Last Day of Autumn

We walked the through the Botanical Gardens. The lawns beside the wisteria walk were awash with crumpled brown leaves . In the old rose garden, which is now the herb, pepper and odd gourd garden, we saw four girls dressed like Alice, with a movie camera.

A few spots of rain. The Torrens reflected white facets of the sky. Popeye sat empty under a frame and some string. The people in Jolley's Boathouse were eating, at quarter to three.

Beyond the bridge, we passed the fountain and the iron paper boats. At Pinkie Flat a row of nine men stood at the water's edge, and a tenth man made a casting gesture. A pelican floated gently away.

Under the weir bridge, model boats whizzed like gnats.

We climbed the grass embankment to the lift, and took the lift to the patio outside the Convention Centre. We went into Regatta's for a cup of coffee, and sat down in armchairs in front of the tall glass rainspotted windows, looking out on to the deck and a curve of Elder Park with no view of the river, but a compensatory sky.

They brought us each a complimentary glass of water with a black straw. We read parts of The Australian. The waiter brought a plate of complimentary biscuits. The biscuits were flat, round, yellow and sweet, and tasted powerfully of oranges.

Chocolate Wang Wang

We're not just getting Wang Wang
at the Adelaide Zoo

We're soon to take delivery
of his partner Funi too

She requires her own imported
English climbing Tree

Girl Pandas don't like Boy Pandas
all that much you see

Now why this Panda Exercise
no longer seems so Wise is

That we are in the Middle
of a big Financial Crisis

Already Certain People dressed
in Panda Suits have started

Trying to get the General Public
and its Money parted

And Haighs, who made the Murray Cod
and Chocolate Easter Bilby

Have come up with a Giant Chocolate Panda
or soon Will Be.

Good Deeds

Look around. Every object in the room represents a good deed. For example, a bowl of apples. Someone bought them. That was a good deed. Why ? Because apples are good. Why ? Because eating them keeps you healthy. Another example. The electric jug. The electric jug is broken. How then does it represent a good deed? It was once a birthday present. It also represents another good deed requiring now to be done. The purchase of another one. And how is that a good deed? If you wanted a cup of coffee, you would know. And it keeps the economy going.

Not every good deed is represented by an object. Here is one from yesterday. Pliny and Nostradamus went to a Lunch Hour Concert. When they got there they found that there were hardly any seats left, and no two empty seats were together. This was because Carnival of the Animals was on the program, and lots of extra people had turned up. They asked two men with single empty seats beside them if they would mind moving up. After a moment or two of deliberation the two men decided they would not mind, and moved up. Then out of politeness, Pliny and Nostradamus asked them if they would have preferred to move up in the other direction, and the men said that no, they were fine with where they were. This was an example of a good deed working both ways.

Here is one from this morning. Pliny and Nostradamus went to pick up 4 items they had won in an online auction. Three laptops and a printer. When they had paid for their items they were sent to look for Duggy. Duggy was in the canteen down the back buying himself a pie. He was just squeezing copious amounts of tomato sauce in through the delicious hot crust of his pie when Pliny and Nostradamus interrupted him and asked him to find them their goods. But first, finish your pie, said Nostradamus, courteously. Oh no, that's alright, said Duggy. He put down his pie and went off to get the key. This was an example of good deed that involved great sacrifice, because it was a very cold morning this morning, and Duggy would have been looking forward to his pie.

A final good deed taken at random from the newspaper. The Adelaide Zoo has taken delivery of a 20 tonne English oak tree from Victoria for Wang Wang the giant panda, who is arriving from China in a few months time.

How good is that?

Good Words

I mistrust myself now, said Pliny the Elder. After that dream.

It was just the cheese, Pliny, I said soothingly. You shouldn't have had so much before bedtime.

No, said Pliny. The cheese may have caused the dream but the dream revealed my failings as a natural historian. Perhaps I did not distinguish well enough between hearsay, conjecture and fact.

Oh Pliny! I said. That is part of your charm for the readers of today.

Do not patronise me, said Pliny. I do not wish to be known for my idiosyncrasies.But something is puzzling me. Where did I get the idea of the stars and the yellow camel? I do not recall any mention of them in my own writings.

That was me, Pliny. Remember when I googled Zoroaster? Zoroaster is the Latinised version of the Greek Zoroastres, which means 'undiluted stars'. But his Persian name is Zarathustra, and that is where the camels come in. Ustra means camels, but there is some dispute as to the spelling of the first half of his name. If it is Zarant-ustra, it means either ' with yellow camels', with aging camels', or 'with angry camels', and if it is Zarat-ustra, it means 'driving camels', 'moving camels' or 'desirous of camels'.

I do remember, said Pliny. Desirous of camels! I am fortunate my dream was not even more alarming! Well I'm glad we've cleared that up. I would not like to think I had been confounded by a Magus.

Yes, Pliny. It's good to know you did it on your own.

Pliny's Cheese Dream

Pliny the Elder has eaten a piece of Callington Vintage cheese, just before bedtime.

He falls asleep quickly, and immediately begins to dream.

In his dream he is visited by Zoroaster. Zoroaster is wearing a white turban, has long flowing locks, and his head is surrounded by a sea of stars. He leads a yellow camel. The camel is the colour of cheese.

Gaius Plinius Secundus! says Zoroaster.

Yes, says Pliny.

I wish to challenge your presentation of me in your Natural Histories.

On what grounds? asks Pliny.

On the grounds that it is wrong, for I know it to be wrong, and that furthermore it is ridiculous,
says, Zoroaster, reasonably.

Exactly what parts of my presentation are we talking about? asks Pliny.

I'm sure you know, replies Zoroaster. The claim that I lived for twenty years in the wilderness living only on cheese. You are the first person known to have made that claim. Since you made it, many people have taken it to be true.

I'm sure I read it somewhere, says Pliny, uncomfortably.

No, you made it up, says Zoroaster, and now I am going to tell you why it is ridiculous. No one can live only on cheese. One needs a proper balanced diet in order to remain in good health.

Tell me about it, says Pliny. However I seem to have got it right about the stars coming out of your head and the yellow camel.

Sorry, no, says Zoroaster. You have dreamed that up as well.

Good Thoughts

What constitutes a Good Thought, Zoroaster ? Good Words and Good Deeds are easy to define. But a Good Thought is a less obvious thing.

Having examined most of my thoughts from yesterday and today, I have to conclude that most of mine are neither Good nor Bad. Here are some random examples. " This is the first time I have ever seen a peanut butter making machine" ; " I am not going to eat this Dragonboat Dumpling"; "I'll just knit one more stripe".

But, determined to discover a Good one, I thought back to the very first thought I had on waking, which I concluded was Good on every level.

I had been dreaming text. I remembered that the last words I dreamed were: THE MOTHER'S LEGS HELPED BY ANOTHER'S FEET. This is, when you examine it, an amazing thought. Why I dreamed it I have no idea. This gives the thought the first attribute of Goodness, which is Inexplicability.

The second attribute of Goodness is Morality. This thought is about helping someone. No one would dispute that this is a Good Thing.

The third attribute of Goodness is Ambiguity. Is someone helping their mother by running an errand for her? Is mother having someone else's feet transplanted onto her legs?

The fourth attribute of Goodness is Internal Rhyming. one cannot help but notice that Mother rhymes with another. This gives a pleasing sound to the thought.

The fifth attribute of Goodness is Unusual Focus. This thought captures our imagination by keeping all the action below waist level, but not of course in a crude way.

The sixth attribute of Goodness is perhaps the most debatable. The attribute of Not Really Being a Proper Sentence. Personally, I like that in an attribute.

Zoroaster's Cheese

Here it is, I said, taking the cheese out of the fridge.

It is certainly small, said Pliny. What sort of cheese is it? Was it costly?

Quite costly, I replied. It's Callington Vintage cheese. Hand made, I think. Would you like some?

I cut him a small crumb of the cheese. He tasted it, and sighed.

Ah, he said, this is the sort of cheese that is never the worse for age. I imagine it was cheese like this that Zoroaster ate while living in the wilderness for twenty years.

Zoroaster liked cheese? I asked, surprised.

I don't know that he liked it. He is reputed to have lived on it for all that time. But of course, he was thinking of other things. Humata, Hukhta, Huvarashta. Good Thoughts, Good Words, Good Deeds.

In any case, I said, he must have had very strong bones.

Not only that, said Pliny. His brain was so active that if you were to place your hand upon his head, it would instantly be shaken off.

Is that to be attributed to his thoughts or the cheese, I asked.

You may be sure it was attributable to his thoughts. He invented magic, you know. And his works amount to two million lines.

But couldn't his thoughts have been engendered by the cheese? I persisted. I know that cheese is meant to give you nightmares if you eat too much at bedtime. Perhaps that was where all his magical thoughts came from?

Nonsense! said Pliny. He was only eating cheese for twenty years. When he came back from the wilderness, I daresay he never touched the stuff again.

A Semblance of Progress

So much for you pressing on, said Pliny the Elder. You are still stuck in last Friday, and you haven't even mentioned the music you went to the concert to hear.

Yes, I admitted, I forked off so many times that now I have all but forgotten it. I do remember the last piece being excruciatingly repetitious. The harpsicord theme was repeated 159 times. Everyone was glad when it ended, especially the harpsicordist.

I thought you liked repetitious music, said Pliny. You were listening to something on the radio the other night that nearly made me want to jump out of the window.

Oh that was techno music, I said. It's meant to make you feel like that. Well, to jump up and down anyway. It's not the same at all.

I think it is, said Pliny firmly. Now, what about the road not taken?

The road not taken? You mean yesterday?

It is yesterday now. It was today when you chose not to take it. What happened?

Oh yes! We went to the Farmers Markets at Wayville. It was drizzling. We bought 4 potatoes, a loaf of bread and a splinter of vintage cheese. As we were leaving we heard the most mysterious sounds which seemed to come from beyond the Showground sheds on our left. It was like horns, or trumpets. It was like a large herd of cattle honking musically, or a brass band playing something very modern and unstructured. Then again it sounded like a cacophany of car horns. But the Showgrounds were deserted.

O mysterious indeed, said Pliny. Did you ever find out what it was?

Yes, I replied. We did. It was the sound of the horns of a mighty convoy of heavy transport vehicles decorated with coloured balloons and flags, giving 300 disabled children the ride of a lifetime. The sound carried all the way from the parklands. On our way home we were held up for ages at the traffic lights while more of them hurtled by. If we'd taken a little less time in selecting our cheese we would have missed it.

This cheese, said Pliny. Where is it?

The Road Less Travelled

Should I press on now? Or fork off?

Back to Friday or on with today?

Let me think about that.

Back to Friday, and press on. Pliny and Nostradamus crossed Frome road. They reached the university. They had lunch in the Adelaide University Staff Club.

There is something about eating at The Adelaide University Staff Club that Pliny has not yet mastered. That is the art of eating and drinking at the same time. Three times she has been there now and each time has eaten her lunch and then obtained a drink afterwards. No one else in the club appears to do this.

But I am forking off.

After lunch they went to the concert in the Elder Hall. There were plenty of empty seats but the best ones nearest the front and in the middle caused Pliny to have to make a split second decision. If she chose those seats she would be sitting next to one of her old professors from decades ago. She has sat behind him before but never beside him. Press on, she thought, influenced by the smiling heavens. He does not know you from a bar of soap. She pressed on and sat down next to him. Heaven knows why she did not leave an empty seat between herself and him.

And so it was that she listened to the whole baroque concert by Lucinda Moon and Linda Kent leaning slightly away from the professor, and smelling, whenever he clapped, his shaving soap, which was disconcertingly like the shaving soap that her grandpa used to use.

Fork Off

How is it funny advice? asked Pliny the Elder.

Well, you know, even if heaven is smiling and so on, it's a bad idea to press on before the lights turn green, I answered.

Oh I see, he said. Is that the way it works? You must only cross when the light turns green? I go whenever I see the little red or green walking man.

Then heaven must certainly be smiling on you, I said.

Yes, I shall revise my practice, said Pliny. As to the advice on the church poster, apart from its inappropriateness in the vicinity of traffic lights, what do you suppose it to mean? You said you liked it.

Well, I said, although I thought heaven and the angels were a bit over the top, I really liked Press on. It's such an encouraging exhortation for anyone whose resolve is faltering.

I agree with that, said Pliny. I do not like heaven and the angels either. If heaven and the angels are smiling and rejoicing over you, why in the name of all the gods would you want to press on? Surely you would do well to remain exactly where you were.

I hadn't thought of that, I said, but you are quite right. Church posters often do say funny things. Today we drove past one which said, If you come to a fork in the road, take it.

Strange advice, agreed Pliny.

Strangely appropriate for us as it happened, I said. We were about to take the first road on the right. But as a general piece of advice, I found it wanting. It doesn't tell you which fork to take. It's fine if you're on a main road and another road forks off. But what if you're on a road that forks in two directions?

In that case, said Pliny, it would pay to have some idea of where you were going, and press on.

Press On

Pliny and Nostradamus went to the Lunch Hour Concert today. Pliny's mum is in Ballina enjoying wind, rain and storms.

In Adelaide it is a beautiful day. The sky is blue and interlaced with yellow autumn leaves. At the lights on Frome Street near the Church of Christ Scientist is a poster that reads: Heaven smiles on you. Angels rejoice in you. Press on.

Pliny likes this. But she thinks it is funny advice to place at traffic lights.

Ant Stories

Speaking of ants, began Pliny the Elder, I recall a story I recorded in my Natural Histories about the ants of India.

Oh really? I said. Tell me the story.

These ants have giant horns. They are the colour of a cat and about the size of an Egyptian wolf.

Quite large then, I said.

Oh yes. These ants excavate gold from holes in the ground in northern India. The people there try to take the gold in the summer when the ants are underground escaping from the heat. But the ants, catching the scent of the Indians, sally forth and frequently tear them to pieces.

The Indians? I asked. They tear the Indians to pieces?

Yes, even though the Indians are provided with the swiftest of camels for the purpose of flight.

With camels! I echoed. Well, that is a most wonderful story. Ants certainly are the most interesting of creatures. That reminds me, I heard a story about ants only this morning, from my son.

Tell me the story, said Pliny.

Well, he arrived home yesterday in the late afternoon and went out into his back garden. He saw what he thought was a black mist in the central section of his back fence. On getting closer he realised that the black mist was actually thousands, if not millions, of ants, marching up and down the fence, having paid a visit to a certain pot that was lying on the ground nearby.

And what was in the pot? asked Pliny.

That was the strange thing, I answered. Nothing but dirt, according to my son. And the ants were not carrying any pieces of food, neither on their way up nor on their way down.

Most mysterious, agreed Pliny. What did your son do then?

He went inside and got some Ant Rid, I said. He sprinkled it around, and half an hour later there wasn't an ant in sight. He said he was sorry he hadn't taken a photograph of the black mist.

Indeed, said Pliny. It is always wise to collect evidence of unusual events. Or people might be disinclined to believe that they happened.

Was there any evidence for your giant Indian ants? I asked.

There was, said Pliny, a pair of horns of miraculous size, suspended in the Temple of Hercules, at Erythrae.

How to Silence a Room

Every time I walk past the pantry now I imagine a toad nailed to the door jamb, I said crossly to Pliny the Elder. How cruel you Romans were. Did you ever do it?

Of course not, replied Pliny. We had slaves to do such tasks. Toads are poisonous to the touch. And you may be interested to know that they have many other uses in addition to the repulsion of pests. For example it is well known that the presence of a toad will silence a room. A particular bone from the left side of a toad will reduce the fury of dogs, while the equivalent bone from the right side will instantly cool boiling liquid.

How very useful, I said. However there are no toads in Australia, except for the imported cane toad, which lives up north.

What a shame, said Pliny.

No it isn't, I said. The cane toad is a huge pest. It eats native animals and bees, as well as carrion and household rubbish. And it's marching southwards. We wish we'd never imported them now.

Why don't you kill them ? asked Pliny.

They're very hard to get rid of I believe. They don't have many predators because they're so poisonous. But apparently meat ants are quite successful at eating young toadlets. It seems that cane toad poison works by attacking the heart, something ants don't have.

But don't humans kill them? pursued Pliny. Surely they could be poisoned or hit on the head with a stick.

I think they are, I said doubtfully. I do know that the humane way to kill a cane toad is to put it in the fridge in a plastic bag for half an hour and then transfer it to the freezer.

Jumping Jupiter! said Pliny. I hope you never catch one!

Ashes of Cat

What have we here? asked Pliny the Elder, peering into an upturned glass in the kitchen.

Another of those wretched bugs, I said. He was wandering past my breakfast. I captured him.

Why didn't you just kill him with your thumb? asked Pliny.

I wanted to get a proper look at him, I replied. He seems to be a small type of beetle. Apparently they are quite commonly found amongst grains and beans. Now I'm going to have to seriously inspect the shelves, and throw out lots of stuff.

Perhaps I can help you, said Pliny.

Yes, you can. Get me something to stand on.

He looked offended.

I didn't mean that, he said stiffly. I meant, I know several effective ways to keep weevils and other pests away from stored foodstuffs.

What are they? I asked. I hope they aren't disgusting.

That depends, said Pliny. You may think so. But you want to get rid of the beetles, do you not?

Go on.

You must first capture a toad. Then you must attach it to the door of the pantry by one of its longer legs. This is guaranteed to frighten pests away.

Pliny, that would frighten anyone away. Is there anything a little less confronting?

Hah! I thought you would baulk at that! There is another method. Dress the beans with ashes of a cat, or weasel.

But, Pliny, how do you obtain the ashes of a cat or a weasel by gentle means?

By the Gods! Try these then. Vinegar, salty fish, or an unbaked brick soaked in water.

Thanks Pliny, I think I'm going to try the brick.

Greater Escapes

Crawling towards me over the surface of the wooden table was a little winged insect, spotted white and brown like a borlotti bean. As insects go it was cute, but it filled me with horror......

Because it was an escapee from last Thursday, when I tried to make bean soup.

Last Thursday a bag of Gaganis Brothers Mixed Dried Beans was sitting on the pantry shelf. I picked it up. There were 6 dead insects and 2 half alive ones underneath. I inspected the beans in their clear plastic bag. There were dozens more insects inside, and all alive as could be. The more I looked the more there were. It was horrible.

Furious with Foodland for selling me such an infested product I sealed the bag of beans tightly inside another plastic bag. I would take it back in the afternoon.

At lunchtime we were eating bean soup, made with different beans. A little insect crawled across the table. It was one of them. I killed it with my thumb.

Yesterday was 3 whole days after that. And yet here was another of the bean insects crawling towards me over the scene of the demise of its relative.

Are we never to see the end of these borlotti bugs?

Great Escapes

I'm making a birthday card for my sister. I fold a piece of white card in half using a ruler and a skewer. I stick an old photograph on the front, with paper glue. I place it under a heavy book.

The photograph was taken in January 1964. My two sisters are 8 and 3 years old. They are standing in our back garden in their best dresses, next to two batwing chairs. In one of the batwing chairs is a record album, entitled The Beatles. That is mine.

Now the card is dry, and I take out my coloured pencils and a pen. I draw little motifs around the border of the photograph, flowers, a carrot, an ant, a plum. I begin to colour them. My pencils are very blunt.

Inside the card I write the details that were on the back of the photograph, and a lighthearted remark to the effect that if we had kept the album we would be rich today.

I'm all done. I slide the card, a letter and more photos into an envelope and seal it.

But what is this, crawling towards me on the surface of the wooden table?

Perhaps I will tell you tomorrow.

Mismatched Perceptions

At the Friday Lunch Hour Concert we were treated to more Bartok, and some lessons in the mysteries of alternative perceptions.

Leone Buyse and Michael Webster, a married duo from America, played flute and clarinet. They were dressed impeccably and played, in a fine polished style, the Choros No 2 by Villa-Lobos, a conversation between street musicians, who rarely listen to one another and play in mismatched tonalities. You could tell it was meant to be amusing, even if you knew little about mismatched tonalities. Next Leone played Bartok's Hungarian Peasant Suite, which sounded remarkably Scottish.

An elderly lady with orange hair was dozing on my left when I sat down. Another lady sat down on her right. They didn't know one another, but a short conversation ensued, in which I learned, firstly, that the orange-haired lady was in the habit of coming to the concerts because it was nice to sit down, and secondly, that the other lady was a volunteer at the Science Centre, and had been running late. The orange-haired lady then said something about a tarantella. So, it was established that she was capable of speech. However, at the end of the concert when I stood up and began to squeeze past her legs, she uttered a series of inarticulate squeaks, as a mouse would. I'm just saying ..... weird. I know I hadn't stepped on her feet.

Lastly, there was the case of the trousers. Did you notice, said my mum, Michael Webster's trousers? They were shaped at the bottom to fit over his shoes. Like military trousers. I wondered if they had a piece that went under his foot to hold them down. You don't see trousers like that here. They must have been American trousers.

I was astounded by this observation. For if I had noticed anything at all about Michael Webster's trousers it was that they were particularly unremarkable. I could not believe I wouldn't have noticed that he was wearing peculiar American military style trousers of a kind unknown here. But she had. And although we had been sitting side by side, she'd had the advantage of a direct view while I'd had the disadvantage of the hypotenuse. Unfortunately the trousers had vacated the stage by then, so it was impossible to resolve.

Too Famous

This is a rare treat, says Aristotle, coming through the front door with Pliny the Elder. Hardly anyone invites me out to dinner any more.

Perhaps you are too famous, I reply.

How does that work? he asks. Shouldn't I be asked out to dinner all the time?

No, you are too scary, I say. I have been thinking in syllogisms all day because you were coming.

Oh you mustn't be afraid of me, says he. What are we eating? It smells delicious.

Vegetarian moussaka, without tomatoes.

Ah! And may I enquire as to the reasoning behind that choice?

I chose it because it was Greek, and you are Greek; but I made it vegetarian, because you are vegetarian; and I left out the tomatoes because Pliny hates tomatoes.

Bravo! says Aristotle. The virtuous Golden Mean.

It all seems to be going rather well. We sit down at the table. Aristotle beams round at everyone.

Do have some of this moussaka before it gets cold, I say.

I believe the Arabs eat it cold, says Aristotle.

Tell us how it came about that you invented logic, my friend, says Pliny.

Ah yes, well, as you know I studied under Plato. He saw everything in terms of universal forms. That made it very difficult to come to any conclusions. There is an ideal apple, he would say. And this real apple is just a poor example of it. Well, I used to think, so what? You couldn't conclude anything about apples from that. I decided to turn his ideal apple idea on its head. Look at real apples, I said. You can learn everything about apples from studying them.

Brilliant, I say, that's true. So you invented the scientific method as well. Now tell me, what do you think of my moussaka?

Wonderful, my dear! An inspired choice for an old man who doesn't have very many teeth.

Pliny gives me a wink. I don't say anything.

The Moussaka Syllogism

Why moussaka? asked Pliny the Elder.

Well, Greeks like moussaka, Aristotle is a Greek, therefore Aristotle likes moussaka, I replied.

I see you are practicing your syllogisms, said Pliny. But there are one or two complications you have not taken into account in your reasoning. One, that Greeks in Aristotle's time knew nothing of moussaka. It was only after the eggplant was introduced into Greece by the Arabs in the thirteenth century that moussaka became a popular dish.

Gosh! How do you know that, Pliny? I asked admiringly. Moussaka must have been unknown in your time too.

Google, said Pliny. I looked it up because I didn't know what it was. This brings me to complication number two.

What is that? I asked.

The main ingredient in moussaka is minced lamb, he said.

And so?

Aristotle is a vegetarian.

You don't say. Well, never mind, I can make a vegetarian version. Eggplant, tomato, zucchini, bechamel sauce and grated cheese on the top. He'll love it.

Mmm. Am I having it too?

Yes, we're all going to have it.

Then would you mind leaving out the tomato?

Preserving the Unities

Aristotle was right, observed Pliny the Elder. It is good to preserve the unities of action, time and space.

These are postmodern times I replied. I suppose you are referring to the orang-utan.

Yes, he answered. You did not go to the zoo.

It was the best thing that happened that day, I countered. And I saw it on the news.

That would cut no mustard with Aristotle, said Pliny.

Did you know him? I asked.

Not until after the volcano, said Pliny. But then we became quite good friends. He was about 350 years older than me. He was said to be the last man to know everything that was currently known about everything.

Really, I said. That is pretty amazing.

Yes, he said, but untrue. He once wrote that men had more teeth than women. Something very easy to disprove. But on the whole his ideas are much to be admired. He singlehandedly invented logic, did you know?

No, I didn't. I would very much like to meet him, but I suppose that's out of the question.

Not at all. I will invite him round to dinner if you wish.

Perfect! A fig for the unities! Do you think he might be partial to moussaka?

Mothers Day

It's Mothers Day. That means it's last Sunday. I know, I'm not observing the Unities of Time Space and Action. And it may well get worse.

So it's Mothers Day. We do not go to the Zoo. The people who do will be disappointed, because this is the Day that Karta the 27 year old female orang-utan decides to make her great escape. She twists 3 strands of electrified wire with a stick, piles leaves on the top, builds a pile of leaves and branches against the wall and climbs out of her enclosure. Everybody is promptly relocated to outside of the Zoo. They don't even get their money back, just a free ticket to come another day.

We, however, know nothing of this. We take my mother out to lunch at the Taste of Nepal, We eat goat curry, lamb curry, fish curry, and a little Nepalese fly hovers over our table. Through the window we observe a stream of young Koreans passing the swimming pool on their way to church a little further up the road.

Burping, we drive up into the Hills. We drive past our old house at Crafers. The occupants have built a fence around it and we can only see trees. We drive to Aldgate, admiring the autumn leaves. In Stirling we get out of the car. The liquidambers and pinoaks are glowing gloriously gold and yellow and red, someone is selling hot chestnuts, the air is like pins. There are too many mothers about the place. We can't get a coffee inside. We have to sit in a chilly gazebo outside the Konditorei, next to a slow dripping fountain and a depressing elkhorn attached to a post.

Before we go home we stop off at Mount Lofty to look at the view. There is a haze over the city and the rest of the view. People are looking at the identification boards in puzzlement. Where is everywhere? The tourists don't care but it's embarrassing for us locals. At least the sea is where it should be, gleaming like beaten copper in the late afternoon sun. But my mother doesn't believe it's the sea.

( not okay )

It's last Friday. Pliny is at a Lunch Hour Concert with her mum. The Wind Ensemble is going to play American band music, finishing with a medley of tunes from Oklahoma!

Pliny isn't looking forward to that.

The finale begins and Pliny has no choice but to listen. She detests this music. I detest this music, she thinks. Then she wonders why.

Perhaps it is because she half knows the words to most of the tunes, and can't help allowing them to run through her head. O what a beautiful morning. I'm just a girl who cain't say no. The surrey with the fringe on top. These tunes remind her of the 1950s, even though they were written earlier than that. They remind her of wirelesses and next door neighbours, and frothy skirts.

Pliny drags up some old anti American feelings, about country folks and red necks and hypocrisy, and even the war in Iraq.

She pulls herself up. They're just playing the music after all, not singing the detestable words. It is Pliny who is guilty of that. I'm being unreasonable, she decides. She listens to the bitter end.

Everyone claps loudly, including Pliny and her mum. Pliny claps in that way she has of clapping when she hasn't really liked something. Her wrists flop and her hands paddle wildly. She is glad to see that some of the young musicians look slightly embarrassed.

I found myself singing all those tunes in my head, says Pliny's mum. I don't know how I knew them all. Me too, says Pliny.

Another Walk

It is Saturday afternoon. We're walking along that section of the Linear Park between the St Peters Billabong and the University Footbridge. It is cloudy, hopeful. The trees are tall, or the path is low. Anyway, there's not too much sky.

The river is on our left. It is glossy dark brown and reflects a cliff. A white drain pipe runs down the cliff and disappears into the water, where it becomes a reflection of itself disappearing under the cliff in the opposite direction. A motionless scum floats on the surface of the water. Reeds collapsing at the edge. Orange flowers.

How are your new shoes? They hurt a bit. Do you have a bandaid? Yes, I do.

There is a smell of something. Ducks, the Zoo, sewage. Cyclists pass. Ibis, moorhen. Angry black swans.

Before we reach the Footbridge we drop something into a bin.

At the Art Gallery Coffee Shop the sun comes out. And now we are in. The interior glass superimposes ladies eating coffee and cake over a series of Margaret Prestons. Still lifes. Patterned bowls of Australian flowers. The yellow leaves from the trees in front of the gabled Curator's Lodge drift across the conversation. She loves glass.

We walk back the same way. How is it? Alright now.

A Walk

It is last week. No, it is this week, but it is last Thursday. Or is it last Wednesday? No, because one of us is carrying the empty shoebox. It is Thursday.

We are walking to the Kmart. It is cloudy. There are hundreds of gumnuts on the footpath. They act like ball bearings, but they look like little chocolate cups.

If they were made of chocolate, they wouldn't act like ball bearings. They would simply be crushed underfoot. The smell of chocolate would waft upwards. That would be nice. But the chocolate would stick to the bottom of our shoes.

We are talking. Do your new shoes hurt? No, not yet.

The seed pods from the jacaranda trees look like dragons' mouths, or double slices of dried yam.

In the car park near the bins the ground is littered with paper, and something that looks like a glamorous high heeled shoe. It is red and purple and silver, but strangely crumpled. It isn't a shoe. It is a screwed-up foil bag for keeping a cooked chicken hot in.

Irritable Jumper

What did you think of my poem yesterday? I asked Pliny the Elder.

I didn't read it, he replied.

Go on, read it, I said.

He read it, slowly. Your lines are exceedingly long, he grumbled.

I wanted them to suggest the form of knitting, I said.

I doubt if anyone will pick that up, he said.

Your syntax is annoying, he muttered.

I was trying to evoke the prickling of my tongue, I explained.

My tongue is prickling reading it, said Pliny. So I suppose I must concede that worked. Your rhymes are execrable.

They're meant to suggest the simplicity of a 2 year old child, I bluffed.

As to your invocation of the venerable Socrates, and your subsequent rejection of his inspired advice, this is utter folly and nonsense. And why introduce Penelope?

Her weaving dilemma mirrored mine, I said. Anyway, I am still a bit confused. What do you think I should do with the poxy jumper?

I don't know! he cried, jumping up. Hang it in a stiff breeze! Boil it with a toad for all I care! Just stop writing all this agonising poetry! And out he went.

Right! I thought to myself. No new winter beanie for him! But what was that about a toad........?

Penelope's Dilemma

This jumper's not for me, it's for World Vision and will go to someone young.
I'm using cheap brown wool, and when I knit I feel a prickling sensation on my tongue.

What it is I don't know, I suppose it's lots of little bits of floating woolly fluff.
It isn't just my tongue, my mouth and lips are both affected by this irritating stuff.

The wool is 100 per cent Australian, but it says Made in China on the label.
I didn't think they could do that but it does seem that they are definitely able.

So now I've made this jumper which might seriously aggravate some child,
Although I have to say that I consider my own symptoms to be quite mild.

On the other hand I'm a grownup and this jumper is for a 2 year old little kid.
I'd hate to think the poor child will be suffering because of something that I did.

But now it's knitted up and all the ends darned in it's probably become somewhat inert.
It looks so cute as well, and feels so warm, I'm going to send it, surely it won't hurt.

What would Socrates do? He'd pose a pertinent question to me in a semi-jocular tone.
Penelope, ( he would call me ), would you put this jumper on a child that was your own?

And I, noble Penelope, would have to admit that no, I probably wouldn't do it,
Unless I got it dry cleaned first.

But I am not Penelope, so screw it.

Am I Here After ?

Now what am I here after? said Pliny the Elder, coming into the room.

I don't know. The fish-topped pencil? I hazarded a guess.

No, he said . What AM I here after. I think you misinterpreted Faye's misprint yesterday. You said you thought AS should have been WAS, but I suggest the correct reading should have been AM.

Really? I said. I suppose you could be right. It all boils down to 2 questions. Is it more likely that someone would come into a room and say, Now what was I here after? Or would they say, Now what am I here after?

Are those the 2 questions? asked Pliny, looking doubtful.

No that's just the first question, I replied. The second question is, which is the more likely misprint, AS for AM , or AS for WAS? Let us look at a keyboard.

We looked at my keyboard.

If S was closer to M, I said to Pliny, I would be inclined to believe you. But it is not near it. The S is the second letter in from the left in the middle row, and the M is the very last letter on the bottom row. Isn't it more likely that the typist meant to type WAS and simply omitted the first letter, due to carelessness?

Perhaps it is, said Pliny. Congratulations on your use of the scientific method. But there remains the first question. What is the person more likely to say?

Let's try an experiment, I suggested. You go out of the room and come back in. Pretend you've come in to get something but you've forgotten what it is. Let's see what you say.

Alright, said Pliny, and went out, closing the door.

He didn't come back for ages. When he did, I looked up at him expectantly.

He didn't say anything, but started rummaging through the drawers and shelves.

What are you here after? I asked.

That dratted fish-topped pencil, he said.

Now What Was I ?

Now I know the future. I have been to a Fashion Parade at Townsend Park, where my mum lives. The fashions were from Bedazzled, presented by Faye. The models were ladies from Townsend Park.

The future is striped tops and zip-up jackets and pull-on pants. It is orange, green, plum, aquamarine, black and white. It is rather portly, and puts too much butter on its scones. It parades in a self conscious manner and disappears before Faye has finished her spiel. It sits on rows of chairs in striped tops, zip-up jackets and pull-on pants and sips white wine and speaks of the pain of others. It laughs.

The future is listening to Faye read a poem while the models change their outfits from one set of pull-on pants to another. Faye has not written the poem, which is about getting old. She only wants to sell as many outfits as she can.

It is one of those internet poems about the indignities of old age. It ends with someone telling the narrator that it's time she started thinking about the hereafter. I think about it every time I go into a room, reads Faye. I think to myself, now what was I here after.

How funny it would have been, had Faye read it correctly, will never be determined. For Faye's printed poem contained a misprint, and she had failed to pick it up, so that she read out very clearly and deliberately, NOW WHAT AS I HERE AFTER.

And the future clapped politely.

The Man Who Mistook His Wife For a Hat

The Hungarrian hung up soon after that. Perhaps he was offended.

But the hat, which was a pork pie hat, really had looked as though it was enjoying itself. It was tucked into the crack at the back of the seat, which resulted in its brim being slightly elevated, giving the impression that it was smiling. Or so I thought, when I looked at it. A musical hat. you see them sometimes.

Musical umbrellas now, you see a lot of those. They come to the concerts and they cry and cry, particularly if it's been raining. Their tears run down the floorboards all the way to the front of the stage. Pathetic really. But then, they don't get out much.

In the cold weather we notice a lot of musical coats. They usually have a seat to themselves, and they fold themselves up small and really concentrate on the music. But they never clap, because they never enjoy it, because they have cloth ears.

I've seen a few musical pencils over the years as well. They don't appear to like music very much at all. They sometimes make a show of tapping in time but usually they just doodle, or catch up on their homework.

Once there was, to my certain knowledge, under one of the seats, a musical quiche.....

Come on Bela! You believe me don't you?

Need a Body Cry

That wasn't the end of our conversation.

Ye noo, said Bela, tha's no a bad wee song. Wha's the rest o' it?

Robert Burns wrote it, I said. It goes O Jenny's a' weet, poor body, Jenny's seldom dry: She draigl't a' her petticoatie, Comin thro the Rye.

Hoo, hoo! he laughed. Aye, 'tis as ah thocht, 'tis aboot a wikit wee lassie.

You may think so, I said tartly, but may I say that's a very male point of view. It seems to me poor Jenny is a victim of abuse. Need a body cry, indeed!

Och, sorry lassie, said Bela. Ah wasn'y thinkin'. Anyhoo, changin' the subject, how did the folks at yer concert like ma Rhapsody?

Oh they loved it I replied. Even my mother, who generally detests you, said that it wasn't bad. And now that I recall, the man next to me had reserved a seat especially for his hat.

Ye doan't say?

I do say. And the hat seemed to like it as much as anyone.

The Hungarrian

This morning the phone rings.

Hello, I say.

Helloo lassie, says a male voice. Ah want ye to know, ah'm nae a Scotsman.

Oh, I say, you must be Bela Bartok. Yes, I know you're not Scottish.

Then, lassie, says the voice, may I ask why ye wrote yesterday that ye were conflummixt to discover that I was?

Well, Mr Bartok, I was listening to your Rhapsody No 1 for violin and piano yesterday, and I couldn't help noticing how much it sounded like Coming Thro' the Rye.

Niver heerd on it. Ah'm Hungarrian, ye ken. How's it go?

I sing, in a high pitched Scottish accent: Gin a body meet a body, Comin thro' the rye, Gin a body kiss a body, Need a body cry?

Noo, Ah dinna ken it. An' ye say, ma Rhapsody soonds like tha'? 'Tis like a bletherin' cat waulin'.

That's just my singing, I say.

Listen to this, lassie, says Bela. And tell me if ye still ween 'tis Scots.

He starts humming his Rhapsody, squeakily. I want to sing along, but I resist.

Perhaps it is a little different, I say.

Tha's alright, ah forgive ye, says Bela. Just ye mind, ther's muckle difference atween a Scotsman an' a Hungarrian.

Mullets

Woke up with a headache. Must not drink port after wine. Ate breakfast.

Later.

Walked in to the city down Magill Road. Remembered why I don't normally. Dog turds. Pear cores. Dandelions. A rose petal that turned out to be a shred of balloon.

Met my mum. Had lunch in a new venue. The Adelaide University Staff Club. We don't look like staff, but nor did anyone else, except for some extremely old men who might have been. Had soup and so didn't qualify for the free coffee.

Went to the Lunch Hour Concert in the Elder Hall. Miwako Abe was wearing a bright pink filmy sequinned top. She played Greig, Szymanowski, Bartok. I was surprised to discover Bartok was Scottish.

Concert over.

We went shopping. My mum was looking for an orange top to brighten up something that was grey. She was looking also for some grey pants. So it didn't really matter what she got. In the end she couldn't find anything orange that didn't make her look fat, in her opinion. Or grey.

Then.

Then it was raining. I borrowed her umbrella. Walked to the Central Market. Got wet feet. Met Nostradamus who had providently turned up with the car. Bought apples, bananas, pineapple, mandarins, strawberries, brussels sprouts, zucchini, choy sum, potatoes, 4 cleaned and headed mullets.

Now.

Gotta cook the mullets. But how?