solstice holiday

Much as I'd like to regale you with tales of the last fortnight or so, there's not a lot to regale.

I went into the big smoke on a Thursday.  Cuppla photos to prove I was there.

It was the start of Dark Mofo, and the red flags did their best to fly.

The Friday was yoga, then tai chi.  Two very smart chaps had pulled into the Community Health Centre but unfortunately did not join us.

The Saturday featured the Grand Opening of Chard, which has replaced the Rusty Devil.

I took this photo a couple of days later to try to capture an idea of the stock.  Somehow I didn't notice the overturned basket and strewn flowers.  Possibly the Emperor Penguin had me in its thrall.  On the Sunday, Mrs O Henry, Louise Tai Chi and I went into Hobart (again!) to the Farmers' Market.  We bought nothing but a Mexican style hot chocolate.  Then went on to have a fun and delicious lunch at Raincheck in North Hobart.  So lovely to be among a young and groovy set.  By and large.  There were a few older and wiser types there too.
All proceeded comme d'habitude until the following Thursday when, unplanned, I woke up with a cold which I'm still trying to shake off.  My aim was to be well for Saturday's Winter Solstice Swim but, alas, alack, I wasn't, so had a big sleep in instead, and have slept in every morning since.  The swim raised nearly $900 for the Suicide Prevention Network!  I'm hoping there are some photos.  I'm feeling a bit pathetic about not participating, especially after exhorting half of Triabunna to swim.  The always clever and sensible Pearl has suggested swimming at the Summer Solstice instead.  After a little sluggish thought, I realised that the summer solstice here will be the winter solstice in Wales.  And to celebrate this amazing realisation, I've decided to have a solstice holiday and just enjoy myself until I'm fully well again.

There has, of course, been reading.  I've finished this cleverly researched and inspiring biography of the woman who created the first garage staffed only by female mechnanics.

Steve heard the author of this one interviewed on Radio National and thought the story 'right up my alley'.  I thought it would be too.  However it is one of the few books I did not finish.  There are only so many facebook messages I can handle.  I appreciate that community history FB pages are useful to get people engaged and sharing information but they are very clumsy to read in a book.  The book itself felt clumsy to me. The storyline was not consistent and contained too many irrelevant tangents  to my way of thinking.  Perhaps I am becoming too linear.  I also couldn't believe that people would not think of consulting a local history society first up. I think it demonstrates how poorly history and research skills are taught.

I consoled myself with some Virginia Woolf.  I remember The Lighthouse was on Steve's bookshelf when I first met him.  I was duly impressed. It turns out that neither of us read it...  It is, of course, a perfect book to whip you into a frenzy about the stultifying effect of societal gender roles.

This one came highly recommended by the Zumbettes, and much anticipated by me after 'Summer at Mount Hope'.  I didn't enjoy it half as much.  Probably not Ms Ham's fault.  The angst about water, water allocations, water brokers, greed, corruption and just not having a clue how to find out what is really happening, took me right back to the Riverina, Sunraysia and the Murray Darling Basin Authority.  I've just put a hold on 'There should be More Dancing'.  That may be more my cup of tea.

Her Majesty recommended this one after I mentioned an extremely funny account of a horse race from the horses' point of view in The New Yorker.  The sheep solve the mystery of their shepherd's death in Ireland.  Lots here that I can applaud.

I've had the guilts about Alien Son ever since we were supposed to read it at school and I have no recollection of ever doing so.  I now think it was a well intentioned try to educate us but I really didn't care back then.  The irrelevance of Stan Babblingyak, Peter Sillynickers and others to my then world is appalling.  Ironic in the light of my subsequent work with migrants and refugees.  The edition we had at school had a particularly unappealing cover with gaunt, stick figures in black and white.  Would I have read the book if it had Max Dupain's 'little aussie 1942' on the cover?

This weekend I got stuck into Pufferfish, having lunched with David Owen a fortnight ago.  I had read them before but I can't remember where.  These were written in 1995, so it was more than likely after we had moved from Tasmania.  I remember the pleasure of events occurring in places I knew but I don't remember any emotional pull back to Tasmania.  This time, I'm keen to wander around old haunts.

And now I'm left with only this library book to browse.  Written in 2006, many of the restaurants referred to no longer exist.  There are some beautiful photos, though, and interesting info on quinces, saffron, scallops and other delights.  There are also recipes for anyone interested.