Posts Tagged ‘Salvation Army’

Pardon me Sir; your lack of paragraphs is showing.

January 24, 2016
Just glorious.

Just glorious.

The Salvation Army in Bowral has moved to the main shopping street. They used to be behind the railway line in an industrial area. Some shopkeepers are miffed. They feel it lowers the standard and tone of the main street. They are also scared many shoppers will get bargains in all sorts of fashionable up market brands for just a couple of dollars. A few days ago, we went there to check it out. Checking things out is what we often do. It passes the time and soothes pain.

I bought a two disc C-D of Pablo Casals’ suit of six suites ‘pour violoncelle by J.-S. Bach.’  They were in mint condition for $2.-.  Not even a finger print on them.  I now play the music while trying to find breaks in “Almost There.” and insert a new paragraph. Unfortunately, the Salvo’s are out of paragraphs but still have boxes of commas, and some semi-colons left.  Check it out!

You know, there is a lot of things to learn when writing. I am ashamed to admit that I was totally outside the loupe when it came to inserting all those exclamation marks. It gets worse. I did not even know that many of those marks come after full stops. The full stops must have felt so insulted, getting dragged behind. I do feel sorry. I am still unsure (unsicher) about a capital letter needed after the semi-colon or not. Is it legal to alternate and please both options? Consistency is what is required.

From “Almost There.”

As I motor-biked past a car sales yard, I noticed a large car for sale amongst many others. This car was a powder blue colour. Its chrome glimmered seductively. They say men fall in love with cars. Even the primates shown recently on TV, the male gets drawn to anything with wheels while the female ape cuddles dolls. What hope have we got? As a male homo sapient, men might as well do away with free choice when a car sales yard beckons us more than a bevy of dolls. I mean what could be nicer than cuddling a doll? Yet, it is the hot embrace of high revving steel pistons and killer speeds that men seem to be drawn to. The smarmy salesman saw me coming looking out from his little window inside his pigeon-hole office overlooking his domain of gaping cars. The perfect customer. A young man on the hunt for his first car.

‘Care to take a closer look,’ the man said while consolidating his opinion of me. He had seen so many come and go that day but not many young ones. He could tell, having honed his car salesmanship at his previous sales yard along Parramatta Rd called ‘Pacific cars is Terrific’. He had broken the back of many a customer’s reluctance. He knew the ropes and his cars, and was keenly sought after around the car-yard precincts of Sydney. The year would have been around 1961/62. I had gone through a Lambretta scooter after which I bought an ex-police bike with side-car in which I used to go rabbit and fox hunting with my brother John. John was very tall, over two metres. I don’t know how we fitted tent, two rifles and big John in the outfit but we must have. When one is young matters of comfort are hardly ever considered. When getting to my present age, comfort is all and sleeping in a tent gets a bit hazardous with serpents and crocodiles around, huge poisonous cane toads that can kill by leaving a slimy substance. After seventy, the inner spring mattress beckons like a nun waiting for her habit.


Is it a Troll or unrequited love?

February 6, 2014

The plight of Odyssey

The plight of Odyssey

A curious case of internet foibles and troubles has been following me on the screen. Please, all come a little closer to the screen again. Intimate revelations might be exposed. I can’t or don’t want to be responsible for a quickening of pulses or worse, unguarded moments of spontaneity in nether regions causing complete wardrobe malfunctions.

Over the last year or so a person of either sex has been following me on those blogs where I sometimes like to dwell and make dubious comments. The blogs are mainly of a social commentary genre. Only fools frequent those kind of pages. But, there you have it. My dad was right; “just stick to your meccano set or help your mum wash up”, was his sage advice. I failed, dear daddy.

Of course, anyone responding to what you have written on any blog is a resounding affirmation that something has been said that is either liked or disliked. Any response is better than nothing. At the beginning of my blogging career I was even thrilled to get spams, some of which offered free piano tuning or trial doses of increasing sexual desire levels.( of either sex)

In my bachelor days I used to live off Spam for days. I loved the challenge of opening the can without breaking that little key that had to be slowly turned to open the lid. It needed patience. If you turned it too quickly, the key would break and one then needed a hammer and chisel. I still remember the lovely smell, sitting on my single bed, scooping it all out. I used a small spoon so it would last longer.

But back to my lament about the stalker, he/she seems to get some weird thrill out of trying to unsettle me. “Well, there might be some logical reason for that,” my H could well retort.

How anyone can get their rocks off on my social blogs’ pleadings for ‘Salvation Army soup for the unemployed’ or ‘subsidised walking frames for the over 75’ is puzzling. Still, I have to consider all possibilities. What people find fascinating, no matter how mind-boggling to me, could well send others in a frenzy of excitement with strange expectations.

It calls for tolerance. Some claim this alone has its own reward. In any case, the responses does seem to give the stalker the oxygen they crave. The incursions are not that serious but even mosquito bites can be irritating. It pays to have a spray can handy!

He/she seems to often change their aliases but I recognize the style of writing and even though moderators have sometimes been alerted, often it is too late and the quirky but irritating rants are allowed to remain. On my own Oosterman Treat Blog it is no problem. The response gets wiped as quick as it takes to push the delete button.

He/she/it is not someone that I know but I have come to the startling and possibly deluded conclusion, that it might be a case of a ‘love’ troll.

Surely not? At my age, could that still happen? Do they get hopelessly smitten? Is it my gravitas, giving the angle of my nose, the tilt of the affirmative chin or my distant look, hinting at generous promises with ripe fulfilment?

Sadly, if this is the case ( or any case), it must remain unrequited. He has already been taken. No number of overexcited internet trolls will be able to unhinge me. It will not ever be reciprocated. This love is doomed.

I have told her/him to be gone not to darken my well scrubbed doorstep again. I am curious if this phenomenon is rare or is it just a case of; expose yourself and you run this risk in a world of demented, frustrated souls, waiting to pounce on unsuspected bloggers. Is theirs a hope for the blogger to become totally unhinged by their persistent obsessive statements? Do they relish the chance of a mental cave-in, or… do they expect a marriage proposal? Do they live solely off the joy of an outburst of anger . Who would know?

The Art of dressing fashionably with Pierre Cardin

January 10, 2012

Years ago, looking back at my old photos, I could not help but be impressed how people dressed. We left the boat in Fremantle in 1956; all dressed in Sunday’s best. It was a Sunday, so that might have been one reason! However, at that time, women dressed in flowing frocks, wore seamed nylons suspended from jarretels; men wore button down jackets, nicely creased pants and lovely shirts and ties. Both sexes wore hats as well. The public pulling up of a stocking that had slipped out of that little button higher up a female thigh’s girdle was then as erotic a sight as anything available staring for hours at of today.

Presently, this has all changed into an astonishing fashion indicating a kind of hobo homelessness made cool- chique. The more worn out the cool people dress, the better and the more expensive it will be. At no stage during the history of fashion have holes in material cost that much. It has to be suitably threadbare. Isn’t there a fashion label by that name? On the train today there were many men and boys in singlets and thongs, coke in one hand, mobile or apps in other. Girls and women dressed in terribly worn out looking shorts or raggedly dresses, also some in singlets with bodily parts swinging hither and dither, as well as thongs and mobiles. I am informed that those shorts don’t come cheap and that the impoverished look is deliberate. There I was, thinking to get out needle and thread and offer to do some repairs. Mothers used to work their knuckles to the bare bone preventing kids to look like Charles Dickens’ urchins. Now it is high fashion to look poor, bare boned and homeless. They all utter and talk a kind of threadbare English as well, with, ‘and like, oh my god,’ or even better, a resolute ‘stuff like that’… it all falls into place, even makes some sense.

At the back of the railway line where we live is a huge Salvation Army shop. It is situated in a semi industrial zone next to a large rural produce store. It is so big one can hardly see the end of it. It has three huge industrial fans blowing circulating the air which has a barely concealed air of stale perfume. The very high corrugated ceiling and steel framed structure gives it all a rather theatrical feel, making browsing very pleasurable. On offer are all those fascinating items from glorious pasts donated for a good cause and hoping for a revival in a good home.

Here one can find the discarded and sometimes fashionable items from yesteryear. The second hand dresses are especially intriguing. Who wore this silk dark dress, size 46 with a single strand of long blonde hair still clinging forlornly at the back of it? Was she tall with that flaxen blond hair and did the tri-coloured sash next to it drape over it or did she tie it around the waste? Did she talk a lot and was she happily married? Where did she live and did she treat others with consideration? I would have thought that wearing this beautiful dark dress and sash could not have been worn by a fish curer from Woolloomooloo. You never get that sort of feeling of historical haute couture looking at the endless cloth racks of David Jones or Myers.

At The Salvos, ‘at the back of the railway line’, were many other items that would have cost a fortune in the sixties or even seventies. There were top fashion label lingerie frilly items including brassieres that would have cost a fortune new. I couldn’t help myself and felt inside the cups of a ruffled cashmere bralette made in Italy. The ticket said ‘new over $ 260.-. It was a steal for $5.-. What lovely breasts had nestled there, I reflected pensively? No one would ever do this with new items. There is just no point to it, is there? New clothes are sterile; no living has occurred in them yet, let alone warm breasts.

In my shared wardrobe and for many decades now hangs a pure woolen jacket I have worn many times in the past, especially weddings but lately more funerals… It is as good now as it was fifteen years ago. It is a dark blue-black colour and was given to me by my son who found the arms a bit short. It fits me still perfectly and even though I have not found much use for it lately, I’ll keep it forever. The jacket was first given to my son and rumored to have been originally bought by a well known lawyer. Inside the jacket at the back of it is the label: Designed by Pierre Cardin ‘Paris’. Another label pronounces in smaller letters, exclusively tailored in Australia, Berkeley apparel.

It will most likely end up at the Salvos as well…eventually. A steal for just $3.-