Welcome to my regular Friday song/tune day, ladies and gentlemen, where I pick a piece of music that reflects my mood or the times, to share with you.
I’m dispensing with the big finale to 2021. I don’t have the energy for it. Congratulations if you survived 2021. Instead, I would like to dedicate my Friday song to my mum, who I haven’t seen for over three years. I hope to see my mum again next year.
The song I’ve chosen is Leo Sayer’s More Than I Can Say.
Welcome to my regular Friday song/tune day, ladies and gentlemen, where I pick a piece of music that reflects my mood or the times, to share with you. What a week it has been. It has exceeded all my expectations! You don’t want to know.
Today I also want to recommend a couple of podcasts to my readers who might be looking for some entertainment over the hols. My True Love (TL) is a great fan of podcasts. I have difficulty coping with endless talking, but I think the constant exposure to his vast trove of podcasts has slightly re-wired my brain. This year, my TL particularly enjoyed Malcolm Gladwell’s Revisionist History podcasts. As for me, I’ve always had a fascination with how we (humans) came to be, why we came to be and whether there are others like us (complex life) elsewhere in the universe. I’m currently watching the BBC documentary, Universe with Brian Cox. The more we learn about the universe, the more insights we can gain on our own world and on the philosophical and existential challenges for our future. On that theme, my TL suggested I listen to The End of the World with Josh Clark podcast series. I’ve just started listening to the latter but already the suspense is killing me. Maybe have a listen and we can discuss it next year.
I don’t know where I am going with this. Is this a wrap? Would I tease you? Of course, I would. Now, my TL thinks the only thing better than a ukelele orchestra performing Ode to Joy would be a class of first year recorder students performing it. Honestly, what’s wrong with the man! Here’s the Ukelele Orchestra of Great Britain bringing the house down with Ode to Joy. Grab your uke (or recorder) and join in.
Finally, I want to thank all those wonderful people who have worked on the frontline of the pandemic this year, including health staff, clinicians, researchers, medical supply manufacturers, educators, community organisations, through to those who have picked, processed, packed and delivered our food and all those other essentials to our car boots and homes throughout the year. Unsurprisingly, given the explosive growth of the new Omicron variant, they are now busier than ever and more than likely, exhausted. We owe you a great debt.
Welcome to my regular Friday song/tune day, ladies and gentlemen, where I pick a piece of music that reflects my mood or the times, to share with you.
Clyde, the evil cat, is asleep on the job, the rodent hunting job that is. He much prefers prey of the feathered variety. I can’t help losing my cool because my neighbour’s open compost pile next to our shared back fence, is a cafe for rodents. Consequently, our life has been hell. This is because our dogs are hunting dogs. They are rodent hunting dogs. They are completely obsessed with catching rodents, and being Finnish spitz, they are not quiet about it. I sometimes hear a scittering when I am in my outdoor art studio and I see occasional rodent excrement resting delicately on my tile stash. Anyway, my dog, Fynn, decided he could also hear and smell the little beasties in my studio.
My True Love (TL) eventually investigated and much to his surprise found a rodent in an upside down self-watering pot. Crafty bugger, the rodent, not my TL. Anyway, the rat had taken up residence in the small, dry water well of the pot. Luxury accommodation. I was there to witness the mayhem at its discovery. I might have even contributed to some of the mayhem. My TL tried to contain the beastie in the pot but there was nothing on hand to trap it and I was frozen in fright so I was no help. Anyway, a rat the size of small Toyota sailed clear over the rim of the pot, whereupon I found my voice once again. Unfortunately, Fynnie dog can’t unsee what he saw. He will never forget the day he saw that rat run under my tile shelves. He will tell us about it. Every. Single. Day.
I reckon we need a song about an evil cat, a lazy cat. This cat’s name was Bill. Let’s listen to Ami Williamson sing Bill’s song. It is the stuff of cat lore. I bet Bill wished he had kept his legs crossed and his mouth shut.
Welcome to my regular Friday song/tune day, ladies and gentlemen, where I pick a piece of music that reflects my mood or the times, to share with you.
Today I met up with friends for coffee. It was the first time we had coffeed for about six months due to Covid restrictions. It took me a while to engage my mouth again. It worked. 95.8% of Canberrans over 12 years of age are now double-vaxed so more and more restrictions are being removed. To our north, Sydneysiders are also achieving high vaccination levels. Hence, double-vaxed Sydneysiders can now travel to Canberra (Australia).
Anyway, my friends and I did some e-bike baby-sitting for a lady who had come down from Sydney. Unfortunately, I didn’t ask her name but I do know the name of her dog. It’s Evie and Evie is a miniature Schnauzer. The two of them decided to hire an e-bike and go for a ride. Evie rode pillion in her mum’s backpack. It was Evie’s first time riding pillion. She was a little champion. Naturally, I had to take a couple of photos.
Welcome to my regular (and early) Friday song/tune day, ladies and gentlemen, where I pick a piece of music that reflects my mood or the times, to share with you. Today, I am going to get nostalgic.
I can’t remember a time when the house wasn’t dilapidated. The house sat upon tall timber pylons three storeys high, but there was nothing underneath it. The story goes that there were plans for a shop below the house but those plans never came to fruition. To the passerby, it might have looked like a giant birdhouse. This was fitting because two older ladies lived in that house. The younger was my grandmother, the elder was her mother, my great grandmother. My grandfather lived up the road. That was odd, but odd is normal for us.
A glare or stare makes all the difference in the realm of raptors. Glares are the domain of goshawks, stares are left for sparrows, sparrowhawks that is. Impending darkness obscures the form and casts confusion. The pied currawong does not engage in such esoteric debates. Nor does the raptor. There will be no escape for the hawk with no name as the currawong launches its attack. Such interlopers will not be tolerated.
Welcome to another Friday song/tune day, ladies and gentlemen, where I pick a piece of music that reflects my mood or the times, to share with you.
It’s been a newsie week which leaves me with many options for this week’s Friday song. We had the sudden announcement of the Aussie government’s cancellation of its French sub contract, and instead the government will purchase you-beaut US nuclear-powered subs. Oh wait, the French have nuclear-powered subs but we didn’t want nuclear subs at the time. Did we even give the French a chance to bid for the new contract? Maybe not. Consequently, and apologies to the French, ABBA’s Waterloo and Fat Boy Slim’s Weapon Of Choice, immediately popped into my head!
For Covid’s sake, a spring procrastination and shopping poem.
Bob’s Hope
Pleased to say nothing much is going on here in these tetchy, dodg’em Covid days. So while I might be quite contrary, I am certain I shall not be overcome by questions on epidemiology. Let me explain.
Several years ago I attended an informal estate auction organised for friends and family. It was organised by my friend and her family who had been given some bits and pieces left over once the formal disbursement of a family friend’s estate had concluded. The plan was to use any money raised from the auction to support the physical care needs of my friend’s niece who had suffered an acquired brain injury at birth.
Shall we have a story about what really happens at Tracy’s house? It is a difficult story to tell because I’m not sure we are doing the right thing by our pet canary. He used to be one of a small flock of house canaries. The little flock had a lovely life together, with free flight across the lounge room, luxurious baths, fresh greens picked for them from the garden, and seed treats, before being tucked into their cages for the night. Life was rosy but, like us, the little birds got old, until, only one, Pan of the wild song, remained.
Reflections of An Untidy Mind 