Clarrie was eccentric. As young and naive as I was, I knew that Clarrie, the viticulturist, was eccentric. Likeable; amiable; quirky. But eccentric. I was a stenographer in the Department of Agriculture in Mudgee, eons ago.

Clarrie’s whimsical personality first became apparent when he’d pop his head, with its untidy mop of hair, into the cramped space of the general office and say `I’d like to dictate some letters please Susan.’

Off I’d go, my standard-issue departmental steno pad and a couple of sharpened pencils in hand, into his Office and we’d face each other across his untidy desk.

Clarrie was unmarried, and his age was an enigma to me. He wasn’t old, but neither was he as young as my 22 years. He dressed old; Trousers; never jeans. Trousers with pockets. Trousers not elegant in style or cut, but not scruffy. Smart… ish but practical. Cool mornings would see him attend the Office in a knitted vest; an old-fashioned Fair Isle one. And in summer, he wore long baggy shorts and long socks with lace-up shoes. But when I tell you the socks were often draped around his ankles, you can see that sartorial elegance was not his strong point. He always wore the `uniform’ of educated Ag blokes of the day – blue oxford shirts with buttoned, pleated breast pockets and little slots for pens; like the shirts coppers wear but without the shoulder badge. In some blokes, these shirts were almost…. alluringly attractive. But Clarrie couldn’t pull it off.

I would look at him expectantly, pencil poised, waiting. He’d clear his throat and give me the name of the person to whom the letter would go. So far, so good. Moments of silence followed. `Dear Sir’, he managed at last. My pencil made the appropriate tiny squiggle. He would launch into a preliminary sentence, and my pencil moved in perfect tandem. `No, that’s not right. Cross that out.’ He’d begin again and another sentence would emerge. Outside I could hear the faint thrum of traffic; the other office lady in the adjacent office was clacking away on her mechanical typewriter. The clock on his wall seemed loud, all of a sudden. `Ahh’ Clarrie seemed to have lost his train of thought.

I remember his appearance because I seemed to spend inordinate amounts of time looking at him, waiting, waiting. I had ample time to take in his choice of tie; a light green and brown check woven affair, with a fringed end. His vest; did his mum knit them for him? His bespectacled eyes (grey) would glance into mine vaguely as he struggled to get on with his task. There were lots of false starts and `No, that’s not right.’ My pencil spent much time crossing out whole lines of squiggles.

His office was little more than a large cubicle, with opaque glass on 2 walls; one facing the entrance passage-way of the building and the other facing the general office. Copious piles of paper resided on filing cabinets and on his desk, in hopeful expectation of his attention. Posters of grapes and wine were haphazardly decorous on the walls.

Finally, it often became apparent to me what he was trying to say, and I would venture a suggestion. `Perhaps you could just put a few notes down, and I will draft out a letter for you?’ After all, I’d topped the Tech Classes in English hadn’t I!? I could compose a simple letter, for goodness sake. It would save all the crossing out and staring at his inelegant clothing, surely.

He would never succumb to my suggestion and we’d spend several more gruelling minutes at our shared task, until, at last… Eureka! The letter was born! I have always been a too-passive person, especially when I was that young, and I never questioned the reason for this behaviour. I took him at face value – he couldn’t seem to put sentences together. It didn’t occur to me that someone with a degree in Viticultural Science should know how to compose sentences.

I’ve taken shorthand for a lot of blokes over the years (until we all became redundant) and some of them were egos, compelled to drone their bulky and inefficient waffle over their steepled fingers, because it gave them a sense of power over the subordinate `girl’ tasked with hanging on his every word. Some were beautifully efficient and I had to use all my 120 wpm to keep up! Clarrie wasn’t either of these.

The best was an old gent; an Agronomist, who was delightfully, politely old-school. He’d come up through the Depression and the war years, with his genuine, deeply-held Catholic faith intact. He was the salt of the earth; always treated me with the greatest respect, though I was just a slip of a girl. The cadence of his gentle, benevolent humour would fall with father-like simplicity and wholesome encouragement on my under-confident self. He referred to blokes as `coves’. That’s a word I’ve never heard used since. He always seemed to be writing about molybdenum levels! (I need to look up the spelling… after all the times I’ve typed it!)

I once accompanied Clarrie out on a field trip, collecting samples of grapevine rust or something. That’s another story…,

 

🚴Cycling is big in Wagga, and we’ve got a shiny new Velodrome to prove it.

I got coffee recently at the French Bakery. Oooh la la the pastries are good! It’s a tiny shop and there’s always a queue like you used to get in the bank at 4pm on a Friday.  So, I’m standing on my `distance’ spot, waiting to give my unvarying order; a half-strength flat white…  I wonder should I live on the edge one day and try a half-strength cappuccino? I stood behind a gentleman wearing lycra, and had the time and the inclination, to ponder his attire. 

He was late 30’s maybe; tall and wiry, with a pleasant, even-featured face. Short, dark, curly hair, cut stylishly and modern, but not like those shaved-sides-of-the-head, and long-on-the-top, styles. I was trying to guess his occupation.  It’s a little game I play sometimes to pass the time in queues.

I was concluding that the gent in front of me was someone in the financial world. He wasn’t particularly muscular, but I bet he was into cycling in a big way. Either that, or he was just starting out and he wanted to look the part. His lycra attire ended about half way down his calf, and on his pedal extremities, were soft, foot-hugging trainers. His socks were iridescent pink.  Psychedelic pink, with little green cacti all over them. He’d pulled them up straight, and between the end of them and the start of his lycra suit, were thin, white legs with very black sparsely-apportioned hairs. Surely if he was serious about cycling, he’d shave them to cut wind-resistance.  Or don’t they do that anymore?

The suit also had silicone padding on the trouser-seat.  Most effective, I’m sure, in avoiding blisters on his bottom. But the view from the back was a little…. curious. I imagined it would be like wearing a full nappy…

He had a gentle persona.  I admired his embracing of such a worthwhile hobby which made him look just a little ridiculous when he was naked of his treadley. I admired his confidence to wear such an outfit in public.  But he didn’t look out of place in a coffee shop, because as I said, cycling is big in Wagga, and coffee and cycling go together like Jeeves and Wooster; like Elizabeth and Mr Darcy; like eggs and bacon. No, he wasn’t going to get stared-at in a coffee place.

But imagine if he’d accidentally been whisked (or perhaps pedalled) into the TARDIS and was transported back to the 1950’s.  He and his lairy socks would be laughed backwards out of the chrome and laminated cafes of the time. No coffee; no lycra.  And men didn’t ride bikes.   They played footy and ate pies.  They wouldn’t have been seen dead in a French bakery.

 Beans; a conflicted tale

I bought beans yesterday because they looked lovely and fresh. They were $13.99/kilo though! Oh well, nice bean salad I thought as I selected a handful.

But when I went to scan my purchases at the self-serve checkout machine, there was no picture on the touch screen button for the beans. It listed them on the docket but it added zero to the tally.

So over I go to the young lady waiting to assist and explained the problem. I’m afraid she was a ‘Madam Imperious’ in training. These older Superior Ladies often worked in Doctors’ Surgeries and would look down their noses at me when I presented myself at the Reception desk. I’d be dismissed to the waiting room with a judgmental sniff. But then, I was a single parent and weren’t they still the dregs of Society in the 90s? That’s when I learned in real life time what was like to live as an obvious Indigenous person. I’m not indigenous, but it was the same kind of thing - judged and dismissed by some inner prejudice of the other.

But back to the beans. This young lady had a bit of an attitude, I thought. Not rude in any obvious way but I could almost hear her thinking ‘silly old lady doesn’t know how to scan a few groceries’. She came over to the newly installed contraption, sitting there smug in its ‘I don’t need a human’ shininess. She voided the incorrect entry, then asked me, in short sharp words, ‘What are they?’

‘Beans,’ I say. I hope my astonishment didn’t show. I know someone that young couldn’t be expected to know every fruit and veg in the shop, but beans? Aren’t they a pretty common vegetable? Is the Pope a Catholic?  Is a bean green? They were ordinary old beans; not broad beans, or exotic runner beans, or those really long ones; snake beans.

‘How much are they?’ was her next question. She looks down on me with her squinty eyes (I’m sorry, they were squinty) and her very black, very fake false eyelashes. You could hang a hat on those things!

‘$13.99 a kilo’ I say.

She trots off to check. If I’ve been honest enough to tell you it didn’t scan a price, surely I wouldn’t lie about the price. Especially at $13.99/kilo. But all good, I’m glad she’s checking.

When she comes back, she flicks her all-powerful staff card at the machine’s screen. Her lovely young finger taps the screen nimbly and soon the amount is totted up.

But this old gal has spent a lifetime and then some, watching every penny and I vaguely think ‘That seems a lot’. I’ve only got about 6 items. But you know, the cost of everything has rocketed lately, so off I go with my one measly bag of groceries.

But once outside, I look at the docket. She’s charged me the whole $13.99 for a handful of beans. Maybe 150 grams worth. Did Jack have this much trouble with his beans? Oh. No. Different type of beans.  

Back inside I go and show her the docket. She looks at me imperiously (that ‘Madam Imperious’ training is coming in handy). ‘Yes, that’s right. They’re $13.99.’  She’s walking to the bean aisle. ‘See.’ She points to the beans.

‘Yes, I explain, ‘but that’s for a kilo of beans. A kilo of beans would be a whole big box of beans.’ She’s walking quickly back to the checkout and I’m tottering along beside her like a toddler keeping up with a grumpy mum.

‘A whole kilo of beans would … well, weigh a kilo. I try and explain but I don’t think she’s listening. She doesn’t reply so I’m thinking she doesn’t get it, or the penny’s dropped and she doesn’t want to admit she’s got it wrong.

At last a Supervisor came over and sorted the whole thing out. I felt for the young woman. Perhaps she was new and I didn’t want to embarrass her by being a smart alec. And she did apologise, right at the end of the encounter. It was a bit of a weak effort, and I could have executed a much better apology but then…. I’m not a Madam-Imperious-in-training.

 

A Whimsical Interlude

        “My house needs cleaning,” sighed the old lady. “Who will do it for me?”

“Not I,” said the fly. “I’m incubating my babies ready for summer. You can never have too many babies in summer.”

“Well, who?” the old lady looked disapprovingly at the scattered sheets of paper cluttering the dining table and the dust collecting under the TV.

“Not I,” said the bumble bee. “Too busy! Too busy! Flowers to visit, honey to gather! A bumble bee's work is never done.”

            “Just like housework,” muttered the old lady. “Who will do it then?”

            “Not I,” said the old dog, sleeping under the table. He opened one eye, then said irritably,  “The very idea! You know I haven’t got opposable thumbs, woman. Get your Significant Other to do it.”

            “I haven’t got a Significant Other. You should know that by now, you foolish dog. Surely it’s your turn. I always have to do it!” But the old dog was asleep again.

            `Who’s going to tidy my house then?”

            Just then, two fairies flitted in and chorused together “We’re the housework fairies. We’ll do it!”

            The old lady boggled at the two ephemeral figures in front of her.

            The taller, older fairy said “First we must negotiate a contract. We don’t work for free, you know.”

            `Oh no! Of course, I must pay you.” But the old lady’s heart was downcast at these words, for she was not wealthy. But she only said, “What would you be requiring? For the cleaning. How much?”

            “We don’t do windows. That’s a different Union altogether. We don’t do cobwebs; we don't empty cat litter trays.” The fairy looked indignant.” Nasty, smelly things. We don't! We won't! And we don't do under the fridge.”

            Who bothers doing that? thought the old woman.

            “We don't like dog hair,” the bigger fairy looked at the dog and scowled. “That will be extra.”

            `Right,” said the old woman. `What else?”

            `The oven will be extra, of course.” We charge two huge dahlias and must be allowed to choose them ourselves,” said the tall fairy. The younger fairy nodded solemnly.

            “Dahlias?” The old woman’s face became creased with confusion.

            “Yes, that’s right. And the dog hair,” she scowled again at the old dog, “will be a big bunch of roses, no thorns if you have them.”

            `I do, as a matter of fact,” said the old woman, then stopped and shook her head in puzzlement. `You mean I must pay you …. in flowers?”

            `Of course in flowers!” The older fairy was incredulous. `What did you think you’d pay us with? Chook manure? Do we look like garden gnomes?”

            Now the smaller, younger fairy spoke for the first time with a voice that was whimsical and melodious. “Payment in flowers, payment with flowers. All sorts of flowers.” The old woman noticed that her hair, which curled and floated around her head, was wreathed in blooms.

            A little more negotiation took place and finally, the fairies and the old lady were happy. She could hear them singing as they dusted and polished and cleaned.

            Sometime later, she awoke with a start from her seat under the gnarled old apple tree. The dog roused himself from his place under her chair. “Goodness me, what a funny dream I had.” She looked down at him. “And I’m afraid you didn’t cover yourself with glory, old dog. Most uncooperative, you were.” His tail fanned briefly. The afternoon was drawing in and she got up from her seat. Several blossoms had pattered down on her. She brushed them off and they both went inside.

        Fairies indeed! she thought to herself as she poured her tea and sat down. You silly old woman. No such thing as fairies and certainly not housework fairies. She frowned. Although I don't remember clearing away all those papers….