Now many of you are looking forward to spring but let me remind you that it begins on September 21 or at a pinch, 22. It is ridiculous that here in Australia our media treats us as if we’re so moronic that we need the seasons to change on the first day of the relevant month. It’s as if the words ‘solstice’ and ‘equinox’ are deemed too difficult for our antipodean bonces.
At the end of this month you’ll be subjected to a newsreader saying to the weather presenter, ‘And so Kylie/Jane/Blonde Chicka what’s the forecast looking like for the first day of spring?’ At this you must holler back at the screen like a deranged, mad as hell type, ‘Please, spare me this continuing nonsensical attack! I deserve better!’
Of course, this introduction bears no relationship to the celebratory theme of my post, but never mind.
Old mate Shakespeare once typed on a Friday just before knocking off for the week and heading to the Railway pub for Happy Hour that, ‘April hath put a spirit of youth in everything.’ It was a pretty lonely beer that night for Bill, largely as the railway was yet to be discovered by some Scottish git in the Industrial Revolution.
But he was right in that April with its public holidays and autumnal glow is, as Richie Benaud may have said, a very fine month indeed.
In a ridiculous attempt to parody one of the greatest cartoons ever let me say, ‘Let’s give a cheer for March, let’s give a cheer for Mar’ which is ill-considered if pop-culturally tremendous. So, here we are in March, a month that’s always on the cusp of everything.
With New Year’s Eve out the road (bed early, eyes shut, ears blocking out the staccato soundtracks of various fireworks displays both legal and otherwise) we move to the serious business of holidays and relaxation or as my friend Nick calls it, relack.
Lake Bonney is our annual setting for this and we now have a bursting itinerary of traditional activities that commence when the teenaged boys race out of bed at the crack of 9.45am and, I suspect, continue to well after I’m safely a-slumber.
New Year’s Eve’s a funny old day. During daylight it’s one of my favourite days but once the sun’s down I lose interest.
As a teenager in Kapunda I remember regularly waking early on the last day of the year- often before anyone else at home- and in the still dawn riding my bike around town and evaluating everything through my decidedly adolescent eyes. The Main Street was quiet- there was not a HQ Holden to be seen or heard- and I’d feel something probably akin to gratitude for the place- my place- and wonder about the year ahead, due to get underway in a few, brief hours.
It was always a solitary exercise but I’d experience connectedness to my hot, dusty hometown.
Claire and I and the dogs have just returned from the beach where the loose streams of walkers along the wide, flat sand suggest many others have resisted a sleep-in and are also extracting what they can from 2021 before it’s too late.
The first Tuesday of the month saw me back the Melbourne Cup winner for the first time in over twenty years when Verry Elleegant saluted. Nevermind that I was unable to watch it live due to work commitments (ed- what type of unAustralian horror is this?). Invested the winnings wisely on donuts and pizza on our mortgage and superannuation.
I love the expansive utilitarianism of a community club and Cadell has an excellent example for all of your weekend refreshment needs. That’s the Cadell Club. Phone Fred on 13, after 3pm to make a booking.
Rocktober is an annual event on a certain blokey radio station where across the month they play Cold Chisel every fifteen minutes.
I’m starting my own series of themed months including Woktober in which I eat endless bowls of noodles. Jocktober means I’ll buy a new pair of underwear or eat haggis daily. Stocktober requires me to make gallons of soup or huge money on the currency exchange. In Hocktober I drink German white wine.
And Frocktober demands I get about in a dress. As is tradition.
Quick! There’s only 113 shopping days until Christmas. Let’s make a list. Let’s all watch Love Actually every day between now and then! Let’s eat some rambutans. Let’s write a letter to every winner of Eurovision. Let’s write a poem as if we were a cat. Let’s pretend P!nk is good.
Here’s some photos I took in August.
Happy with our city car park. Number 157 would’ve been a psychological and logistical nightmare.
Like the chorus of The Knack’s solitary 1979 hit “My Sharona” July was a rollicking treat as the following photographic record will attempt to show.
It was cold, but if we’d Icelandic guests I’m sure I’d have gotten up in the mornings and found them on the back lawn, sunbathing and sipping a drink through a curly novelty straw while playing Bjork on an old ghetto-blaster they’d found in my shed next to the mower and by the skimming shovel I bought at the Cleve Field Days.
With a long weekend, the official (and scientifically supported) start of winter on June 21 or 22, and our birthdays (Claire on the ninth and mine on the sixteenth) it’s an excellent month for open fires (home and quite possibly a pub), footy and, of course, putting the slow cooker to gentle and inviting work with pumpkin soup or a beef casserole or stew.
A stew is cooked on the stove while a casserole goes in the oven so what’s its name if it’s in a slow cooker? PM me with your answer to win a prize.