On Saturday, we drove about one and a half hours north from home to arrive at our holiday destination, Noosa River Retreat. This was our self catering, home away from home for the next five days. We previously checked out the accommodation in June.
Planting in a nearby Noosaville street
Noosa River Retreat is conveniently located less than 15 minutes walking distance from shops, cafés, restaurants, bars, and the Noosa river.
View from no.7’s balcony
We were joined by family and friends for a festival of my 60th birthday. The line up of dining experiences include, Bandita Mexican restaurant and bar, Frenchies brasserie, Seasons restaurant and bar, Mr Jones and Me restaurant, and Whiskey Boy bar and grill.
View from no.13’s balcony
Being the centre of attention of a group of fifteen has been an exhilarating experience. I count myself fortunate to be surrounded by so much love and feel thoroughly coddled and cosseted.
On Tuesday 27 June 2023, my mother would have been eighty eight years old. She used to joke about being the embodiment of war and peace; Eirene was the Greek goddess of peace whilst Edith comes from the Old English Eadgyð, encompassing the elements ead, meaning “riches” or “blessed,” and gyð, meaning “war.”
To me, my mother was a fearsome presence who took up the mantle of raising three sons and contributing to the lives of her grandchildren and the British Polio Fellowship with selfless determination and pride.
As a no nonsense let’s sort this out persons, Mom resolved the question of my secondary school by going to the headquarters of the Birmingham Education Department and not leaving until she had confirmation, I was not going to the local one with a reputation of high levels of bullying.
From an early age, Mom encouraged us to pursue our interests. There was no judgement from her when as a child, I created a teddy bear bridal parade using a pale blue nylon and polyester night dress she had donated for me to use. When at a loss at what I wanted to ‘do’ at a meeting with the career advisor at secondary school, Mom said gently, ‘you like making cakes, Rob’; the decision was made, catering college was the next step.
My husband and the grandchildren brought out a softer affectionate side to Mom’s resolute force.
She insisted on keeping an immaculately clean home. During school holidays our chores included washing the skirting boards and architraves throughout the house.
Mom graciously welcomed guests sharing what she had even though her meagre weekly budget had to be tightly managed.
Through sheer determination, Mom contradicted the prognosis of doctors who said she would never sit up unaided, let alone walk after contracting polio at eighteen months old. Mom refused to visit Stratford-on-Avon as it was believed the river Avon was the source of her infection.
Not giving into the restrictions of her body was part of Mom’s being. Mom wore a full caliper (leg brace) on the left leg to take the weight of the left side of her body.
One of Mom’s stories recounted a day during the Second World War when she jumped into a hole, breaking the caliper. Back then the NHS (National Health Service) did not fund the caliper. Mom’s parents were understandably not amused.
The adult caliper consisted of a deep padded leather thigh brace similar in shape to a bucket fastened with heavy duty leather straps, along with leather knee and ankle braces fastened with leather straps. Each brace was connected to the next with bilateral steel struts. The knee had a mechanism to lock the leg straight or release it to be able to sit down. The caliper had a raised steel platform at the bottom to correct the three and half inches difference in length between Mom’s legs. There was a steel peg underneath the platform covered with a rubber ferrule. The whole thing weighed around 14lbs. This did not stop Mom from touring Snowdonia, Wales in the ‘50s riding pillion on my Dad’s motorbike.
Mom’s morning routine included tightly wrapping the left leg from thigh to ankle in crepe bandage to help prevent chafing and keep it warm due to pour blood circulation. A crepe sock and tights finished the ensemble.
Mom’s peers at school were as cruel with taunts as you can imagine however, calling her peg leg, hop along or a cripple would result in a clout. The bravado covered up a sense of self-consciousness. Up to her sixties, Mom chose to wear slacks to hide the caliper from judging eyes.
In middle age, Mom steadfastly refused to use a wheelchair preferring to switch to a considerably lighter cosmetic leg brace having full length moulded plastic upper and lower limb cradles, fastened with Velcro straps plus an updated locking hinge at the knee. A custom made built up shoe plus a sturdy right shoe completed the ensemble. The NHS funded one pair of shoes every two years. Mom could choose from a colour range of black, brown, navy, mid-grey, claret, or fawn. There was only one fully enclosed lace up style available. A below knee brace had to be added to the right leg to provide support as it had degenerated doing the job of two legs.
Mom spent decades battling the symptoms of post polio syndrome and in managing the excruciating pain and physical restrictions of spinal osteoarthritis. She was an early adopter of acupuncture sessions to help relieve the pain.
Eventually, Mom found a new lease of life using a motorised wheelchair. In my mind, I can still see her whizzing around the house singing along and dancing to her favourite vinyl albums of James Last and his Orchestra. She thought his music lifted her spirits allowing to fly.
My second step-dad, Barry quietly and gently adored and cared for Mom. He arranged for Mom to meet her idol, Mr Last back stage after one of his concerts. Mom proudly displayed a framed photograph of the two of them meeting on the living room wall.
A fortune telling gypsy told Mom she would live until ninety, I truly believed this would be the case.
The last time I saw Mom in person was when she turned seventy. After demanding of herself a full life, complications from a respiratory infection took Mom fours years later in 2009.
It has taken me this long to come to terms with her passing. It’s perhaps not a good look typing during the work commute with tears running down my face while listening to James Last on Spotify; it’s okay no one is paying attention.
On the third morning of writing this epic composition, I am calmly listening to Non Stop Dancing 8 from Mr Last in 1969 to herald the memory of a great and wonder-filled woman, Irene Edith, Mom.
The earliest picture, I could find of myself, around 20 years old
Upon reflection, the seductress had to be someone who shared their first name with a Roman goddess. As for me, I was an immature bundle of naivety.
Having grown up as a bookish eldest son in the bosom of my family in Birmingham, UK, my only taste of life had been making liberal use of a free school bus pass at weekends to explore the museums and Central Lending Library in the city centre.
In 1979, we moved 23 miles southwest to Droitwich. Formerly, a sleepy spa town, it’s high street is lined with subsided eighteenth and nineteenth century buildings caused by over pumping of underground brine.
When we arrived as part of the ‘Birmingham overspill’, Droitwich was burgeoning with new light industrial parks, and social and private housing estates.
I had my own first floor, narrow, single bedded room with a view out of the front of the brand new ‘council’ house. The view from the window took in the gardens of three terraced houses running perpendicular to ours.
It was an easy transition from having Woodgate Valley Country Park on the doorstep in Birmingham to the historical and rural connection Droitwich had to offer. My favourite outdoor pastimes included, exploring derelict farm buildings, the graveyard of Salwarpe Church, and dreamily wandering along seldom used lanes and paths.
While I was singled out for physical and verbal abuse at secondary school in Birmingham for being a ‘puff’; I had no idea what this term meant or how it was spelled, I sensed it was something bad that needed to be avoided at all costs. Preferring acting, classical music, languages, and art over science, sports, and hanging out with the boys, I avoided aggressors in the playground and hid from conflict by spending lunch hours in the library, art room, and at a drama group.
In Droitwich, the school based discrimination shifted focus to my broad Brummie accent. In the chaos filled minutes before the teacher arrived to teach French, my point of difference was called out by my peers resulting in a metal waste paper bin being thrown at my head. That moment of shock, horror, embarrassment, and shame tarnished my view of the remainder of my schooling at Droitwich High. I felt so ashamed, I didn’t tell my parents or anyone outside of the class group. I buried the experience, thinking maybe I deserved it.
In 1980, I commenced a two years’ full time course at a college in the nearby city of Worcester.
As I approached eighteen years old, in the seemingly unending heady Summer of 1981, I embraced the sunshine, eating al fresco, and commenced a journey of self discovery.
A vague impression of my siren from over forty years ago include, images of a sun kissed Mediterranean complexion, soft brown eyes, frothy shoulder length hennaed hair, hippie love beads, Indian sandals, floaty pastel blue/purple patterned flimsy cotton gypsy dresses and skirts, and a warm welcoming smile followed by a husky ‘hello Rob’.
My spirits soared in the company of this fortyish, single-parenting, huntress. I eagerly spent hours at her place listening to stories of her colourful life, of being married, and running a jewellery shop in Hong Kong.
I was swept away in a romantic illusion, accompanied by her record collection including, Barbra Streisand’s, the Love Songs album (released in USA as Memories), Joan Armitrading’s, Walk Under Ladders, On My Way to Where, Dory Previn, and the movie soundtracks from Neil Diamond’s, The Jazz Singer and Streisand’s, A Star is Born.
Our love making was limited to kissing and clothed caressing.
Post holiday reality kicked in from the September of that year when my temptress returned to teaching drama full time and I commenced my second year at college; severely restricting the time we had available to spend with each other.
Passions dwindled and the brief relationship morphed into a fond memory.
I wonder what life holds for this little one, caught on camera during the Auntie Beeb coverage of the coronation of King Charles III.
I hope they won’t get caught up in legal wrangles over unapproved product placement of the head-ware sported in the footage.
Could this be a forgotten royal offspring, forever exiled to reside beyond the Palace’s iron fence and gates. Only on procession days are they allowed to remind the monarch of their dubious heritage.
I imagine memories of their life during the reign of Queen Elizabeth II will be based on the observations of older kith and kin.
Will they be interested enough to watch the coronation of William and Kate and when will that be?
I wonder what Spare Harry Whistledown will be up to. At the very least there may be a seldom viewed animated interactive exposé mini series about their royal childhood on Netflix.
When my husband ran an AirBnb from home the listing mentioned our pictures and artefacts having a tale to tell.
Before I emigrated to Australia my dear Australian friend P.M.S formerly P.M.M caught up with me in the UK. We visited one of my early boyfriend’s parents, Hazel and Bill in Solihull.
As a naive 20 year old from a working class family, north of the borough, Birmingham, I knew my place as their social inferior.
My trips to see them usually involved the upmost politeness and decorum. I felt common and clumsy in their presence. I would sit in the same place on the sculpted green draylon sofa, the same spot where I was shown to sit, the first time I met them. I was introduced as a ‘friend’ of their son.
I would not dream of wandering about the hallowed halls of their abode or handling the ornaments and family pictures on the mantle piece.
I vaguely recall P. and I dining with them. I vividly remember my anxiety levels stepping up from mildly uncomfortable to extremely stressed with each step P. took around the lounge room, picking up the objet d’arts for a closer inspection and quizzing the hosts on who the silver framed smiling faces were.
P. and I had many exciting adventures together including a few trips to Liberty of London.
It was love at first sight when I saw a dark polished timber, queen sized sleigh bed with octagonal cane infill panelled head and foot boards. We agreed it was truely a piece of furniture to aspire to.
In one of the sales, I bought two table lamps, one with a very 1980’s silhouette; wide shouldered and narrow bottom in an off-white glaze flecked with apricot and green. The other, a ginger jar shape with an orange peel texture in dark apricot. Both had lift off coolie shaped narrow pleated cream silk shades, tops and bottoms trimmed with velvet; trés glam!
We still have the latter of the two lamp bases pictured above. I refinished it with acrylic paint during my gilding phase in the early 2000s. Paired with a gold foil lined black shade it anchors the French Empire themed dining tableau.
Thursday marked cooler Autumn weather with the addition of a tee shirt layer beneath the customary short sleeved shirt, under a waffle-look long sleeved shirt to complete the commute to Brisbane.
All day I was self conscious of how less than a millimetres’ extra fabric all around made the shirt feel tight and gaped more than usual.
I inherited the fat genes from the maternal side of my family. They are a well built, big boned, stout, jolly, portly lot.
In my early twenties, I managed to work off ‘puppy fat’ through physical work and a relatively carb free diet. This successful combination was repeated in my thirties and forties supplemented by guilt induced gym membership. Dr Moseley’s fasting diet and GP prescribed slimming pills resolved the middle age spread yo-yo during my fifties.
A sedentary job, inherent laziness, and osteoarthritis have curbed my motivation for gym training and long walks as I enter the sixties.
During Thursday night’s interrupted sleep, I had a nightmare about my ever increasing girth and the need for dieting. I find it amusing, I can cradle my belly during slumber whilst realising the action during the dream.
Smaller portions was the revelation from the insight into my subconscious. Plates to be no larger than fit for a dessert. It makes sense, my mind doesn’t seem to recognise my appetite as sated until about ten minutes after finishing. I eat everything served to me as instilled in childhood.
Upon waking on Friday, I was inspired to start on the fifth of May.
As the Noom app has escaped clean-up deletions on my mobile phone, I duly entered a piccolo latte followed by tuna in water with mixed veggies for breakfast and another piccolo for mid morning snack.
Whilst working from home, I received an email from my boss about my performance thus far against KPIs for the financial year ending 30 June.
I experienced symptoms of tightness in my chest and throat just by looking at the subject line in the Outlook list. It prompted a Google search resulting in a potential panic attack turning out to be indigestion. It was resolved with a slug of Gaviscon.
Lunch consisted of left over curry sauce, tuna, mixed veggies, and a piccolo latte.
A cocktail, Kalamata olives, and roasted almonds on the terrace left me with 240 kcals for homemade pizza coleslaw and wine for dinner.
We took a rain check on the pizza until this evening substituting it with home delivery nachos and quesadias.
May Day has become Labour Day in Queensland. This is perhaps appropriate given we are in the Southern Hemisphere and not entering Summer.
It is also International Workers’ Day in recognition of union led improvements to worker’s right’s including, the eight hour day.
As with most other public holidays we will spend the day in repose. Just like yesterday, we will spend the day with Stan, enjoying the clement weather of the Sunshine State in the Lucky Country.
Having a subconscious tie tugging me to a phantom, idealised bucolic life led me to believe this was my destiny.
Because of their scale, towns and cities have the appeal of inclusivity and freedom. In reality, more residents are squashed into a smaller area.
The increasing cost of living is so high that a weekly night out on the tiles is beyond the grasp of those with modest means.
Around a decade ago, I looked into buying a block of land in the Sunshine Coast, Queensland hinterland. It was large enough to build our own home. Unfortunately, the distance from a large urban area and requisite workplace remained too far away.
We purchase the ‘swan’ chairs on a whim in 1999 from an over the top furniture shop on the fringe of Double Bay, Sydney. They have gold finished frames, Sensuede seats and Teflon coated French silk backs. Like most things in our life they have patina. Reminding us of happy gatherings of friends and family.
Instead we opted for somewhere within one hour public transport commuting distance of Brisbane. There is an added bonus of a huge nature conservation area literally across the road.
Within our humble dwelling, a long held grandiose idea of a French Empire themed dining room has miraculously manifested in a not too shabby area of the kitchen.
The table extends to seat eight to ten people. Prior to the move it stood on end sans legs for five years on the landing of the townhouse.
While searching, one of the requirements of the new house was space enough to accommodate the dining table.
The new abode’s utility/laundry room/corrider runs perpendicular to the outside area.
My architect/interior designer husband believes the plumber installed the hot water tank/immersion heater adjacent to this space for their own convenience rather than for the aesthetic of the outside area; I agree, the taupe coloured hulk is a blot.
Tomorrow, our dear friend A. judges an equestrian events in Caboolture, a town north of the new home. As A. will be dropping in after said judging, they will be the first official visitor; everything needs to be tip top Bristol fashion.
Over the last week, we have assembled racking in one of two sheds, to facilitate my husband’s clearing the area of removal boxes. Also, I have sewn pencil pleat heading tape onto outdoor curtains whilst hubby is in the process of creating a coffee table.
We are toying with moving the daybed in front of the eyesore instead of facing it. An amusing alternative would be to stand a mirror in front of it to elude the viewer.
The tin galah views the whole suggestion with the vacillation it deserves.
theINFP 