No Worries!

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Alan Bennet, Barramundi, Barry Manilow, Billy Connolly, Blairgowrie, Blue-Eye, Brave, Carsten Holler, Castilian Spanish, Chai Latte, cone bra, Creole, David Shrigley, Eleftherios, Federation Square, Flinders lane, Frozen, Great Ocean Road, gum tree, heist, Ice, John Paul Gaultier, kanga bangas, koala, kookaburra, lingusitic convergence, McClelland Sculpture Park, Melbourne, Melchisedek, Mornington Peninsula, Mountain Goat Steam Ale, NGV International, no worries!, Panagia Kamariani, Pele Tower, Philip Larkin, Pidgin, possums, Poundland, Rab C Nesbitt, Red Claw, Red Hill Greek Orthodox monastery, rhinopithecus strykerl, sans soucis, shotgun wedding, snub nosed monkey, Sorrento, Talking Heads, The Island Bird by Neto, www.chrispattas.com, Yabby Lake, You'll Never Walk Alone

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Dear Posse, or should that be ‘possums’?

You have probably all wondered why Candia has gone off radar,

but I haven’t got time to correspond with you individually. So,

maybe you can make do with reading the communal postcard I

sent to my dear girlfriends in Suttonford, who are probably even

now sharing its contents in Costamuchamoulah‘s must-seen

cafe, as they sip their Chai Lattes– an inferior blend to the original

which I have just imbibed in Flinders Lane, Melbourne.

You see, the price of an air mail stamp to Pomland- not to be

confused with Poundland- is almost as much as an additional glass

of Yabby Lake fizz for moi and, on this once- in-a-lifetime walkabout,

I am not about to downgrade to the Red Claw ‘drinkable’ variety.

So, G’day, mates! I’ve already been down The Great Ocean Road;

seen my first koala in the wild- thankfully unaccompanied by Putin,

One Direction, or Obama- gawped at a joey peeping out of a row of

vines and consumed my first Blue-Eye and Barramundi.  The latter

sounds like Barry Manilow, but is infinitely more subtle.  As far as I

know, it doesn’t attempt to sing.  I do seem to remember Big

Mouth Billy, the singing sea bass, so maybe one could form a

connection.

It’s so good to relax and the upgrade to Business Class from

Singapore was a down-payment of future bliss.  It took a few

moments before I realised that I was watching ‘Brave‘ in Castilian

Spanish on the back of the seat in front, but my personally

appointed steward soon tuned me in to the appropriate lingo.

Better than a remote in the control of The Husband and a tad

more obliging.  It’s good to be treated better than Dame Edna

Average.

I see Billy Connolly is coming to Melbourne shortly. The Scots’

community should comprehend his repartee, but no doubt his

Antipodean spouse has taught him a little linguistic convergence,

so the audience should probably work out that he is not speaking

some kind of Pidgin, or Creole.  Anyway, hybridisation and cross-

fertilisation seem to be the name of the game over here.  One minute

you are in Sorrento and the next you are driving through Blairgowrie.

Talk about fusion!

The Husband grew some roots in Federation Square as he

downed a Mountain Goat Steam Ale, while riveting his gaze

on the big screen’s events at the MCG and demolishing some

Kanga Bangas.

While Gus, Virginia, Diana, Murgatroyd, Dru and Nigel are

snowed in at the pele tower in The Borders, The Husband

and I are experiencing four seasons in one day down in The

Mornington Peninsula.  The chattering classes of Suttonford

have been silenced by the maniacal laughter of a kookaburra,

who stereotypically does sit in an old gum tree, as well as

crapping all over the garden fence every morning.  But, sans

soucis!  Even the mynahs’ cackles are shriller than some South

of England socialites.

I know I said that I only sent one postcard, but that isn’t

strictly true.

I did send Juniper a card of Jean Paul Gaultier’s teddy bear,

which he has cherished since the age of three and which sports

his prototype cone bra.

She would have loved the holographic talking heads on his models

in The NGV.  So would Alan Bennet!  Maybe I should have sent him a

postcard too, but he’s probably a friend of the designer and gets a

personalised one.

Even church-going is a lot more exciting here.  I don’t think Philip

Larkin would have been as lugubrious if he had removed his cycle

clips and gone into the Red Hill Greek Orthodox Monastery of Panagia

Kamariani.

The priest told me that his Christian name- ‘Eleftherios‘ means ‘Liberty’

and he certainly takes a few.  I mean, back in Suttonford, the staid

congregation are startled out of their professed sobriety by the

ringing of a ship’s bell; the crashing of the organ and a cacophany of

bells in the Easter Saturday service in Wintoncester Cathedral.  But

Father Tatsis is much more melodramatic.  Look up http://www.chrispattas.

com and you can see a Youtube clip of the sacerdotal gesture of

celebration to the pronouncement: He is Risen!  Brings a whole new

angle to the phrase ‘shotgun wedding‘!It is a pity that the latter day

Melchisedek didn’t wield his weapon at the teenage thugs who raided

the icon’s golden votive jewellery collection and who made off with a

heist worth $100,000.  Failing that, he could have maybe stowed the

stuff in a safe.  Unfortunately there is Ice in Paradise and I don’t mean

anything as innocent as the latest Frozen movie.

The liberating thing about Oz seems to be that you can act like a big

kid and you are actually encouraged to do so.  Case in point:  The

Husband climbing into the art installation The Island Bird by Ernesto

Neto at The NGV International.

He got tangled up in what appeared to be an unravelled string shopping

bag, or a coloured version of Rab C Nesbitt’s vest.  I was more attracted

by Carsten Holler’s golden, mirrored carousel and managed to restrain myself

from breaking into You’ll Never Walk Alone, though, if I had, it would have been

regarded as a valid interactional response. Like Oz itself, even the artwork

invites us to stand on our heads and re-imagine the world, reconsidering our

place within it.

So, whether it is wallpapering a gallery with anarchic David Shrigley

observations, or sculpting a Sneezing Snub Nosed Monkey -Rhinopithecus

strykerl (McClelland Sculpture Park), the infectious Aussie irreverent take

on life affects even its Un-Orthodox priests and makes one feel that,

indeed, there are No Worries!

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaachoooooooooooooooooooooooo!!

Poetry versus Push-pin

Tags

adjectival phrase, amaryllis, Beethoven, Belladonna, Bentham, Beyonce, Bishop of Durham, Borgia, Bridge Mints, C of E, ceteris paribus, Chirpa chirpa cheep cheep, conversazione, Country Life magazine, debutante, dehydration, hip flask, Jenkins, Liverpool Pathway, Mayfair atelier, Mozart, noumenal realm, Pele Tower, poetry v push-pin, Poundland, Pushkin, veg-tan, wassail, York Minster

Drusilla had a precious free weekend before Christmas

and had selflessly decided to motor down to visit her

Great-Aunt Augusta in Snodland’s Nursing Home

for the Debased Gentry.

Great-Aunt Augusta had pronounced herself a little under the

weather and had decided not to make an unseasonal journey

northwards to the draughty pele tower in the Borders, to join

the rest of the extended ‘family’ for the celebrations.  In any

case, she didn’t want to miss the Residents’ Wassail Evening.

Dru had wrapped a generous bottle of Dewlap Gin for the Discerning

Grandmother and some Bridge Mints and also took along some back

numbers of magazines which the school library had been about to

shred.

The old virago was rather rude.  She immediately started reading a

copy of Country Life magazine (October 2014), leaving her great-

niece to engage a doddery old man in what could only

optimistically be called conversation, or conversazione, by

pretentious writers in similar publications.

Ha!  Hark at this!  Augusta screeched, causing several biddies in

proximity to adjust their hearing aids.  These estate agents are

the limit.  They’re offering property in York for cultural aficianodos and

the best adjective they can employ to modify the Minster is:

‘pretty’ cathedral.  They’re fortunate that their offices are not struck

by a bolt of lightning for committing a bigger faux pas than the Bishop

of Durham once did. Ha! That showed that The Almighty was not

housed in man-made constructs and is not necessarily C of E.

What do you mean? Dru asked.  Her aunt was referring to something

beyond her personal ken.

Just that God is no respecter of persons and does not dwell in buildings

made of stone.  I remember how we all marvelled at the cathedral being

struck by a coup de foudre after Bishop Jenkins’ trendy pronouncements.

Let’s play a game, she continued.  Who would you like to see being

struck by lightning?

No, Aunt.  That is not a very Christian idea- especially at this time

of year.  (Dru was shocked that certain colleagues came

immediately to mind.)

Oh, you young people have no sense of fun.

She flicked a few more pages, slightly in a huff.  Then she brightened

considerably.

Can’t I  propose people who exhibit portraits of their debutante

daughters while slipping in an advertisement for their own atelier

businesses in Mayfair?

No.  Have a Bridge Mint.

Augusta took two.  She didn’t offer one to Dru, or to the doddery

cling-on.

I see poultry prefer Beethoven to Beyonce, she mused.  She felt

she was on safer ground.  Not a terrain that usually attracted

her footfall.  However, the noumenal realm was still in her mental

grasp and she liked to show her powers of acuity. It’s a bit like

Bentham saying poetry is no better than push-pin, she pronounced.

Or was it Pushkin?  I can’t recall. Ceteris paribus, I don’t see any

reason to prefer one over the other.

She read a little more of the article….

There’s something called ‘Top of the Flocks’ that you

can play in your chicken run.  Hens lay 6% more eggs if you play

Mozart.

They’d lay 7% if you played Chirpy Chirpy Cheep Cheep, the

doddery old man piped up as he leaned toward the open box.

Clearly he was not aurally challenged, or socially reserved.

Chirpa, corrected Aunt Augusta, moving the box of mints closer

to her sphere of jurisdiction.

Do open one of your small prezzies, Dru invited her, in a vain

attempt at distraction.

Augusta put the bottle-shaped one under her chair in a

particularly acquisitive gesture.  She looked at the label

on another, smaller parcel.  Hmm, from Gus.  It feels

like a flower pot.  I hope it’s not one of those veg-tan

leather articles shown in here, starting at £130, she

scowled.  I’m not leaving my estate to a spendthrift!

Aunt, it’s an Amaryllis bulb from Poundland, Dru sighed.

Ah, I can see my childhood training has paid off,  Augusta

beamed, carefully rolling and conserving the ribbon and

folding the wrapping paper for another occasion.  She

set her lips in a Borgian smile when she saw the

designation: Belladonna.  Might come in useful.

At least they still allow us flowers in here. Not like in that

hospital ward where floral tributes were banned in case

patients drank water from vases on their bedside lockers.

Shocking! Who drinks water nowadays? That’s why, my dear-

she paused for maximum effect and then produced her hip

flask from somewhere under her clothing- I always have a

stand-by.  I don’t intend to let the beggars do me down through

dehydration.

I’ll come back tomorrow morning, Dru promised.  She was

worried that someone would think she had given Augusta

the hip flask.

Don’t look so anxious, her aunt responded.  We all have

them in here.  How do you think we survive on the Liverpool

Pathway to nowhere?

And Dru had to admit that it didn’t seem to do them any harm.

Quite the reverse.