Manus, they had this huge Amazon woman as their bus monitor. She used to get on the bus and yell at their kids. “Move along the bus” she would yell, “Any nonsense and you are off the bus”. I could see that the Springs West kids were terrified of her. I thought I was immune because I was from the convent. One day, I was sitting on the back seat with a group of other convent kids, and my urge to be a showman came to the fore. At the Springs West bus stop, bull woman got on as usual. “Move to the back of the bus” she bellowed, and I imitated her, much to the delight of my travelling companions. “No nonsense from anyone”, and I yelled the same. The Springs West kids looked at me in shock, while the convent kids shrieked with laughter. I was in my element. I had an appreciative audience, and I was not about to stop. I put on the best gravelly voice that I could and began to yell out my own commands. All of a sudden I noticed that the convent kids were not laughing. The bus had fallen silent, and bull woman was heading straight for me. The next minute I was dragged down the aisle and out of the bus. She threw me roughly onto the ground, and my globite school case burst open, strewing the contents onto the grass. I gathered my things together and climbed back onto the bus, utterly humiliated. The funny thing was, even at that young age, I felt that I had got what was coming to me, and deserved it. I was quite surprised when my parents did not have the same understanding. The next day, my dad took off work early, and they came and fetched me from school and, to me horror, drove me to Springs West school. We walked through the kids playing in the playground, and they stopped and stared. I did not enjoy that attention at all. We sat in the principal’s office, and he called bull woman in. She told what had happened, including how cheeky I had been. They asked me if she was telling the truth, and I said yes. My parents then apologised to the principal and bull woman, and she shook my hand and ruffled my hair.

That incident taught me a valuable lesson – to respect all those in authority, even if they do not have jurisdiction over me.

I can see the thinking behind gift vouchers. You don’t know what to buy for someone, and you don’t want to give them money, because you don’t want it to go towards the next month’s groceries.  Unfortunately, I find that receiving gift vouchers can be very stressful. I have so often heard people saying that they have to drive across town to spend a $50 gift voucher at some small boutique before it expires and the money is wasted. When they get to the shop, they often find that it does not stock anything that they want, so they end up buying anything to avoid wasting the money. Alternatively, it does have something that they would like, at double what it would cost at Kmart, so they end up adding their own funds to the purchase, and probably paying more for it.

As I write this, I have a $20 Mitre 10 gift voucher , which I won for footy tipping ( of all things!), that has expired. The reason that it has expired is that there is no Mitre 10 store within 100 Kms, and it would hardly have been worth it to make the long journey simply to spend $20. This is good news for the stores. Charging $20 for a worthless piece of plastic must be very good business for them.

The gift vouchers that really get my goat are those issued by the large shopping centres. People buy them thinking that they offer the recipient a large choice of stores in which they can redeem them. However, when they try to spend the vouchers, they will find that the very stores that have what they want – like Kmart and Big W – don’t accept them.  

My advice to anyone thinking of giving a gift voucher to someone this Christmas is:

• Try to get a voucher that at least offers a discount. For example, gift vouchers I get through API offer a 5% discount. It’s not much, but it does make it more worth while.
• Make sure the voucher is for a store to which the recipient has easy access, and stocks items that they want and like.
• Consider giving a voucher for a reputable online store. This can make it a fun and, unfortunately, addictive experience for the recipient.

I still think, the best way to go is to put some cash into an envelope, with a note suggesting the way it should be spent.

The real problem facing us today, particularly on the roads, is that the human being is a rather stupid animal – and some are more stupid than others.

In days past, this was shown in some unbelievably stupid military decisions, like ordering thousands of horsemen to charge against heavy artillery. Fortunately, only a few stupid people attained that sort of power, with the majority happy to do menial work like shovelling shit out of stables.

Unfortunately, today almost everyone is able to operate sophisticated machinery in the form of motor vehicles. Something that very few have the intelligence to do. The problem has been exacerbated by high wages enabling most people to afford high performance cars. In the past, only professionals with highly paid jobs could afford them. These people were generally more intelligent, so they had some idea of how to operate them. Now, anybody who can hold a shovel in their hand can own a turbo charged high performance car – with disastrous consequences.

When you think of it, spending all your money on something you cannot legally use is a stupid thing in itself. It is like buying skis in Perth, and then complaining that the government does not provide snow for them to be used.

Most of my drive to work is on a single lane road where it is not possible to overtake. I believe that speed limits are there for a reason, so I stick to them. This infuriates many motorists who somehow feel that they know better, and I am denying them their God-given right to drive at any speed they like. I almost always pick up a tailgater – obviously a moron who is unable to foresee the possible consequences of his actions. Those with a bit of intelligence will sit on my back bumper and then fall back when they see it does not make me go any faster. The less intelligent will continue to drive close by, and show their annoyance by swaying from side to side.

The one part of my journey is the real intelligence tester. The road has two lanes for a short distance. This is where all the intellectually stunted drivers accelerate past me and normally  have to brake heavily to avoid hitting the car in front of me.

What really gets me are those that accuse speed trapping as being revenue raising. They just can’t seem to understand that you have to break the law to get fined. If you stick to the speed limits, it will never happen. I think of some speed traps as being a special tax on idiots, and am only too pleased to have someone pay some of my taxes.

Imagine what it would be like of some of these idiots were allowed to pilot a plane.  Some of their comments would be:

• “Why should I drop down to a lower altitude, all because some guy in the control tower says I must. I know how to fly this thing. Other lower powered buzz boxes can just get out of my way.”
• “If I overtake this guy taxiing in front of me by going onto the grass, I will be able to take off before him.”
• “If I sit on  this guy’s tail, he might get out of the way so that I can land in front of him.”

The IQ test for drivers will have the following questions that will immediately disqualify them from every having a driving license if they answer ‘Yes’.

1. Do you hold your steering wheel with one hand at the 12.00 o’clock position?
2. Do you drive with your fog lights one, even though there is no fog?
3. Do you intend buying a four wheel drive?
4. Do you want  personalised number plates that say “Bubba”, “Hot gear” or the like.
5. Do you think it is OK to tailgate if the driver in front is going too slowly?
6. Do you believe that the right indicator should never be used on a roundabout?