Wednesday 20th May
A different hue of dawn after the wet weather of the night. Not that the world seems wet.
And then, the Brainstorms Zoom with the internationals, just three Aussies, one Canadian and five Americans. It is interesting and feisty.
We are all fired up about Trump and the hydroxychloroquine controversy. Trump’s taking it as a prophylactic against coivd19, or so he says. We all get heated on the subject of this pathological liar.
The world is opening up again and many of us fear it is premature. It also is inconsistent. The radio is full of debates on who accommodates how many people outside or inside, at hotels or restaurants or markets or or or… When the trains are crammed with people who cannot possibly social distance themselves. How is this all going to pan out? There is a new covid victim in Brisbane and they are suspecting she has had the virus since March. Just diagnosed. It is all very worrying. Very confusing.
And a new poll says that one in eight Australians think Bill Gates and G5 caused it. OMG. Conspiracy theories are the other sickening virus. Ignorance. Is there a vaccine for stupid?
Day 75
Thursday, May 21
Sam’s 41st birthday.
Send him birthday money and lots of greetings and love. Miss him. My beautiful, kind-hearted boy.
It has stormed overnight and the sun battles to show its power over the cloudy dawn sky.
I make chicken puttanesca. Talk to M. Walk around the house to get steps up. Check back online. I have dissed and unfriended a FB “friend” going on about conspiracy theories. I note that Michael Pratt has leapt to her defence and posted a tirade of incomprehensible babble about me and “lefties”. He is as incoherent as Trump. I am not having it any more. I make a snappy response that I am not indulging ignorance about the pandemic and I unfriend him, too. It’s a bit sad in a way. We are old buddies bonded by Norwood Football Club. I opened his political office when he won the seat of Adelaide as a Liberal a zillion years ago. He seems to have lurched past the Libs and into the crazy far right zone. He tags me too much on FB with his babbling angry right rants. I’m over it.
Watch a bit of TV. Eat naughty icecream. Hit the pit.
Day 76
Friday, May 22
The grey clouds have won. First light is a grey world heralding a grey day.
The world down here is very calm and confident that there is no coronavirus.
There have been no new cases in the state in weeks and the last patient was given a ceremonial farewell from the Royal Adelaide Hospital yesterday after months, 35 days of which he was kept in coma. He had been a cruise ship passenger, a very fit and healthy one just retired. His every organ was attacked by the virus and the hospital considered his recovery nothing less than a miracle. He was clearly very weak as he was escorted out of the hospital firmly supported by two nurses, walking slowly through the cheering guard of honour. He now is going to a rehab hospital. His recovery is not complete.
The medical system is braced for a second wave. Social distance continues. Stay alert.
But the government is carefully optimistic and restrictions are lifting. Restaurants can have 10 inside and 10 out. More shops are opening. By June long weekend, pubs will open and country accommodation will be full up. Everyone is going on the road.
We would have been leaving the Volcano House today and staying in Honolulu ready to fly to Boston on our original plans. I was so looking forward to a few days back in Nashua, going to Pheasant Lane Mall…
No American shopping for this little black duck. Instead I have ordered a warmer dressing gown from Myers Online. This $20 piece of baby blue BigW dressing gown crap has not done the job down here.
I head to my window chair for some serious reading. I want to finish the Jing-Jing Lee How We Disappered book I’m reviewing for the ’Tiser. With Dexter on my lap, I immerse myself in the heart-rending saga of poverty stricken Singapore Chinese pre and post Japanese occupation in WWII. It is the most gruelling account of comfort women I have ever read. And a touching set of narratives finding their way gradually towards the relief of connection. I weep and weep some more as I finish the book. I am emotionally drained. But well pleased with the book itself. Well pleased.
The time has come. Stop the Presses!
I have made a commitment.
We have to go into a shop.
We need some meat. I crave lamb. Country lamb. There are butchers who deliver down here but I like to support the little country butcher, Kev’s, in Victor Harbor. I’ve asked online if they deliver and have received a sweet reply that they don’t but they will fill orders for pickup and allow only two in the shop and have thorough sterilisation. So, since Victor Harbor has never had a single covid case and is about as free as a country town can be, I have made the order and must collect it.
I had intended to visit Veg Out for limes but B says no. Enough shops. Let’s go home. We will eschew the G&T and drink something else.
We repair home and wait out the rain for a walk around the Encounter Wetland. uh-oh. The radar was wrong. The rain comes back and back. We walk in the rain. It is a curtailed walk and I pound around the house to get steps up. B makes martinis. Beautiful. Delicious. But a few sips in and I realise that they are not the go for my tummy. I open a bottle of Turkey Flat rose.
Day 77
Saturday, May 23
Another grey sky morning. The light coming gradually in shades of grey. Pity that ghastly book threw the idea of shades of grey into another context. It is one of those “thefts” such as “gay” and “rainbow”, when something universally familiar is turned into a different something universally familiar.
Then shower and get into the organising and packing ready to move back to the city. I explain the move to Dexter. He needs to prepare, too.
Then the car is packed, the house is secure, the door is locked and off we go in the drizzling rain.
There is a lot of traffic on the road. Since work-at-home iso has been a factor, so has this traffic phenomenon. The world coped for a while and then the boys became restless. They want to be let out and they will get out by hook or by crook. Since this state has had so few cases, they feel vindicated, no matter what the authorities may say. They have pestered and nagged and nagged and pestered for getting their freedom back, their sports back, their cafes back… The media has filled itself with the nag-fest. What else does it have to fill itself with? It is the news of the day, albeit the media does not recognise that it is akin to kids kicking at the front door because mum says they can’t go out to play. They have so many excuses. Mainly the need to make money. Of course, the ones who need to make money are now without jobs and on meagre government support. The ones who want to make money already have money. They are the business people, of course. Real estate
has been as pushy as football. Tourism is pretty antsy, too. It is going to change its tune soon enough when it is swamped by the flood of new local holidaymakers.
So, it was not surprising that, amid the swarm of traffic, when we come to the Harvest of Fleurieu shed where I so love to shop and where there are things I really want, it is so crowded with cars and people that it simply was not feasible to pause.
It was a bad trip for Dexter for some reason. He complained all the way home, relentlessly. A bit frazzling for B and me, actually.
At home, we were lucky to get the favourite parking spot opposite the house and duly unloaded the masses of provisions. The house was cold, of course and I needed to get on with judging the SA Media Awards.
My Woolies delivery arrived. Bless them, although for some reason they still can’t supply zucchini or small truss tomatoes.
One is slightly less anxious about the potential viral contamination of foods now, since the finding that the contagion has been low from surfaces. Nonetheless, I follow the protocol, spraying, washing etc. Tedious as it is.
I’ve long promised and craved the rack of lamb and tonight’s the night. I have a brief talk with M who has found a doctor’s appointment for 5.45 re her carpal tunnel problem. B prepared celeriac. I take some of my frozen zucchini, add tomato and pop it in the oven and then prepare the lamb, searing it well and then coating it with mustard and rosemary and roasting it in the oven.
Oh, my. Perfection is not an understatement. Beautiful country lamb perfectly cooked. We both swoon. Oh, I needed that fix.
Day 78
Sunday May 24
Black and cold outside. I wake far too early.
It is a breathtaking media gesture and I am just so, so, proud of the NYT for doing this. What a stroke of editorial genius, of generous-spirited and brave editorial decision-making. What a history stroke.
Of course, Trump is off playing golf this weekend.
When the Americans are brilliant, they are sublime.
When they are stupid, they are incomprehensibly ugly.
It is a huge, great nation and they are both things. Unfortunately, the Trump base is growing. Stupidity is the real sickness. Bloody-minded, venal, strident, aggressive ignorance.
They prove this as we soon see in weekend pictures, out and about for the Memorial Day holiday packed like sardines into all the holiday spots. Nary a mask to be seen. While coronavirus still rages in their country. Let’s see how the spike emerges from this Trumpian freedom demonstration.
I do the Smart Arts radio segment sitting in front of the fire. It goes well. I have seen a magnificent Bangarra dance piece called Terrain and steered Steve to a Banbarra/ADT piece to we have two Aboriginal dance works to discuss. It is lively and informative, I think. Steve later thanks me for introducing him to that form of dance which has not been in his orbit.
It is a good walk, past a big hedge packed with teddy bears, of all things. Just so sweet, but I wonder why. I later find out that while we have all been locked down in iso, there has been a teddy bear campaign going on with people all around the suburbs popping teddies in their windows and on porches and fences so that children, home-schooled and taken walking for exercise, can have the fun of spotting them.
It is a beautiful community cheer-up, and a complete surprise but also a cheer-up to those of us who have been staying inside all this time.
We wend our way homewards through Richards Park where the wattle is beginning bloom. I love it so,. I bury my face in it furry balls of fragrance.
Back to the Media Awards and my LucySqaud exercises. M and I compare notes on things medical and dental in front of us tomorrow. Good luck to each, we wish.
B is treating us to Hsin dinner delivery tonight so I phone it through. Madam Hsin herself once again delivers. She hands me a pen and I have to sign, This is just so not social distancing,. But it is all changing and everyone is getting more relaxed, me included. Nonetheless, I hand sanitise furiously afterwards.
We share out the gorgeous Oriental plenty and relish every morsel.
Then sink into the night with unremarkable TV.
Bay 79
Monday May 25
Awaken edgy with the thought that it is dental day. Even the cosy cat can't dispel my anxiety.
B gives me a good eggy breakfast so I don’t go in rumbletum and I speed through chores and shower and hair etc to get into the car and do the deed. B is wonderfully coming with me. Whatever his failings in this world, supporting his wife in things medical and dental is not among them. I am so fortified by his presence. And so we hit Hindmarsh Square and find half hour parks outside. We agree B will either pay the metre charge or park the car elsewhere while I am in the chair. He is puzzling at the metre payment as I go in and announce myself. The waiting room is overheated but devoid of patients. There is a new perspex shield at the reception desk. “Oh, Samela, we have you down for tomorrow,” says Chelsea at the desk. OMG. The bloody electronic diary which is not giving me clarity, not scrolling at all and bloody well starts its weeks on Monday and not after a visible weekend. Oh, how I miss a paper diary. It is an old thorn with B who wants the electronic diary so he can be matched and informed on all we are doing. Well, he didn’t get a message on this one any more than I did. I laugh with embarrassment and rush out of the waiting room in the hope that B will not have driven off, He hasn’t. He has only just mastered the metre with his credit card. He has paid $4. Well, let’s use the fee and take a walk in the city, say I. No, says he, I don’t have warm enough clothes on. We search the car for the winter emergency coats but it is still autumn and things are not usual. So, we cut out losses and drive home, thrilled to discover that the preferred parking place opposite the house is miraculously still vacant.
My relief at not having the appointment is countered by a sense of stupid. Then again, I have plenty to do. My teeth had been feeling worrisome and I was concerned at the advice that I would need to replace the implant racks which have served me so well, at a prodigious and unbelievable and unmanageable cost. It has been a cause of much stress to me. And this is why I am so tense about the dental appointment….
We get a wee refresher walk down the suburban roads. Aaah. Fresh winter air.
A then, bloody hell, I have a Media Awards Zoom meeting. Bloody Zoom.
I had forgotten. My online diary has some sort of snafu. I am a madly punctual person. I can't bear this new disorganisation. Is it a covid syndrome thing? Mixing up days? Never being sure what day it is? Losing a sense of tick-tick-tick?
I compensate myself by doing the call while eating freshly roasted almonds and drinking my G&T.
The awards team is terrific as usual and I am glad to see them and impressed with the way things are coming together against the odds of no one being allowed to do anything, i.e. have dinner functions and crowds and audiences. We are planning an entirely online event here. Emma is our lynchpin in Sydney and she is brilliant. She knows what it is all about. She is our producer and director. Zoom-style.
I time juggle my Marg call. She has had her ophthalmic procedure.
She has been beautifully cared-for and is home under her granddaughter’s care, full of the joys of said granddaughter and the miraculous speed and ease of the procedure. Coronavirus has changed the shape of medical waiting rooms. No waiting. No delay. M hopes this courteous efficiency will endure past the pandemic and the syndrome of patients having to be endlessly patient in waiting rooms will be gone. Hmm. Let’s hope.
Day 80
Tuesday May 26
It is another black morning promising a cold, wet day.
The local news rankles with the importation of the corona case from the UK, via Melbourne. Compassionate exceptions to the exclusion rule? Who knew? So a person can fly from the UK on international flights we didn’t know were happening and have half a quarantine in Melbourne before flying to Adelaide on a domestic passenger flight we didn’t know about and then be tested at the airport on arrival and be found positive for Covid19?
This news has me spinning, along with the rest of the state and, of course, the media. We had no new cases. We have been “free”. Now we fly in a fresh case?
Nicola Spurrier, our public health supremo, has been so popular for her strong stand that we are all rattled at this surprising let-down. “Betrayal”, I call it. We trusted that our borders were secure. We were beginning to feel safe, to relax.
How come this woman was allowed to fly from the UK? Compelling circumstances says Spurrier. But she cannot reveal them. Confidentiality. WTF? What’s the bloody motto of this pandemic? “We’re all in this together”! We need all to be in the know together. For heaven’s sake, we now have Apps on our phones so we can all be tracked for Covid safety. And suddenly there is covid info we are not allowed to know. That is not very together. Of course, we can all imagine what the circumstances are. A dying family member. A desperate trip to be at a bedside, no doubt. We can all feel grief for that. However, we right here are not permitted to be visiting and hand-holding our dying loved ones. We can’t pop from state to state to do this, not without a mile of red tape and quarantining.
The saga evolves with press briefings and explanations and cross-examinations by media. Spurrier is compromised and embarrassed. They did not expect this woman. Did not know she was coming,. She only did half her quarantine in Melbourne. It is an almighty mess.
Social media starts sniping at us for lacking compassion towards this woman. Oh, rack off. No one is targeting the woman herself. One is targeting the bloody virus you stupid, mush-minded, sucky, goody-two-shoes guilt-gamers. Importing the virus is the issue. Officially importing the virus.
It turns out that the woman made herself known to the airport authorities and hence was tested. Had she not done that, had she just wandered off to her rellies and the world at large, she could have been the “it just takes one” catalyst for a huge new spike. One is very glad she did that and very sorry for her predicament. But furious that it ever happened. They are madly contract-tracing other people on the plane and people she has since be around. She is, of course, in quarantine.
And the government is flailing about with explanations.
Grrrr.
Meanwhile, more and more businesses are set to re-open. The roads are busy. No one wears a mask.
And I, at home, am intensely busy at my desk judging the SA Media Awards entries.
I am pretty pleased with some of them, especially the young Max Fatchen Award entrants.
Do some Lucy Squad exercises to counteract all the sitting at the desk.
A brisk local walk with B uncovers some more signs of the corona world. Bins. Bin night has been a new corona ritual and people have been dressing up and dancing and making a major event of taking out their bins since it is one of the few outings people are actually permitted in the days of stay-at-home, work-from-home self-isolation. The Internet has been rocking with bin performances. They have been the meme thing. Great fun. I've not seen any of this in my street but, as we walk, we discover some bins which are performance pieces in themselves.
Evening ritual. Roasted almonds, G&T, M on phone, bloody great greedy dinner...
Day 81
Wednesday, May 27
Dark old morning. Post the usual chat with P, I zip through the shower and present myself to my Secret Seven Zoom session. Di runs our meetings very well, ensuring that everyone has plenty of say. It is always singularly agreeable. We are starting to wonder when we may resume morning walks. Wintertime is always better for me since I will not go out walking at 7 am at any time of year. Nine is fine. We moot Victoria Park and taking a thermos or getting take-away coffees from the grandstand cafe and sitting in the grandstand after walks. But we are not ready yet and we are aware that we are all in the older, more vulnerable demographic.
Straight after the SS Zoom, it is time for the Brainstorms Zoom. There are five of our American number and three Aussies. It is a beaut session. We compare notes on the state of the pandemic. America is looking worse and worse. Trump is blaming the left, the fake news, in blather, blather, bullshit, diversionary rhetoric concocted by his rat-cunning back room marketing confabulators.
The Brainstormers tired and worried. W distract ourselves with our pets and tales of animals. Sarah's rooster claims attention. Dexter makes an appearance. Scott's cats. Kate's new dog...
There is another Zoom scheduled by the national WIM convenors for 4.30. I had somehow thought it was earlier and now realise it will clash with the dentist. Dilemma. I send an apology and a report on what we have been doing in WIMSA. I get a reply to try to find a substitute. I chase one of the committee but she is away. I report this and say I’ll come on if I get out of the dentist in time.
I return to judging the awards in pressure cooker mode and almost forget the bloody dentist. It is a last-minute rush.
At least that saved the nerves. B sits in the car outside. I am not kept long in the waiting room. And, to my delighted relief, it is a short session with the wonderful Wendy. She fills the hole where the plug fell out, cleans and polishes and makes an appointment for a big session in September.
I jump in the car and tool back to the desktop, run into the house, log in to the meeting only 15 minutes late to….nothing. They are all there. They seem not to notice me. No hello. No welcome. No, you made it? No acknowledgement at all. Why did I rush?
So I sit through the meeting, glad when B brings me a G&T. I prickle at some anti-union comments from the Queensland convenor. Queensland is now so rich it has swung entirely to the right, it seems to me. So many women these days seem not to know or care about how they came by their working conditions, sick leave, maternity leave etc etc, the many achievements of the union. But these women are of the very now. They are the future. They have talent, energy and enthusiasm and I can't help it if we in SA have sort of been there and done that.
I move on to my nightly M time. And we rant and rave and get everything off our chests and cheer the good things, We are good at that. We’ve done it every night for 81 nights now.
Day 82
Thursday May 28
Bright and early Woolies delivers.
It can’t always supply everything and this time there are a number of things missing, but on the whole I am just so grateful.
Other things ordered online have taken for ever to turn up. My spray disinfectants came faster than they said they would But nothing else has. I now am not vulnerable to the dire shortage of antibacterial sprays. This is a stash. But, I am waiting waiting for anklets, ugg boots, jumpers... The more we depend on the post, the slower it is getting.
Thew SA Media Awards judging panel meeting is the big Zoom appointment of the day. I am surprised at how well it works with a spreadsheet. We plough through the categories fairly agreeably. I have one main dissent on a major award but am outvoted. An old friend us up for Lifetime. I pitch for him. He is unopposed. One queries that his career seems to have been far too much fun. I extrapolate on the olds days of journalists and serious work going with serious drinking and play. I describe the great Des Colquhoun and the epic boozing of the old days with lunches so long that they went into the next day. Those were vigorous, hard-core days of quality journalism and hearty discussions. Old school. Legendary. Days when the newspaper
s news floors throbbed from the presses thundering beneath them, when newspapers and presses and journalists were one bit pulsing beast. A far cry from what the journalists of today experience. Of course, in the commercial radio world, it was all a bit different. There were notorious freebies and gravy trains thanks to the presence of advertisers rather than the rolling presses and papers roaring through the nights on trucks to the far reaches of the state.
So it was left to me to organise the presence of the Hall of Famer at our Zoom awards night. Before we logged out, I asked if anyone had a phone number for his best mate so I could start preparing the ground. I’ll send it called a mate. Ta. No number appears but, later, when B and I are out for a walk, I am messaged by Angelqieu saying said friend would be ringing me. Huh? No number for me to call?
He is ringing me? Oh, she adds in another message, I spoke to him and filled him in. Huh? WTF? My plans are pulled from under me and my control. And still I have no number. I assert this and she sends the phone no. Huh? She has gone to a bit of trouble here to pip me in the plans. So excited she simply has to spill the beans? I am white with fury at his busybody, interfering betrayal. I call the number and leave a message. He calls back and we discuss the plans. More complicated than one may have hoped. But we’ll work it out. He has to be told sooner or later because he has to give a wee speech. But I was hoping we would have a surprise scenario.
When I talk to M, I unload my fury and frustration. Bless. We talk a lot under a “cone of silence”. She is as good a secret-keeper as I am. Both of us perfect clams. Hence, we can confide and strategise.
I suck down my gins gratefully. I am done with today. Still disappointed and angry.
Day 83
Friday, May 29
Joy of joys. Sunshine is on the cards.
I put yesterday behind me. I don’t want anything to do with it.
Talk to P. Read the papers, catching up on the frustrating evolution of the English covid19 woman and how she came to get into the state. The story has remained on a high media boil. The said it was an accident, said they did not know she was coming, they blamed Victoria, now they find that they would have known had they read their emails. They apologise abjectly to Victoria and keep analysing how this potentially-lethal error occurred. They admit to 22 compassionate overseas exceptions. They resolve to re-assess their rules. It is all such a mess. Nicola Spurrier continues to act with great dignity, but she has lost a lot of public respect. Premier Steven Marshall, who was not with her on the last couple of media calls, now gives a presser and does his best to explain everything and givbve a good news report about a tech company bringing new work. Gawd, did no one ever tell them about backgrounds. I am watching this live on FB and it is held in some scruffy, unidentifiable spare backroom where there are wires massed down the wall. Marshall, however, is a really cool cat. No matter how the media peppers him with questions, he does not lose his patience. I had no idea he had such equanimity under pressure. I am well pleased with him.
In honour of the sunshine, I launder the bedspread and hang it out. I steal a bit of the sun for myself, sitting out the front in a tiny pocket of rays and chat on the phone to Nicole, catching up on her healing and the problems with family, Sam’s custody case, her heath, Tins’ health, her custodial problems. Nothing is easy. But she is a strong and intelligent woman and I have immense faith in her. I am so happy and and Ryder have each other.
Quick call with Barb who is dealing with her carer role as best she can, victorious that her accountant has told he will get her a carer’s pension.Brian is slowly declining, she says. Harder to dress. But while he is at the care centre where he goes three or four days a week, she is stripping and revamping her front verandah, keen to get rid of wee pretty birds sheltering there., She’s had the hose on them, she says. But workmen and machinery will get rid of them, she laughs. Funny old thing, She always has to have a renovation or furniture project on the go. She is restless deep within. Purging cupboards endlessly, changing furniture, getting trees removed, taking out plants…
B and I, meanwhile, have a mission today. Cheques must go to the bank. I drive in and park directly outside the Credit Union on KW Street. They have narrowed the traffic lanes and changed the parking to parallel for the tramstops. I am a good reverse parker but it is scary with the buses and vans whizzing by and so little room. B comes out and I swamp him in hand steriliser and we proceed down to South Terrace to walk in the parklands. It is lovely. We walk the winding paved trails, cut across the grassland to examine the community garden and then, across country to a wild native thicket cross crossed by narrow dirt trails. Wonderfully wild. Who ever would expect to find such a thrilling little scrubland wilderness in the middle of a big city? We walk onwards down dirt service roads and over the road to the next park. Then turn back, hop in the car and drive to Warraninji park over by West Tce Cemetary and take another walk, past frogs with crusty wee croaks in the little billabong and past wonderful Silvio Apponyi sculptures. We sit awhile on a huge, smooth log gazing on the lush greens and feel glad to be alive.
Bad news from Sam. He had to rush to school to rescue an injured Rosie. A huge locker fell on top of her. She’s in pain and crying buckets, he says. How did it happen? He is unsure. I am, of course, a seething mass of worry. Sam is always calm in a crisis and the steady reliable dad. He takes her home to succour and rest . She is very sore and bruised, he reports, but it is not thought to be a serious injury requiring x-ray. He is keeping a close eye.
Turns out from Rosie later later that some boys were sitting on topp of the locker and others pushing it around and it fell on her, “but not my head”, she says with relief.
We are planning a walk and a picnic tomorrow. First time together since the pandemic. Rosie’s injury may have to abort this plan. We will wait and see how she weathers the night. My predicition is that she will feel worse tomorrow, as such injuries would do.
M and I talk for two hours. A record.
We have renamed each other the green budgle and the corella for the way we squawk in excited commentary of this and that.
I have found a fab keto chicken wing marinade. We have chicken wings, B’s fab turnips and beans.
Food coma.
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 escorrted 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 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 segment 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. Applause, applause!
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 paviullion 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 kombucha in disposable cups. And, the 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 was 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 ww goinf 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's 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 newspaper is going down. Centralian Advocate in Alice Springs.
Things are reeling from bad to worse.
The only positive is the low cases of covid-19 in Adelaide.
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 to proclaim and protest.
A black man basically murdered by the very people who are supposed to keep everyone safe. A policeman with a knee on his neck for 8 "I can't breathe" minutes. We've all seen it now. Today's technology and social media puts such data in one's hand within moments of it happening. We reel en masse.
There is an unleashing of emotion, perhaps exacerbated by the fear and controversy of the plague. There are still lots of Americans who think it is all a left wing hoax. They won't wear masks.But those out for Black Lives, they mostly do. They don't want a message of racial justice marred by conspiracy theory paranoia.
Finally, I drag myself away from my journo-glued-to-the-media condition and B and I take a fresh air constitutional. We walk across the Parade and find the world almost as it used to be. Not a mask to be seen. Shops open. Still with social distancing lines outside, of course, The virus is still out there. But our 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 dfor 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 baeutiful 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 which embraced colour, gender and age. Injustice and cruelty to others was a cause of grief and fruttration. 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 friendhship 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 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 corvid, 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 alovely eccenttric 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 regulalry fell out the loft door that the owners of the property put a mattress underneath it. A beloved and lwonderful eccenttic artist who once cooked lunch for me on a bunsen burner in that loft. I eran into him the day he received his first aged pension check and he hugged me with glee saying this was rthe 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 wth 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 coronavikrus 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, anway. I know I will never get one. They would crush me dead in the disapproval process. I may have a 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”.
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 suth 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 mitigration 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 fotty, stamp feet we comes 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 resespecting 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 desk top 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.
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