I've noticed something lately: there are rather a lot of old people here in Oz -- I mean LOADS of them, and sometimes I feel like I've wandered into an episode of the Twilight (years?) Zone, where the protagonist wakes up one morning to discover the entire population has aged overnight.
I can't remember seeing this many pensioners in Ireland, and if there are, well they must all be hiding away at home, or in mass or something. Or perhaps they're all at work -- can't afford to retire. And every time I take a trip to my local mall, I'm surrounded by octogenarian males shuffling around in tiny shorts and socks up to their knees, like grotesquely overgrown school boys. Their wives stagger along behind them as if to say 'You must go on without me...we can't both make it back alive.....'
As a result of this, there seems to be rather a lot of adverts on the telly selling insurance for funeral costs or 'to take care of your loved ones...', and I keep accidentally picking up a free newspaper for 'seniors', along with the Hills Gazette and The Echo every time I wander out of my local IGA supermarket. It's only after leafing through several pages of ads for dentures or shower chairs, that I realise my mistake. However, worryingly there is another free publication aimed at seniors, or 'over 45's' as they call it -- what the hell is that about? Everyone knows that 40 is the new 25.
I recently joined a class up the top of the hill in Mundaring. The location is beautiful; there is a creche nestled among the trees which suicidal-one-year-old absolutely adores, and for two whole hours a week, nice ladies in uniforms are given the task of ensuring he doesn't end his own life in a brutish and violent manner. Opposite the creche is a little community centre which offers classes such as 'yoga', 'drama for beginners' and 'how to use your iphone'. This last one should have been my clue to the demographic of the course-takers in this particular institution, but I totally missed it.
Having been living up in the hills for just a few short weeks, I decided to enrol in the (creative writing) class, with the intention of learning how to write less, well, literally since every single thing I've ever written has ACTUALLY happened to me and I lack the ability to just 'make stuff up'.
Anyway, when I arrived to the first lesson it became quickly apparent that the average age of my fellow students was roughly 60 (and this takes into account a deranged 21-year-old who also attends the class for reasons which remain unclear to everyone in the class, including her I suspect). Initially I wondered what I could possibly learn from a group of people who like to reminisce about Englebert Humperdinck, and have a tendency to fall into a singsong with no warning whatsoever.
What I could learn was rather beside the point as it turned out, as I was treated to a couple of hours of shockingly dark short-stories, bawdy poetry and downright hilarious diatribes. They do like to talk about the war rather a lot -- Second World that is; like most things, you had to be there -- and the coffee break half way through the class seems to linger for hours since nobody has anything too pressing to be getting on with, but the experience has reminded me of the wisdom which comes with age and experience. And uncomfortable a thought as it is, we're all headed in that direction, and I guess when it's my turn to be old and doddery, I'd rather be wandering around the mall in a pair of shorts or telling rude stories to a group of friends around a table, than sitting at home in front of an electric fire worrying about the ESB bill coming in....
Shopping
But more urgently, I've been trying to buy clothes here in Oz and it turns out that every women's clothes shop in this country has designed their entire collection around Bet Lynch, the tart-with-a-heart barmaid who used to be in Coronation Street. Well at least it seems that way to me at present anyway. I'm at my wits end! I'm simply not interested in nylon animal print dresses or red and black tops made of net which inexplicably have no back on them. If I wanted to buy this sort of tat, I'd have stocked up at one of those weekly markets which set up in country towns all around Ireland, where you can buy a pair of steel-capped boots, a muddy cabbage and as much tart clothing as you like.
All this means my virtual trolley in my beloved Boden is nearing over-flow. However, online shopping lacks the instant gratification associated with handing over your card and leaving the shop clutching a bag full of goodies, and instead I'm treated to a week or two of crushing disappointment every time I check the empty post box. Although to be honest, I'm not sure how the post gets here at all, the letters just 'appear' in our post box each day and I've not once laid eyes on a post van or indeed post man.
When I say 'post box', I omit to mention the large wooden stick nailed to the lid so that one doesn't have to physically engage with the box unless there is something actually in it. The necessity of this was quickly evident the first time we found a family of red-back spiders living in among our Foxtel bills and bank statements.
Yes the spider issues remain, although at least now I'm just about able to take a pee without having to conduct a reconnaissance mission around the toilet (under the seat, behind the lid, around the back, check the window above etc...) to ensure there are no creatures lurking, since I'm in terror of discovering something crawling across me, mid-flow...
I can't remember seeing this many pensioners in Ireland, and if there are, well they must all be hiding away at home, or in mass or something. Or perhaps they're all at work -- can't afford to retire. And every time I take a trip to my local mall, I'm surrounded by octogenarian males shuffling around in tiny shorts and socks up to their knees, like grotesquely overgrown school boys. Their wives stagger along behind them as if to say 'You must go on without me...we can't both make it back alive.....'
As a result of this, there seems to be rather a lot of adverts on the telly selling insurance for funeral costs or 'to take care of your loved ones...', and I keep accidentally picking up a free newspaper for 'seniors', along with the Hills Gazette and The Echo every time I wander out of my local IGA supermarket. It's only after leafing through several pages of ads for dentures or shower chairs, that I realise my mistake. However, worryingly there is another free publication aimed at seniors, or 'over 45's' as they call it -- what the hell is that about? Everyone knows that 40 is the new 25.
I recently joined a class up the top of the hill in Mundaring. The location is beautiful; there is a creche nestled among the trees which suicidal-one-year-old absolutely adores, and for two whole hours a week, nice ladies in uniforms are given the task of ensuring he doesn't end his own life in a brutish and violent manner. Opposite the creche is a little community centre which offers classes such as 'yoga', 'drama for beginners' and 'how to use your iphone'. This last one should have been my clue to the demographic of the course-takers in this particular institution, but I totally missed it.
Having been living up in the hills for just a few short weeks, I decided to enrol in the (creative writing) class, with the intention of learning how to write less, well, literally since every single thing I've ever written has ACTUALLY happened to me and I lack the ability to just 'make stuff up'.
Anyway, when I arrived to the first lesson it became quickly apparent that the average age of my fellow students was roughly 60 (and this takes into account a deranged 21-year-old who also attends the class for reasons which remain unclear to everyone in the class, including her I suspect). Initially I wondered what I could possibly learn from a group of people who like to reminisce about Englebert Humperdinck, and have a tendency to fall into a singsong with no warning whatsoever.
What I could learn was rather beside the point as it turned out, as I was treated to a couple of hours of shockingly dark short-stories, bawdy poetry and downright hilarious diatribes. They do like to talk about the war rather a lot -- Second World that is; like most things, you had to be there -- and the coffee break half way through the class seems to linger for hours since nobody has anything too pressing to be getting on with, but the experience has reminded me of the wisdom which comes with age and experience. And uncomfortable a thought as it is, we're all headed in that direction, and I guess when it's my turn to be old and doddery, I'd rather be wandering around the mall in a pair of shorts or telling rude stories to a group of friends around a table, than sitting at home in front of an electric fire worrying about the ESB bill coming in....
Shopping
But more urgently, I've been trying to buy clothes here in Oz and it turns out that every women's clothes shop in this country has designed their entire collection around Bet Lynch, the tart-with-a-heart barmaid who used to be in Coronation Street. Well at least it seems that way to me at present anyway. I'm at my wits end! I'm simply not interested in nylon animal print dresses or red and black tops made of net which inexplicably have no back on them. If I wanted to buy this sort of tat, I'd have stocked up at one of those weekly markets which set up in country towns all around Ireland, where you can buy a pair of steel-capped boots, a muddy cabbage and as much tart clothing as you like.
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| This is not the look I'm after... |
When I say 'post box', I omit to mention the large wooden stick nailed to the lid so that one doesn't have to physically engage with the box unless there is something actually in it. The necessity of this was quickly evident the first time we found a family of red-back spiders living in among our Foxtel bills and bank statements.
Yes the spider issues remain, although at least now I'm just about able to take a pee without having to conduct a reconnaissance mission around the toilet (under the seat, behind the lid, around the back, check the window above etc...) to ensure there are no creatures lurking, since I'm in terror of discovering something crawling across me, mid-flow...
Lol Claire... I really enjoy your tales.
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