The long years of the untouched aspidistra, and the parking station.

In the newly acquired town-house court yard stand amongst the clivias (Amaryllidaceae) an aspidistra that is almost as old as I am and that is pretty old. The astonishing thing is not so much its age but more of , how and why ? It is our most neglected plant. I can’t remember watering it and apart from the occasional shower it doesn’t get moisture or nurture from anyone. A bird might fly over it occasionally. Perhaps a careless rosella  aims its droppings at this loveless plant as a sign of their care at least, which nature often astounds us with. I remember Helvi telling me that we took the plant from the farm in Holland and that dates back almost beyond my memory. We smuggled it in the crates of our furniture that included all our household goods with chairs, our home-made slatted bed, egg-cups, pillows, a large Dutch armoire and lots more. So, it is about at least forty five years old considering we left the farm in Holland around 1976.

And now it is outside near the clivias and still very much alive. At the previous place (of the garden slasher) it had a position in the downstairs bathroom and I suppose benefited from the shower droplets or steamy humidity. We sometimes mentioned it when conversation was about the indoor plants which throughout our many years together gave us so much pleasure. I read up about the aspidistra and we should have been more curious about this plant. Its flowers are so short and low that they just never seem to appear and another insightful information states it propagates with the help of slugs that crawl over those stumpy flowers and help to pollinate the plant. Another name for this plant is Cast Iron Plant. Its the plant that gets put in a dark place behind aunty Agnes’ untuned wood framed piano, and gets totally forgotten till aunty gets buried, the house sold, and removalists find this profusely growing aspidistra made of Cast Iron.

As for the parking station. When I visited my sick daughter at StGeorge brand new public hospital, I with the nonchalance and nous of a Mika Häkkinen drove into their large multi story parking station. Little did I know of the drama looming ahead. I have no experience of city living anymore. In any case, this multi story car park seem to attract hoons that race up and down the very curvy car park just to train for the Monte Carlo or the Dutch Assen race, to stay more local. But, forget about the screeching tires and the nose ringed hoons. At the entrance you are given a ticket that you present on the way out. This ticket has a time and date. After you pull the ticket out of the machine only then the boom gate allows you to enter by lifting it up and out of the way. Th ticket has to held onto for dear life. Don’t ever loose it!

When my visit was over, I made my way to the parking station and noticed with some relief that the race drivers had gone. I slowly retrieved my car from level C and made my way down numerous levels to the exit following the yellow painted arrows. I had the parking ticket grimly between my teeth and felt super-confident. I’ll proof a city slicker yet! At the ground floor I drove carefully towards the boom gate and next to a machine that after inserting my credit card and paying the fee would surely lift up and allow me to exit the parking station. But, as I inserted the ticket and thought I paid my charge the notice on the electronic screen kept saying. ‘charge not processed, try again’. I tried and tried and kept looking at the boom gate that stayed rock solid down in position. It then asked me by a mechanical voice to insert my card the other way around. That failed, by then I was getting into a state. I did not want a rage to well up. Just be an old man, I kept telling me. Pretend to be an aspidistra.  Nothing worked, I tapped and inserted and no help. Finally a voice told me to go to the office but ‘don’t leave the car’. Pay cash. But how? I then lost it and shouted to the machine. ‘I am an old man, and I want to pay, but for f”8£k sake let me out. I have a heart condition. ‘ The ‘office’ could sense a man holding onto the mast before the ship sunk, and soon a man appeared opened the machine and then told me ‘you did not put a ticket in’. I told him I did. He said ‘where is the ticket’, and held up a handful of tickets. My ticket was $10.40 but I wasn’t going to help him sort through tickets.

I said, ‘do you think I am lying?’ I am eighty years old and would I skimp on paying my dues?  He said, no and repeated, where is your ticket? I remained quiet and just looked ahead. He lifted the boom gate and I drove off.

It wasn’t a good moment but I am over it now.

 

The resignation of the Body Corporate Secretary.

Almost There

Just as I was relishing my new career as Secretary, practising rocking backwards and forwards on my heels, when all has come to a sudden (but not grinding) halt. Readers might remember that on a fortuitous Monday a week ago, I was nominated as Secretary in running together with Chairperson and Treasurer our Strata titled common property. It came out of the blue. Helvi and I both though something was brewing at the AGM which was held at the official address of the Body Corporate. There was an unusual air of joy and conviviality about at this particular meeting.

I accepted gracefully, and even got up from my chair to thank the attendees of the meeting, greatly humbled by the occasion. Who would have thought, and so late in my life? Dad would have been so proud. It brought back memories of the times many decades ago when I was secretary of the Parramatta scooter club. The meetings then were held above the Ambulance hall, an address which came in handy when our president had a nasty fall on his Vespa going down a steep mountains at Stanwell Park during one of the much loved treasure hunts on scooters. I had a Lambretta.

But, lets go forward again. At this AGM meeting it was agreed another small meeting would be held just by the committee. It was to be held the following Saturday at the Treasurer’s town-house just diagonally opposite ours. The meeting was at 5.30 pm. After arrival, the resigning Secretary and treasurer were present and after a few minutes the Chairperson took her chair by sitting on it. The Secretarial books were handed over and I produced my sharpened pencil and shining new note-book to start my duties as the new Secretary. My first entry were noting down the names of all three committee members including my own name, which I still remembered.

But then it all came to crashing halt. At precisely 6.05 pm, I resigned when it became clear I was being groomed to foment discord and disputes between the neighbours living next to the Treasurer and Cahirperson. I walked out and before their meeting was even finished I tucked my letter of resignation under the doors of the three committee members that were still holding the meeting, no doubt discussing what to de next. Looking through the Venetians I noticed they were sipping gin and tonic!

Here is me my letter of resignation.

On 10 Sep 2016 6:43 PM, gerard wrote:

Hello all,

I am sorry but hereby terminate my very short stint as secretary for the Body Corporate at 7 Ascot Rd. I was looking forward to making a contribution to our community and an even nicer place to reside in.

The stumbling block is that I was asked by the Chairperson to write a letter to all residents to park all cars in garages. Any cars superfluous to availability of garages to be parked on the street.

For years, some cars were parked in garages and some in front or alongside garages without any problems. It now seems to have grown into an issue. As most families now have more than one car, I was unable and certainly unwilling to antagonise residents to find alternative parking arrangements on the street.

Number 1 doesn’t even have a garage and parking has never been a problem till lately.

I will not be part of a revengeful shit-fight between some residents.

Yours faithfully,

Gerard Oosterman