Give us patience

Day 84
Saturday May 30

Oh, this is not going to be a good day. The weather predicts wind. Rain is one thing. Gusty winds are another. Our thought for the family covid-reunion walk was the linear path but I refuse point blank to take kids under gum trees in high winds. No way. Anyway, the projected picnic walk depends on Rosie. When she wakes, it is to a restless night and a painful back. We defer the walk.

P is emptying his Norwood storage unit and delivering to Sam the precious of Medieval cheese rack we had at Norwood Farm. Love that nigh-fossilised piece of history. we bought in Dorking in the 70s . P helped us to save it by keeping it in his storage unit ever since Sam had to leave the Edward St house for little rentals. Sam is thrilled to be getting it back - to have in his roomy new home. I am thrilled, too. P is a rock in our world. We are lucky to have him.

Rosie texts me her version of her injury and how she feels. Very sore. Nasty when she rolls over in bed at night. We get Sam to take a photo of her back so we can see the bruising. It is not as bad as I had feared.

B has his big Yale reunion Zoom morning. This would have been the main reunion day. It is a very big Zoom gathering, orchestrated by our mate Jim Conroy. I overhear bits and pieces of their remiscences and greetings.

We have the living room all cosy and keep on eye on the weather.
B and I go for a district walk, down wide suburban streets with safe treescape. The gusty wind is nasty, whipping up bursts of leaves and dust. Wind is my utterly unfavourite weather phenomenon. And it is death to a clean house. In this near-desert environment, dust is an issue even when it is not windy. Blech.

Sam kindly drops in some wayward shopping.
I make meat balls in rich tomato gravy listening to the reports of growing mayhem in the US. The death of George Flloyd over a forged $20 note. He was buying cigarettes. Probably high on heavy duty drugs according to the reports B has been reading. Fentanyl, B suspects. Police identified him from the shopkeeper’s description. Pretty easy, really. He is 6ft 8in tall. A massive man. A bouncer. And he was just around the corner from the shop sitting on the roof of his car, of all things. They said he was unsteady when they got him down. He sat on the sidewalk pretty peacefully. Then they escorted him across the road. He still seemed passive. And we don’t exactly see what then occurs except that the police are holding him down and one burly cop has his knee on his neck. For almost 9 minutes, it turns out. Ffloyd says he can’t breathe. Then he stops breathing. B digs into the physiology books to see how this pressure kills and says he thinks it was only contributive to the breath suppression of fentanyl or opiates he may have taken. An autopsy will determine this. But it is too late for America. This is a racial issue. White cops, Black victim. Another one. And the kneeling on a man’s neck like that it just utterly beyond the pale. Utterly. No matter what drugs may have been in his system. It is a crime. A tragedy. And, on top of the covid crisis, America begins to unravel.

So are we. B and I have a terrible row.
I also feel deeply damaged. Sleep is elusive.



Day 85
Sunday May 31

I must have peed five times in the night. I brave the pre-dawn and make coffee.
The world is heaving with the news from the USA. Scrolling through Twitter I see that city after city is in riots. Arson and looting, Police shooting tear gas, rubber bullets, pepper spray. Journalists being attacked. White supremacists out in force, fuelling the racists fires. The national guard called out. Curfews imposed. Trump blaming the Democrats? Trump declaring anti-fascists as enemies of the country. OMG.
It makes the Queensland conspiracy theory retards who are today protesting over G5 and vaccines seem irrelevant. Just idiots bloody obstinate in their ignorance. I would not give them media oxygen, if I had my way. They are an embarrassment in an educated country. I read reports that a lot of their gullibility is fuelled by Russian bots on social media. For heaven’s sake.

The weather is cool with showers. The wind has abated.
Sam reports that Rosie is feeling way better and that the picnic family social distancing reunion will go ahead. He and Ru are out shopping for it.

B and I have a lovely Zoom session with our friends Jim and Irene in Philadelphia. We would have been with them now were it not for the pandemic. Irene has big news. She is retiring from her senior curatorial role at the Philadelphia Art Museum.
I do P’s Sunday Smart Arts segement with Steve Davis. We are all in good form today and it is a sparkling 15 mins. We decide that drag queens should be delivering Meals on Wheels. Steve dubs them Meals on Heels.

I drive over to S’s and find the three of them waiting outside in the street for me. It is so hard not to run up and hug. We all feel it. With S pulling his black granny trolly, we cross Hackney road very carefully and walk into the beautiful Botanic Gardens. I have a girl either side of me regaling me with news. Rosie sings me the We Are One Australia anthem in the Kaurna language. Oh, my. The sweet, pitch-perfect voice and that beautiful cultural melding. With our kids getting the sort of racial harmony education that primary schools now teach, the future sense of equality of races should be assured . It is a far cry from the US.
It is lush and green in the Gardens. Just a hint of light drizzle. We wend our way around the winding paths. There are a few people around. Some teens in matching outfits are doing a dance thing under a tree. For TicToc, concludes Ru.
The girls are experts on coronavirus and want to talk about it. Everyone is talking about it, of course, and our lives are controlled by it. They know that smokers have rare advantage against the virus. Ruby does not want her mother to know that because she so wants her mother to stop smoking. It’s a dilemma. But, she says, the big finding of covid19 hospital patients has been the deficiency in Vitamin D.
We don’t hold hands or touch. And when we come to the shelter of the latticed pavilion in th Garden, we spread out in social distance on the bench as S lays out our picnic. What a feast.
Finely sliced Barossa ham, finely sliced Gruyere, mustard, crackers for me and crackers for the girls, celery sticks, divine hummus, watermelon… Best kambutcha in disposable cups. And, piece de resistance, plastic bowls and spoons and massive serves of fresh, sweet blackberries and raspberries with keto birthday doughnuts and lashings of fresh dollop cream. I thought I couldn’t eat it all. I was wrong. Yumm. It is the celebration for both his and my May birthdays, he says. An extravagant treat all round. With added hand sanitiser. And it is a celebration of us being together again. Of me coming out of iso to be with the ones I love. It is an all-round happiness. I have brought the dodgy selfie stick in the hope of getting some group shots. Sam makes it work,. I knew he would. We take a happy snap as the rain starts to move in.
And we meander happily, albeit damply, home.

There B is making much needed chicken stock. I have rearranged the freezer ready for it. We have worked through most of the iso-stockpile of food. And, we don’t have to feel so anxious about supply any more. I have actually liked the delivery phenomenon and am not sure when I will brave the stores again. But, the way things are now, one has to feel more relaxed.

Rex texts to say he has been told about his award win and is over the moon. But how are we going to do it, Zoom, and all. After much to and froing with B, it is decided he must come here for dinner and Zoom with my media. June 12. Another big date in the pandemic history.
Next, we will return to EB and have Merry in for dinner.
If the pandemic stays the way it is - which is largely in Victorias and overseas. If there are no imports or spikes….

B has cleaned the kitchen. I do my LucySquad exercises. I have kept my pedometer steps in the green for 55 straight days now. Exercise remains vital. I work on computers with review and media awards. G&T. M talk. Salmon with cabbage and salad. Atkins chocolate. Food coma.

Day 86
Monday June 1

America is in appalling strife. The death of George Floyd has stirred the masses to their core.
Angel cancels zoom media awards meeting. Another paper is going down. Centralian Advocate in Alice Springs.


Day 87
Tuesday June 2

I can’t help it. I spend all day watching CNN - and just a little bit of Fox to see if and how the arch conservatives can twist the facts into some sort of Democrat blame game. Of course, they are busy doing that. They are just repugnant. I don’t comprehend them.
History unfolds in front of me as city after city comes out.

We walk across the Parade and see the world almost as it used to be. Not a mask to be seen.Shops all open. Still with social distancing lines outside, of course, The virus is still out there. But the world is turning again. B thinks we may go out for dinner this week. Yippee.


Day 88
Wednesday, June 3

Zoom with the Secret Seven who are just the Famous Five today. Lovely session. We agree to start walking again next Wednesday, weather permitting. Social distancing, of course.
Problem zooming with Brainstorms.
Keeping warm. Writing citations. Really agonising over how to be positive about the negative state of the media today.

B and I do a big walk around the smug streets of Toorak Gardens.



Day 89
Thursday, June 4

Still making orders from Woolies for delivery and Sam is still buying in for us. But one wonders how long the iso thing needs to go on. I am feeling way more relaxed. B, on the other hand, is still wary. Nicole and the kids have come down with horrible colds. Maybe flu. They did not get shots. Ry is OK so far. B notes that by not going out, we have not caught anything. That is a plus. Indeed. Touch wood.

Such a lovely day. I struggle with a quote for the Media Awards winners’ presser, to get that balance of good news against the horror story of the myriad closures of regional papers and redundancies across the industry. It is a tricky juggle and I stress about it, realising with a flash of irony, that hardly anyone will read, listen or care in the end of the day.



Day 90
Friday, June 5

Sunshine. Quick. Beach walk. I nag B out of the house to Grange where we steal a glorious walk against the incoming tide. Shoals of shells. I find my very favourite of all beach shells. It is a rare thing. I’m thrilled. We walk out on the jetty and talk to a lovely young Indian fellow who has just pulled in a puffer fish, No, he is not planning on killing it. He has it in the bucket to photograph. He has a saltwater aquarium at home and would love to take it home but fears he may not be able to care properly for it. I ask to take a photo, too. It is a beautiful creature with blue spots and the most glorious orange-patterned fan tail. And he is my sort of fisherman. What a pleasant encounter. Not so the two old chaps on their bikes who call us to get out of their way. They did not abide by the no-cycling sign on the jetty. Cyclists have become a plague of boorish entitlement. They make pedestrians feel constantly intimidated.
But the beautiful beach and the khaki coloured winter sea did the soul good. As always. The beach is my happy place.

The world is turning again. Things are back in production. Work resumes, even for me.
Jim Elder pops along to collect a thumb drive of my writings for his next art catalogue, bringing a folder of the next and last lot for this catalogue. I have a deadline.



Day 91
Sat June 6

Massive rally in Adelaide today for Black Lives Matter. Still in the oldies’ vulnerability category, we remain wary of crowds, so I watched avidly from afar throwing my support online through my Twitter feed. I was proud of everyone and particularly glad for the First Nations people who are clinging optimistically to this global anti-racist sentiment. The reservations I have, as I watch the world coming together, is the anti-white backlash. I’ve copped quite a lot of racism in my time from hostile Jamaicans and Aborigines, blamed for being part of the invader race etc. I was raised in a spirit of human equality, a universality that embraced colour, gender and age. Injustice and cruelty to others was a cause of grief and frustration. I’ve always wanted to solve the world’s problems/ I’ve always had difficulty understanding the mindsets of bigots and rapacious right-wingers. I’ve been happy to wear the label of “bleeding heart Kumbaya leftie”, even when it was slung as invective. But we Kumbaya types are not always liked by the people we support and defend.I was cut to the quick by my Jamaican mates in London years ago when they said they and their cause did not want my support. I loved those people and felt shocked and unjustly rejected. They were guests in my house at the time and I have always wondered why they accepted my friendship and hospitality if they felt that way.
My politics has not changed and I am heartened seeing its viral spread in this time of the great virus. There is a whole generation out there defending our fundamental human equality. There are also gun-toting far righters out there who are defending their right to hate. I only hope the balance will weigh to kindness and compassion.
I hope these rallies around the world are making others think about these things. Fairplay.

With my heater and fire on in the living room, I settle down to writing up the catalogue.
There is a pile of work here. Media Awards still needs some writing. Oh, and there is the Max biography sitting there in front of me, digging guilt and anxiety into my soul. I just don’t know how to cope with it.
So, I just don’t. I talk at length to Peter about it. I need money to pay someone. I simply don’t have it. Impasse. I need a miracle.

Take a walk to clear the head - out through the streets of Norwood, the old beat but down different roads.
Back to the desk, a G&T, a talk to M, dinner, TV.





Day 92
Sun June 7

Still having trouble with sleep. Listening to audiobook most of the night. B’s Yale friend’s friend. A surfing pilgrimage. It won a Pulitzer. It is fascinating. Gawd, surfers can be masochistic daredevils.
The moon has been bright and clear and the morning is dark and bitter cold. I turn up the heat and make the coffee.

Turn on the ABC for latest. Patricia Karvelas is on Insiders, alone because of covid, of course. She’s my pinup. Lucid, lovely. The US continues to protest. Here there is a backlash, of course. I tipped that the paper would carry football or at least find footballers in yesterday's protest to feature on today’s front page. Yep. The paper shared the front page protest/football with the strident cry that if people can protest racism they can cheer footy. Same thing. Footy first. Yay. Yay. This childish spoilt brat footy obsession sours my stomach. They are using a tragedy to advance their fun. I am right off AFL.
Meanwhile, it is ABC 891 Adelaide radio Smart Arts day and, as resident critics, Steve and I have watched the National Theatre of Scotland’s Survival fundraiser series of short solo plays. They have been expertly done, fine actors with fine scripts and directors and production values. Steve and I have slightly different takes on them but generally celebrate their professionalism and their relevance as perfect time pieces of life in sequestration. I am particularly moved by the sense of claustrophobia many must feel in Scotland, living in tenements, in small apartments up stone stair wells, apartments with no back doors. I lived like that in Edinburgh for a year or so and have vivid memories of the good and bad of it.

I waste no time getting back into the catalogue and, apart from doing a few exercises, stick with it solidly for the next five hours. Interesting doing some of the research. There’s an unknown artist called Robert Young who is little recorded with this lively party-style crowd scene illustrative art, but one little obit from perhaps a neighbour which is a few words describes just the lovely eccentric fellow and my heart it warmed. He lived in a converted petrol station in a Victorian country town, devoted to painting and fly fishing. I think of Francis Roy Thompson, the artist I knew so well through childhood, who lived upstairs in the loft of a barn down the road and so regularly fell out the loft door that the owners of the property put a mattress underneath it. A beloved and wonderful eccentric artist who once cooked lunch for me on a bunsen burner in that loft. I ran into him the day he received his first aged pension check and he hugged me with glee saying this was the richest he had ever been.
Then I am researching Brian Seidel. Oooh, this really gets my blood boiling. Who the hell is Peter Quartermaine? His coffee table bio artbook on Brian Seidel is the most insulting and appalling piece of biased crap I may ever have read. It is obsessed with hostility towards Adelaide. Page after page contains snipe after snipe. The artist was beloved here. He was a popular man. Friend of my parents and their circle. He was even art critic on the Tiser for a while. What? He hated every minute of everything here? Was held back by this city? A racist city? He had Silesian blood and suffered for it. I have bloody Silesian blood and it has never been anything but a point of proud history from our strong Lutheran German culture, our wonderful German wine culture. I can’t believe the artist wasted all his time with this author crushing sour grapes all over decades of life among the arts people of SA, albeit at a time when traditionalism and modernism were colliding. The book makes me steam with anger. It does disservice to the artist and objectivity.

I am glad we have committed ourselves to going out for dinner. Chinatown has been sending out messages of despair, saying no one is going there and it is in strife. They were doing that when coronavirus first broke out and they were feeling anti-Chinese sentiment. So we immediately went in for dinner to show support.
That was the last meal out before we went into iso.
Now, with the same crie de coeur, we return. We take our exercise in a brisk walk around the surrounding streets. It is pretty quiet, Sunday night on a long weekend. And it is brutally cold. Biting. Wicked.
We arrive at Wa Hing the restaurant where we last dined, an old favourite, to show our loyalty, albeit there seemed plenty to choose from. We roll in effusively announcing our joyful return. Oops. No, we didn’t book. We’ve never had to book. Didn’t think of it. Oh, limited numbers because of social distancing. Full. Oh. Of course it is empty at this time. It is only 5.30. OK. we can a table if we are out by 7. Well, yes, we just want to eat. The proprietor says she won’t give us the menu. She knows what we always like. Thus do we order. But we feel not really all that welcome, especially when I ask for a second glass of wine while waiting for the food. Is that a hint of disapproval? The food is exquisite. We wolf it down. A couple more people have arrived but the restaurant is still 80 per cent empty when we pay and leave. Just a bit subdued. I would have liked to have given my support to Hsin, our local, or Eastern Garden, our other local. Just as fine for cuisine. We don’t actually need Chinatown. It was a gesture. I feel just a bit conned.

Back home we do something we have never ever done before. We drink mugs of hot chocolate in bed.



Day 93
Monday, June 8
Queen’s birthday holiday

Ugh. The news is full of Queen’s Birthday Honours. The right-wing indulging the right-wing once again. Tony Abbott, Bronwen Bishop. Oh, really. There is a certain ugliness to these awards. P and I have a grouch about them. Of course, he already has one, anyway. I know I will never get one. They would crush me dead in the disapproval process. I may have an epic string of "firsts" as a woman trailblazer in journalism but I just don’t have the right friends to endorse me. And by right I mean “right”. I count my "firsts" -- first woman news reporter on The News in the 60s, also The Evening News in Edinburgh funnily enough, first woman Aussie Rules footy columnist in the country, first woman online editor of a metro daily...um..there are some others, but who cares? 

The big new White House fence has covered in George Floyd posters and BLM messages, so many that you can’t even see the White House any more. My heart bursts with love for those people and their initiative.

But not for the businessman boy brigade who are bellowing and bellowing to have football matches. Oh, it is so tedious and overwhelming. I feel as if they are shouting in my face. They have kept this up non stop and will do so until they have their way like children in the toy shop.


Another nippy day.
I spend most of it at my desk, some of it with chores and cleaning.
Take B out to the parklands for a walk. They have announced they want to fell the ancient giant gums in the south east corner, a favourite walk featuring arguably the most magnificent gums in the city. B has never walked this trail before. Of course, he loves it. It follows a creek which every 100 years can cause flooding in the suburbs. They want to fell the trees and replace them the water plants and a wetland. Oh, and a butterfly park?

The radio has said that there are massive crowds of people at all the scenic spots around, the post covid madness to be out and about. Bakeries have queues a mile long. You can’t move at Glenelg or places in the Barossa. But here there are very few people. It is incredibly beautiful and the winter greens as richly vivid in the winter sunshine.
I take lots of photos which I post on FB to show the world what trees they are targeting for this new flood mitigation scheme for the suburb of Mitcham.

Back to the desk with me. M phone. G&T. Big Brother starts. I love BB. A secret weakness. Roast chicken and gravy for dinner.





Day 94
Tuesday, June 9



Another nippy day. At least the sun is out. I do a Lucy Squad routine and some chores.
The paper is nothing but football.

I am back at the desk, this time working on Rex’s citation speech for the SA Media Awards. When I finish, I flick it to Rex for a fact check. I am really pleased it is all correct and that he is really pleased with it. Qe discuss the Zoom awards. It still is a bit of a mystery to me how it will work.

B and I take a walk to Office Works. I need thumb drives so I can give Jim Elder my catalogue copy. It is a pleasant walk until the Magill Road/Portrush Road intersection which is terrifying. Thundering trucks and rushing cars. Huge banners on street fences accuse the premier Stephen Marshall of taking homes from people. The intersection is slated for major redevelopment and the compulsory acquisitions have been stingy, I gather.
Officeworks has hand sanitiser and social distancing. But is ticking along as normal otherwise.

Media announces that football will have its way. Crowds of 2000 are approved. Footy footy footy, stamp feet we come first blather blather blather. My respect slides with their spoilt brat insistence on body contact at a time when we should restrain a while longer.
They get their way, of course.
Further BLM protests are not approved. Aboriginal groups have been keen to have follow-up movements for deaths in custody issues. One massive exception is enough, say the authorities. Let’s be careful.

A banal politician, Tony Passan, is given hours of afternoon radio in which to carry on about the state going back to normal. Business. Business. Why does he have the air on this? Why is it not the health authorities? Why is no one respecting the official health decisions on crowds and social distancing? It is all men with agendas. Not women! Women are cautious. But loud-mouthed men champ at the bit and push and push and nag and nag. It annoys me deeply. I whack off a text. My texts are always ignored.

I am not ready for the supermarket yet. I hear such stories of how nasty they have become. I still like Woolies deliveries. I put one through for Thursday drop off.

A Zoom meeting with Gemma, Angel, Shauna and Meredith for the SA Media Awards. I discover that my big old desktop is not up to scratch for the backgrounds we need. I struggle with it and find myself a ghostly image on a photo background. Hmm. Problem.

G&T, Marg talk, pork sausages and cauli mash, Big Brother.