Courage = Benazir Bhutto

Rest in peace.

Target 140: place unused ice cubes in your pot plants.

The 4 minute shower

As you can see, the Queensland Water Commission is giving very useful advice. The average use of water across the city has hit a nadir of 127L per person per day. I can go with "yellow let it mellow, brown flush it down" but generally speaking, it is becoming harder to stay cheerful about the drought.

In first year psychology tutorials we were taught that in difficult times, it can be helpful to write down the pros and cons of a situation. [Really?] So, after years of perpetually fine weather, here are my lists to date.

Good things about the drought:

~It doesn’t rain.

~Losing favourite umbrella in 1998 no longer an issue.

~Cockroaches large enough to have landing lights rarely seen.

~Drought fighting community spirit to the fore (expect to hear re-worked WWI songs any day now).

~Free 4 minute hourglass egg timer from Queensland Water Commission.

~Jungle of weeds growing with less vigour; fewer withering looks from garden-obsessed neighbours.

~Less spent on lawn-mowing (countered by increased cost of lettuces and avocados though).

~Tomato vine on back door neighbour’s fence dying.


Bad things about the drought:

~It doesn’t rain.

~Everything is grey-green, brown-green or yellow-green but never green-green.

~Garden-obsessed neighbours very sad.

~Previous swamp lands drained. Urban sprawl sprawling. New houses built without insect screening. Dengue fever epidemic when drought breaks (not joking).

~The 4 minute shower.

~Large family of cane toads now resident under water mains cover: assistance and or moral support from Mission Control (Mum and Dad) required in order to change tap washers.

~Price of veggies going up (more consideration given to virtues of string beans and frozen spinach).

~City may run out of water (Brisbane a weatherboard Fatehpur Sikri?)

Magma rocks!

Waikiki: A challenging wilderness experience?

As it came to February 2005, my sister and I felt we both needed a holiday. We were delighted to realise we could take the same couple of weeks leave from our respective jobs. The decision was made to go OS but where? Our holiday key selection criteria were fairly straight forwards. Our destination had to, in order of importance:

a. Get us out of the summer heat,
b. Have deck chairs or similar on which to lounge, read, snooze and write post cards, and
c. Involve some sort of reasonably challenging wilderness experience.

When we thought about it, atlas open before us, we found our choices were few. For instance, an ecology cruise to the Antarctic would satisfy criteria (a) and (c) but not (b). Similarly, a package holiday to Fiji would satisfy (b) but not (a) and (c) and the famous Salzburg ‘Sound of Music’ tour (that was my idea) in the European mid-winter would deal with (a) and less likely (c).

You may not know that zimbles have an innate fascination with exciting natural phenomena such as meteorites, deep sea trenches and tornados. Hence, it came as no surprise to near and dear, when we decided on Hawaii: volcanos here we come! A quick email to our ever cheerful travel agent, Manic-Louise and it was F.A.B. Virgil! A short(ish) hop across the Pacific and there we were, first on Oahu and then on the island of Maui.

From Maui, we joined a day tour to “The Big Island” to see Hawaii Volcanoes National Park. It was an awesome experience (almost better than 'quokka' on a triple word score!). I’d love to go back and walk rather than coach through the park.

Here are some of my favourite lava photos from the trip.

Molten rock at 1100 C. It was a bit warm standing there.

The southern flank of Kilauea.

More lava.

Blame it on the Foucault

Michel Foucault, French philosopher, 1926 - 1984.

(Photograph from Clare's website gallery)

Today, at last, my very good friend, Clare O'Farrell, closed her laptop and joined the rest of us at our habitual local haunt for lunch and a well deserved slice of flourless chocolate cake with ice cream. Clare had been missing in action for weeks. Rumour had it she was in a deep self-imposed seclusion. Hidden in the wilds of the Sunshine Coast hinterland, Clare had been beavering away on a complete overhaul of her academic website.

I'm very pleased to give an emphatic plug to the new, improved and indubitably world's best Foucault site.

http://www.michel-foucault.com/

Keep on fighting - till the end.

I've been dithering for the past few days about whether to post anything about World AIDS Day, 1st December. I seem to have posted a lot of reminiscences. Any more might be tedious for my reader. (G'day, Mavis). Nevertheless, what are blogs for, if not for whatever comes to mind.

The statistics say there have been about 26 000 HIV infections diagnosed in Oz to the end of 2006, just over 10 000 cases of AIDS and around 6000 deaths. The number of diagnoses of AIDS peaked in 1994. Since then, the incidence of AIDS has declined and the duration of survival after an AIDS defining illness has increased from a mean of 13 months to over 30 months.

For a lot of the time, in the years 1992 to 1995, my regular and after-hours roster at a Brisbane teaching hospital included work in the infectious diseases ward as a resident then registrar. So, even though AIDS had no immediate impact in my personal life, it was there day to day, as part of the work.

I remember there was a vague but constant worry about where it would all end up. Ten years on from the start of the pandemic there were good diagnostic tests and clean blood bank supplies. Public education was in full swing. Even so, what would happen if HIV spread to the general community?

It may be a false perception but it seemed to me the disease effected itself in a cyclical fashion with small cohorts of men being diagnosed with AIDS about the same time, being admitted about the same time as they deteriorated and dying about the same time. Then it would start all over.

My bosses were working incredibly hard to keep up with the HIV research. They had journals and journals of the stuff to read every week. Their efforts to get funding for involvement in the international drug trials and particular medications for individual patients were unbelievable.

Mostly though, I remember sensing the tragedy of it and at the same time, seeing the strength of the human spirit brought to bare. It seemed a particular cruelty that these previously fit, handsome (even beautiful you could say) men became so thin and gaunt.

There was a young man whose partner was in his last hours. The man came up to me at the nurses' station where I was sitting writing something. He said he had to go home and could I check that we had his phone number and call him when it was over. I asked him if there was anything I could do or anyone I could call to organise something so he could stay. He said he wanted to stay but he felt it would be distressing for his partner's parents, who were about to arrive, if he did stay.

What courage it must have taken to say goodbye and leave that bedside. I'll never forget him walking out of the ward with his partner's jacket over his arm.

Anyway, that's just my little bit.

Traffic jam poem No. 4 (aka a farewell to my tortured syntax)

When I was at high school, my English teacher was one Reverend Alan Dale. One day, handing back a marked essay, he said, "Please stop torturing your syntax". I was a bit puzzled. I wasn't sure what he meant. It sounded as if I had done something very cruel.

I asked Dad about it and he said, "Well, Zimble, what he means is stop trying to fight the problem. Make what you say mean what you want it to say and keep it simple."

So here we are, twenty-something years later, with a little bit of remedial nonsense.

Oh, tortured syntax now it's time to go,
For years you've slowly sent me round the bend,
It's time for you to have the full heave ho,
No longer can you call yourself my friend.

I've twisted, turned and tweaked my words about,
My commas strafe the lines on every page,
I flip my phrases over, inside out,
Your machinations put me in a rage.

Who cares if Captain Kirk to boldly goes,
Some things a tortured syntax cannot save,
We need the prose to spark in molten flows,
Not plod like un-dead corpses to the grave.

So, tortured syntax leave this pen, be gone!
I've had you up to here for far too long!

Voting day

Camp Hill School of the Arts circa 1940. It's now painted white and there is a new fence.

This post was meant to be an ode to snag-proof pantyhose but that, I've decided, is a bit too optimistic a concept for a weekend afternoon. Instead, here are a few lines about my visit to the 'Camp Hill School of the Arts' where I went to vote this morning.

While I stood on the footpath outside the hall, lining up with the other voters, a man came up and handed me a " Vote 1 Socialist Alliance" (I don't think so) card which immediately turned into a handy fan and fly waver-awayer. Along with something about the cost of Lady Finger bananas the briefest of thoughts about an individual's responsibilities in a democracy as opposed to their democratic rights flitted (as most thoughts do) through my consciousness.

Compulsory voting means that even though you may waste your say with a half-smart informal vote, you do have to have remembered the Federal Election was on and you do have to have stood in the sun for 10 minutes or so being handed how to vote cards. Barring sunstroke, everyone is at least given the chance to decide (and, Mr Bush, we use a pencil).

The line moved forward and I was inside in welcome shade, six evenly spaced ceiling fans whirring above. It was still relatively early in the day so the people at the trestle tables marking off the electoral roll weren't looking too hot and frazzled, yet. Although the process from this point was fairly quick and painless, (zimbles can't go for too many political complexities) I did have a few minutes to glance around the hall.

I drive past the hall every day on my way to and from work but this was the first time I had been inside the hall since I was little. I suddenly realised that, here, time had stood still.

The hall is a weather-board structure about 25 m x 10 m in its main part with a pine wood floor and corrugated iron roof. At one end is a small stage with a worn dark-red velveteen curtain. Beside the stage, a polished wood board with gold embossing lists the Camp Hill District's fallen. An enameled Union Flag beside an Australian red ensign, date the board to about 1901. Directly above the board is a portrait of the Queen, which, from the look of Her Majesty, must have been added in the 60s.

Standing in that hall today, I imagined a warm November evening in 1942. A Thanksgiving Day ball for the American servicemen is in full swing. The hall is crowded with people dancing, chatting and flirting. Young women in their home-sewn summer evening frocks, bright red lipstick and stylish peep toes twirl, each in the arms of a clean cut local lad or a dress-uniformed soldier. The small but talented jazz band on the stage plays selections of Glen Miller tunes into the early hours. The good ladies of the ladies' auxiliary sell cool cordials, cups of tea and a judiciously invigorated fruit punch from their servery between the hall and its enclosed verandah. They don't miss a thing. Outside, in the cooler air, the men talk quietly of politics, cricket and the war.

Just then, an election official taps me on the arm and points me to a desk and I'm back. Name please?

Hard boiled lolly lady.

I'm scouring every toy shop in Brisbane for a water pistol that is small enough to conceal in my purse. Rest assured, this does not herald any ideological shift towards crime and anarchy (although in moments of extreme frustration that has been considered). No, this water pistol is for a very, very specific mission.

At the chamber music series, to which I subscribe each year, there is a dumpiness of a woman who occupies the seat at the end of the row. It is this woman who must be stopped, with my water pistol, when I find one. In four years, no one has done anything about her. I can see no alternative: in 2008, I must act.

At each and every concert, she waits for the moments when the theatre hushes, the pianist's hands poise and those beautiful first notes sound. Only then does she lean forwards so her taffeta skirt rustles and the heel of her right shoe scrapes on the parquetry floor.

As beads and bosom fold over blubber and bulge, she delves into a raffia handbag at her feet for a plastic container filled with hard boiled lollies. Each lolly is wrapped in a little clear cellophane wrapper. They may be barley sugars or they may be butterscotch. I don't care.

Then, slowly, tediously, she unwraps one of the lollies from its crinkling cellophane and plops it in her mouth, slurping as it slides over the tongue into oral depths unknown. For the rest of us, those magical seconds of aural anticipation are utterly destroyed.

What is worse is knowing that hard boiled lolly lady could easily unwrap her sweet before the pianist walks on stage. Instead, she chooses to wait. This selfish act is entirely premeditated and unbeaten in cunning execution. Even renowned theatre trolls such as the whisker scratching fat man, her honour Judge Bangle Banger and Consumptive Methuselah, all fall silent to listen for hard boiled lolly lady.

I'm never sure whether the artists can hear her. Even if they cannot, they would definitely know there has been a disturbance of some sort at row J. All we row J-ers sit there trying to hide our collective embarrassment as the curmudgeon of seat 1 munches.

Between concerts, I dream that one day, when this sonic terrorist is mid crunch, I will quietly stand and taking the tiny water pistol in a steady hand, I will strike with the ease of an eager trigger finger, blasting all over the lacy blouse and uncaring carb crammed face.

Perhaps you think a water pistol too extreme. Maybe so. I suppose I could tactfully offer to anaesthetise her for the duration. That would be simple and effective. Nevertheless, the water pistol will make so much more of a statement. Theatre goers of the world unite!

Reminiscing

Hmm. Really not sure what to blog about today. Let's see... multi-coloured anodised aluminium picnic cups, holidays at the beach with the sand so hot you had to run across it down to the waves, smelling Mum's good perfume when she and Dad went out to dinner parties, tap shoes repainted and covered in glitter for the end of year concert, The Goodies, pavlova and ice cream, afternoon summer storms, Burt Bacharach albums playing on the stereo, games of Monopoly that went on for days, tucking into the latest Trixie Belden mystery, wanting long straight blond hair like Agnetha, staying up for re-runs of The Sound of Music on the new colour TV, chocolate topped icecream cones at the drive-in cinema, school trips to the Golden Circle pineapple factory. Sigh. I miss the Seventies.

Are you a Zimble?

Just recently, a nice lady emailed me a friendly note to ask if I was a Zimble and possibly her distant cousin. I was surprised to learn that Zimble was a surname. It's not at all common in these parts.

I was afraid I had to disappoint the lady and tell her that "Zimble" was simply a round-about, upside-downey, inside-outey way of nodding to the great Russian-American violinist of the early twentieth century, Efrem Zimbalist.

She hasn't replied, so I can only think she was none too impressed with my appropriating her surname for my blog.

If you are reading this and your surname is 'Zimble' perhaps you could contact Nancy at nrzped@aol.com. She's researching her family tree.

Adit : Nancy did reply and said she was happy with the name. Thanks Nancy! Zimble on!

Remington Steele

'80s big hair and silk suits.

Being a fan of something or someone is a very odd thing. An independent observer would find no good reason for the fanaticism but yet there it is, lasting, sometimes, for decades.

Fandom is something like a parallel universe but more real than the science fiction concept. A fandom has its own energy and life force that merges seamlessly with "real life". Friendships are forged, social etiquette is obeyed and (God help us) money is spent (on everything from replica costumery to fannishly appropriate car number plates).

It used to be that if you mentioned "fandom" to non-fan acquaintances, friends or family, a sympathetic and slightly disapproving look would appear upon their faces, as if to say, 'poor you'. There was the instant assumption that "fandom" meant you had no life beyond video tapes, fan clubs and 'zines' and you were bordering on Asperger's syndrome, or worse still, you were, in your leisure hours, an obsessed and dangerous celebrity stalker.

The reality is, in fact, quite the reverse. The fans that I have met over the years are generally highly articulate, warm and interesting people with large imaginations and colourful lives. They do everything normal people do and they participate in one or more fan communities.

They are carefully observant of 'the rules of engagement' when it comes to approaching their favourite artist and go out of their way to kindly but firmly kerb the enthusiasm of the occasional weirdos.

At the same time, they include and encourage all comers with a serious interest in their fandom without concern for race or creed, social or educational background, habits or quirks.

A quarter of a century ago, I became a fan of an American television series called "Remington Steele" starring Pierce Brosnan as 'Remington' and Stephanie Zimbalist as 'Laura'. It was a romantic mystery comedy about a young woman who runs her own detective agency.

The following is something I wrote when one of the fans, who also happens to be a former LA Entertainment Industry PR person, decided to write a book and asked for contributions.

"It is 1982. Every Wednesday night at 8.30 pm, a 15 year old Australian schoolgirl puts down her homework to watch ‘Remington Steele’. Without exception, it is an hour of pure enjoyment. More than that, the girl studies harder in maths (because Laura was a math’s major), she exercises every day (because Laura went in a triathlon and owned at least three Lycra leotards) and she is wary of eating too much chocolate (Laura was a hopeless chocaholic). The girl writes her one and only fan letter and receives in return a signed photo of the actors from Studio City. It smells of an exciting far away place and has to be carefully opened with a fruit knife so as not to tear the envelope.

By 1987 the same girl is in medical school. Disappointingly, no one in her study group looks anything like Pierce Brosnan (or James Read for that matter) and worse still, Channel Nine Brisbane are airing the very last episodes of Remington Steele. But it’s OK. There are bound to be summer repeats of the show to record on the new-fangled VCR (that is, if the cricket isn’t on – oh, let there be rain!)

Goodbye cheerful 80s, hello 90s. The girl is a resident at a large public teaching hospital. It’s all about impossibly long hours, endless night duty, post-graduate study and exams and secondment to remote outback towns. For all practical purposes, the decade disappears into the bowels of a grimy medical ward - everything but the treasured Remington Steele recordings. Even though every line is memorised, every scene and gesture familiar, she still watches. There’s much to glean: how to greet a client, how to sit and stand with perfect deportment, what to wear and how to wear it and how to remain feminine in a male-dominated professional world without playing the feminist card. (It isn’t so clear whether career or relationship should come first but never mind.)

And now, in her thirties, the girl is just past Laura’s age and is running her own practice. The challenge of hiring staff, dealing with government bureaucracy, completing the paper work and choosing the colour of steno pads brings a whole new appreciation for Laura’s situation. The new millennium also brings September 11th, Bali bombings and family tragedy. But amidst all that, the Remington Steele VHS tapes still work and there is the promise and excitement of DVD releases with special extras!

Today, ‘Remington Steele’, still lovely, still fun and still brilliantly written, is there, a soothing balm and tonic. Being a ‘Remington Steele’ fan, for this girl, is like stepping through life with a favourite song softly humming in the background, a perfect antidote to the humdrum of the day. To the cast, to the writers, to the crew, she says and will always say, thank you."

Smiling all day at this one.

Stability of vital signs, improving pathology results and the ability to complain about hospital food are all signs of recovery from whatever ails you but the real zinger, the red flag saying 'send me home', for me, is a return of the sense of humour.

I saw a 98-year-old man today, who overnight, had recovered from his febrile delirium and this morning was feasting on cornflakes. This is, more or less, the conversation we had:

"Hello, Frank. How are you feeling this morning?"

"Much better, thanks Doc."

Munch, munch, munch.

"Do you remember why you are in hospital?"

"No, not really. I know I was bloody crook."

Munch, munch, munch, munch.

"Yes, you were very unwell. You had pneumonia."

Munch.

"Pneumonia?"

Munch.

"Where's my old one?"

Munch, munch, munch.

The satay sauce that changes your life.

Hard day at the office? Don't feel like cooking? Been to see a Tennessee Williams play? Well, then, this is the recipe for you. The sauce takes exactly one Peter Gunn theme to prepare.

For zimbly purposes, a 'glob' is about two tablespoons.

1 glob Maggi sweet Thai chili sauce
1 glob tomato sauce
1 heaped glob crunchy peanut butter
2 squirts lemon and or lime juice

Bung all of the above in a small microwave proof bowl. Just cover with hot water. Microwave on 'high' for 1 minute. Allow to stand for thirty seconds then mix with a fork till smooth and creamy.

I like to stir-fry a diced slab of firm tofu with some onion and capsicum and maybe some raw cashews. The satay sauce is added last thing and then the whole lot is served on brown rice.

Notes:

1. I've never tried it but I suppose it would work on the stove if one is really thingy about microwaves.

2. My immunologist brother tells me Maggi Sweet Thai Chili Sauce is a common cause of urticaria (hives).

3. It's important to save at least three pieces of tofu for dipping in the sauce to check the flavour.

4. Tomatoes could be added once they've thought up a decent reason for their existence.

Yabbying

Yabbying (with shoes).

Today, as I wandered the corridors, I came upon my new registrar looking rather dumbfounded. He was a nice fellow who had arrived from Europe only a few days before. (Many of our staff come from distant shores). I asked him what was wrong and he told me about the excessive swearing he had encountered since he arrived. He had just seen a man who was very, very sick, who had told him, “I feel like bl**dy sh*t, mate!” The newly arrived registrar had found this language rather shocking.

I assured him the man was not blaspheming in any malevolent way. He probably just wanted to impress upon the new registrar that he was about to “croak” (as indeed he was) and in the circumstance, “a bit crook,” as would be the normal response to an enquiry about one’s condition, wouldn’t do.

I set out to assess my registrar’s understanding of the local dialect and found he had absolutely no comprehension of essential descriptors such as “up to putty, mate,” or “fit as a mallee bull, mate,” or “mouth’s like the bottom of cocky’s cage, mate,” or “all bunged up, mate.”

As keen as beans, he asked me if there was a good book he could read in order to learn such colloquialisms. Sadly, I couldn’t list any texts on the subject at all but it did get me thinking. The local dialect is one thing but there are other ethnic and gender related issues of expression that the junior storm trooper must learn.

[Out of the whole of the population of 1977 Hollywood, could they not find someone better looking to play Luke Skywalker? (said Zimble with her new millennium anti-roman nose sensibility.)]

For instance, and I expect this may be a world wide phenomenon, young men with appendicitis can be identified as they approach the emergency department because they are doubled over, clutching their right iliac fossa and screaming, “help me, help me!” This happens because they truly believe they are dying and this is because very few young men have ever experienced visceral pain prior to having appendicitis.

In contrast, young women, already well versed in visceral pain, wander into the emergency department with ruptured appendices, four or five days after the event and only then because they have fainted at work a few times and their boss has sent them in. They’ll sit down and tell you it feels a bit like bad period pain and if it was all the same they’d like to go home.

There is also the response to severe illness and recovery from it. When an Australian male of a certain age has a heart attack, the first question on regaining some well-being is not, “when can I get back to work”, “when can I drive” or even, “when can I have sex”. No, the most important determinant is “when can I mow”. It isn’t quite so bad, since the drought, because the grass doesn’t grow very quickly anymore but in days gone by, particularly in the pre-press-starter mower era, if you couldn’t mow, then you just weren’t a man's man.

I tried to reassure my bewildered registrar that he was not alone by telling him of the story of Caroline. Caroline was a terrific, dedicated, intelligent London born 'back-packer' doc who was my registrar when I worked at a seaside hospital, four hours north of Bris.

One day, a man was brought to the coronary care unit. He had been out with his mates, on the tidal mud flats of the local estuary, yabbying. Whilst pumping hard with his yabby pump, he developed chest pain. His mates were a switched on mob and immediately gave him some aspirin, downed with a half stubby of ice cold beer from the esky. They got him back in the tinnie and sped towards the shore, calling the ambulance service on a mobile phone as they went.

Despite their best efforts, the man was a bit flat (ie in cardiogenic shock) when Caroline and I saw him. He needed some resuscitation very quickly. I gave Caroline some instructions and then set about what I needed to do, only to look up a minute later and see Caroline still standing at the foot of the bed staring at the man’s legs.

“What happened to his legs?” she cried.

I looked and saw two perfectly normal legs caked in black mud.

“Caroline, it’s okay. He’s been yabbying.”

“I know. That’s what he said but what happened to his legs?”

“Caroline, relax. I promise to tell you about his legs and about yabbying. His legs are fine but right now I really need you to… move it!”

The poor lass couldn’t conceive that anyone in their right mind would stand barefoot, up to their thighs in black mud for any reason, let alone to procure bait for an evening’s fishing.

Anyway, later in the day I saw my new registrar again and I'm very pleased to say that already he was starting to look a bit less like a stunned mullet.

Enough tissues.

Carol Burns as Amanda Wingfield.

First, a word of warning. Zimbles who have not had enough sleep the night before and have forgotten to have lunch that day and find themselves at a certain time of the month, should not proceed on their own to a Saturday matinee performance of “The Glass Menagerie”.

Well, they can but they should remember to take enough tissues to last the whole of the last act and the whole of the drive home. (The usher and parking station attendant can be told there is a lot of hay fever about).

The Queensland Theatre Company’s performance of this play was an experience I won’t forget in a hurry. I took myself to the theatre on the spur of the moment (gotta love internet ticket purchasing) and came away very moved. ‘Moved’ isn’t quite the right word though. ‘Moved’ is when Gretel shows the finger that got caught in Friedrich’s teeth to the nuns or when Darth wheezes, "Luke, I am your father".

Rather, it was more a case of feeling emotionally bashed up. However melodramatic that sounds, that is how it was at first, and as I said, all the way home. I suppose TW would roll in his grave at this but I was reminded of the moment in the film, "A Chorus Line" when a character says, "different is nice but it sure isn't pretty - pretty is what it's about". With hindsight of a few days, however, the average zimble can expect to find something cathartic about the experience and a new sense of perspective on what it is like to be different.

Everyone knows the power of TW’s writing. I don’t want to try to re-hash any of its interpretation. Rather and truly, it was the the cast that threw this staging of “The Glass Menagerie” into gear and made it fly. From beginning to end I marvelled at the sincerity of the players. Each gut wrenching, soul cringing moment was given its full weight and depth.

I once heard an American actress say that it is a mistake to stage TW plays in a large theatre because the plays are generally about characters with problems and lives too large for the situations in which they are trapped. QTC got it right in this respect too with a tiny stage in the intimate Cremorne theatre. In this setting, the play had the tension of a bottle of ginger beer shaken and then set to warm in the midday sun.

The only drawback and this seems to be a common theme with me lately, was the audience. How to describe them? Greying, slow, persnickety, noisy, unresponsive and unappreciative would be a good start. In the first few minutes, Tom lights a cigarette as he begins his story. Yes, the light herbal smoke reached the audience but the coughing and shifting in seats that it caused was affected and silly.

At intermission there was nearly a full-on barney in the foyer because the barista was slow to heat his espresso machine. Back in the theatre there was nearly a full-on barney over a few spare seats being coveted for the second half because of a perceived improvement in view. (Every seat in the Cremorne has a ‘good view’).

The worst behaviour, however, was yet to come. At the end of the play, the audience was very slow to clap and when they did, it was an embarrassingly half-hearted thanks for what had been an absolutely superb performance. The cast responded with one bow and then were off in the blink of an eye. It was such a shame.

Did my older compatriots in the stalls of the Cremorne that afternoon not see the same play I had? Perhaps their lives are so ordered and happy and perfect that TW has no resonance with them. Perhaps they’re not Zimbles and don’t need tissues.

Dr Maarouf-Hassan

Last year, Dr Maarouf-Hassan was stabbed to death in her surgery by one of her patients. This year, in the February 5th edition of the Australian Medical Association Journal, "Australian Medicine", a tribute was published. Its author was Associate Professor Leanne Rowe, a rural GP and Deputy Chancellor at Monash University.

In her essay, Professor Rowe spoke of Dr Maarouf-Hassan's life.

"She was born in Syria and graduated from medicine in 1978. While completing her training as an ophthalmologist, she also developed a passion for mathematics, Arabic literature and politics. Khulod emigrated from Syria to Australia in 1986 with her husband. Before they could become registered in their respective professions in Australia, the couple worked very long hours for many years in their Hastings bar milk ..."

"When her three young daughters were settled at school in 1999, Khulod excelled in the Australian medical entry exam. She chose the GP training program because she wanted to carry on the proud tradition of her family in Syria, by making a difference to disadvantaged people in Australia.

Khulod was passionate about assisting refugees in her practice. On the weekend before her death, she picked buckets of olives in the rain to bottle for the refugee food bank. On the night before her death, Khulod contributed to a professional development event for doctors on refugee health..."

Professor Rowe also quoted the eulogy given by Dr Maarouf-Hassan's 21 year old daughter.

"My mum had no disguises. She opened her heart fully to everyone. She shared her love and compassion unconditionally with everyone. I have always thought of my mum not as a person, but as a place. She radiated an oasis of calm, tranquility and love and warmth. A place where anything could be healed with a kiss. Any disaster could be solved with a smile. Any sadness could be banished with a laugh."

Remember.

Traffic Jam poem No 3. (aka eucalyptus oil inhalation verse)

I'b god a veby bad cold in deh head.
Id's so bad I'b dagen do bed.
My head's lige a melon.
My nose geebs on swellin'
I thig I'd be bedder off dead.
(Only joging)

Paracedamol's nod done a jod,
Egginacea's nod helbing a lod,
Berhabs I'll tage 'Plagebo',
Need lods of faith though,
Do helb me ged oud of my cod.

Well, the days have slipped away fast,
I'm starting to feel better at last,
No long slumber here,
As once was the fear,
(Only joking)
M'hooter just needs one more blast.

Dame Edna, eat your heart out.

Dame Edna Everage

Piers Lane

You couldn't find two performers more different than Barry Humphries and Piers Lane. Seeing both on the same weekend made for a stark contrast. On Saturday night, Humphries in "Dame Edna - Back With Vengeance" played at the Lyric Theatre. The following afternoon, Brisbane born but London based concert pianist Piers Lane performed next door at the Conservatorium Theatre.

Dame Edna's vengeance was exacting. No one was safe from Humphries' rapier sharp wit. To an overweight audience member returning to her seat, Edna called out, "Don't worry Colleen, let gravity do its work!". Even before the show had opened, Humphries told a local newspaper the best thing about Paris Hilton was that she gave hope to girls who aren't pretty!

On the night, the humour was both black and blue, tending to the burlesque side of vaudeville. The satiric one liners came thick and fast, the next one set up as soon as its predecessor had fallen. There was dancing and music, monologues and mayhem.

The audience were a motley crew: fans of Humphries and interested others it seemed. There weren't many very young people (most were of retirement village age with seat cushions and thermos flasks in hand) and I didn't spot any of the usual blue-rinsed, hoity-toity crowd who frequent the Queensland Performing Arts complex (QPAC) with their subscription tickets and beaded purses. Hard-boiled lolly wrapper crinkling lady wasn't there and neither was the bow tied whisker-scratching fat man. Perhaps the humour was too vulgar for them.

I found the show (especially Les Patterson) at times, unnecessarily distasteful and knew it would be. Still, nothing much shocks a zimble these days and I had wanted to see the show because Humphries' writing is very clever (especially in the Sandy Stone monologue). Humphries is also an icon of the Australian entertainment industry and I got the sense that this might have been his last run in Brisbane.

Piers Lane also gave a show to be remembered. I've heard him a few times before and often listen to his Cd's. He gave an all Chopin recital with two encores and roused a standing ovation.

If someone asked me how I would recognise Piers' playing, I would say from the absolutely clear pronunciation of Chopin's beautiful melody lines and from the depth of understanding of the music's layers and colours. He spoke to the audience before each work and then left for a deeply personal world of his own, beckoning, with absolute sincerity, us to follow.

Both men are top artists with everything completely sorted. Who is better? Although Humphries is the more celebrated, for a Brisbane audience, I'd have to say it is Piers Lane who is better. Whilst Barry Humphries played to us, Piers Lane played for us and I think there is a difference.

Tooled up.

Sometimes things happen for a reason. I was standing in the bathroom brushing my teeth, warbling 'Climb Ev'ry Mountain' between rinses this morning, when my elderly two-bar wall heater decided it was time to end it all by leaping from its mounting and plunging to the cold hard lino floor below. (I think it must have had a screw loose).

I immediately ensured that none of my limbs were missing and that I still had a pulse. Fortunately, no self-administered precordial thump was required. Next came a cup of tea and a lie down.

Then, in an unexpected and momentary channelling of Lara Croft, I decided to replace the fallen heater with a new one myself. I've largely avoided drills, thinking them loud, heavy, mess-creating and quite possibly dangerous but on the other hand, the calling in of a tradesman or handyman is never an appealing thought. Sometimes you just don't feel like putting up with someone who sniggers at what they consider too minor a job and then charges like a wounded bull.

A 4 'mil' bit, two self-tapping screws and an enthusiastic, if off-key, rendition of 'Spice Up Your Life' later and ta-da! New wall heater! And do you know, using the drill was somehow strangely empowering. There was a wall and whether it liked it or not it was going to have a hole in it. Feng Shui can only do so much when what you really need in your life is some gutsy, fire in the belly, drill-till-you-drop demolition.

In fact, an urgent scan of the latest junk mail catalogue suggested that zimbles could successfully own and use any number of tools: a laser guided 550W jigsaw, a 110 litre GMC one-half horse power cement mixer, a 115 mm 860 W angle grinder! There's a whole world of power out there just waiting to be discovered.

Indeed, who needs a Husquvarna when there's a Red-Roo 'SG350-2' 200 kg 16 hp manual stump grinder to be had!

Pirates of the Caribbean - At World's End.

To tell you the truth, I wasn't looking for much in this hyped up block-buster. It was largely because of all the hype that I had avoided the first two movies of the series. All I really expected was a couple of hours of mildly entertaining distraction and it was nice to go to the cinema. The ticket price was only $A 7.90, thanks to the terrific people running Cineplex who, along with Centro at New Farm, regularly stick it up the Megaplex Corporations - go you good things!

But, I was surprised to find myself thoroughly engaged by this movie. The cast is terrific: Johnny Depp never fails to impress; Geoffrey Rush looks like he is having fun and Keira Knightly works hard. I always enjoy Tom Hollander's performances ('Cambridge Spies' and 'Pride and Prejudice' especially).

A drawback though was Orlando Bloom. He certainly has the looks to make the teenage girls swoon and his imbd resume seems to be that of a nice solid jobbing British actor. Still, his performance was lack-luster and the chemistry with Knightly not very believable. (I think she did the right thing to send him off to the locker).

To give him credit though, it was probably a hard task to play the straight man and romantic hero beside Depp and Rush who were clearly in their element.

The other thing was the CGI. It certainly holds the movie together but at 168 minutes, there's simply too much of it with unnecessarily long battle scenes. (I'd also ditch the monkey and the macaw but I suppose they're needed to draw in young families).

Despite these minor gripes, I found 'Pirates' much more than 'mildly entertaining'. In fact, it was rollicking good fun. In the end, I was believing in pirates. I knew which side I wanted to be on. Heck, yeah! I was going to fight for freedom!

Better dead than red.

It's not a phobia.

When you ask people about their earliest memories, most will talk about family or Christmas or places of warmth and happiness. My earliest memories prescribe a life long abhorrence of tomatoes. At three, I howled at a kindergarten picnic because no one would take me seriously when I said I didn’t want tomato sauce on my bread roll. My anti-tomato sentiments are certainly not the acute or ephemeral whim of a crazed zimble.

The reason for the tomato's existence is totally beyond me. Why this fruit should ever have succeeded on the rocky slopes of evolution is a conundrum of the highest order. The reality is that the tomato is a pestilential blight on the earth and should be forced onto the endangered species list as quickly as possible with a view to its total annihilation.

I hardly need to expound the deficiencies of the tomato. Even if anti-tomatoism is not yet their reality, most decent and sensible people have some intuitive understanding of the problem. They know their love of the tomato is a mere illusion.

There the tomato sits, all red and shiny, plump and inviting, whilst secretly hiding a squelchy horror worthy of Beelzebub himself. Its pretence of ripeness is a shallow ruse with sour immaturity and post-date putrefaction its norm. Unforgiving of an even slightly blunt knife, the tomato spurts in the eye of the unwary.

Of course, the greatest and most obvious deficiency of the tomato is its philosophical bent. Here is a fruit that pretends to be a vegetable! The tomato is living a lie! It has none of the sweetness of the strawberry, the sunniness of the orange or any of the practicality of the banana. The tomato, if it were going to ‘be’ anywhere, should have stuck to fungal decay on the floors of remote jungle valleys instead of plonking itself into the baskets of innocent grocery shoppers.

From the bitter, bruise-if-you-blink skin to the slimy seeds of its hollow core the tomato is a rotter.

Those slimy mung bean sprouts.

The profession generally regards patient confidentiality as inviolable. In fact, my sieve, no, make that colander like memory for names usually ensures my own patients' confidentiality.

Sometimes, though, it’s very tempting to break the rules, especially when an episode involves what can only be described as unbelievably mind-boggling stupidity. So, Mr Whoever-you-were, (we’ll call you “Jack”) prepare to be blogged.

Jack, aged about 65 years, was playing bachelor for a bit. Mrs Jack had gone overseas on a (I would say) well-earned ‘holiday with the girls’: a cruise to Thailand, to be precise.

I first met Jack on a medical ward at the very moment he was vomiting over my intern, who, at only three days into his first job, had not yet developed adequate foreign-bodily-fluid-projectile dodging skills (as in, ‘use the force, Luke’).

[You know, medicine in a tropical climate must be the only occupation in the world where one can expect to see real shit hitting a real fan on a semi-regular basis. In-coming!!! But I digress.]

Jack had been left to fend for himself. The mates, hearing of Mrs Jack’s departure, had turned up fairly swiftly and had eaten, over a few good footy matches on the telly and a slab of ice cold stubbies, most of the pre-prepared meals that Mrs Jack had left in the freezer for her husband to eat over the ten days she would be away.

Jack was crook. He disembarked at both ends for three days. Finally, the exodus settled and I was able to send him home. I said to him before he left, “Jack, sometimes people who have food-poisoning can think of something they ate that might have been suspicious”, letting my voice drift up hopefully at the end of the sentence.

“Well,” he said, “after the boys left, all I could find to eat was a plastic pot of mung bean sprouts that had been in the fridge for a while. They were a bit slimy at the bottom.”

Not typical, I thought, but possible. So, off Jack went home. The next day, there he was, back again, sick as a dog.

“Jack! What happened?” I asked, mentally listing a Hugh Laurie-style differential of obscure diagnoses I may have missed.

“Well, you know those slimy mung bean sprouts I told you about?”

“Yes, Jack.”

“Well, I know you said they might have caused my food poisoning but I wasn’t sure, so I ate the rest of them last night to see.”

Traffic jam poem No 2. (aka 'back of the used envelope verse' or 'occasional insomnia rhyme')

I really love my flanny,
I really, really do,
It keeps me warm and cozy,
In a nice big plaid that's blue.

My friends all say it's daggy,
I say to them, says who,
When they tell me, take it off,
They haven't got a clue.

The lumberjacks are fine,
The footy fans are too,
For extra wintry weather,
Only blue plaid flannies do.

In the cold old days of autumn,
When May winds chill me through,
I really love my flanny,
I really, really do.

(Especially for Shado)

Friday the fourteenth

Main foyer, Natural History Museum, London.

For some reason or other, I have been thinking about England a lot lately. It might be because I've been mulling over some plans for a Euro-centric holiday or perhaps because recently, the Beeb has been throwing us a life-line from the drivel that is Australian commercial television with shows like Spooks, Bleak House, Dr Who (at a pinch) and of course, the Judge.

Indeed, England is always a nice thought (apart from the instantly impoverishing exchange rate). As much as I love multi-culturalism and the whole Pacific Rim thing, when your ancestors all come from Stoke-on-Trent and towns in Lancashire, it's nice to imagine a good old wallow in one's own ethnicity from time to time.

On 14th May, I was especially glad because the Natural History Museum in London was ordered to release some human remains that had been held in the museum for years against the wishes of the indigenous people of Tasmania. The Aboriginal remains had been held in the name of science instead of being returned to Tasmania for proper leaf smoking and burial.

Now, I know that, personally, I would need a Millennium Falcon to get within even parsecs of understanding the complexities of the indigenous culture of this country.

(Being the thirtieth anniversary of the beginning of Star Wars, I think bloggers should be given free reign to include as many Jedi references as they please.)

Even so, I do know enough to realise that for indigenous people, not having ones ancestors' remains in the right place at the right time with the right ceremonies for burial is an absolutely intolerable state of affairs. It would have been good if the museum staff could have come to this conclusion themselves instead of having to be ordered by a judge to change their stance.

The argument was that the remains kept at the N.H.M. could still yield much about the history of indigenous Australians through further scientific examination. However, there are many different ways to approach the truth and science is only just one of those ways. It might be a pretty good way, sometimes, but it is a narrow minded and an extremely arrogant position to take, to think it is the only or the most important way. The return of the remains was more than overdue.

(If I was feeling really narky, I would add that the 2001 Robbie Coltrane movie, "On the Nose", was a seriously insensitive and un-funny farce on this topic - shame on David Caffrey.)

Now I can return to the museum comfortably. So, why would I want to go back to the N.H.M? Well, the original botanical artworks of Australian native flora by Sir Joseph Banks (Capt. James Cook's botanist on the Endeavour in 1770) stenciled around the architrave of the main foyer are always worth a look up.

There's also a terrific meteorite collection, which is better than Smithsonian and the Alice Springs collections for my money.

I'm no geologist but the fact that meteorites were formed in a place so far a way that most people think of it as being somewhere near infinity and that infinity is a place where man's science and man's imagination and God might connect, make them hugely exciting to contemplate.

Most importantly, we cannot forget that the N.H.M. was the place, there on the steps beside the big dinosaur skeleton, where Lieutenant James Dempsey, finally, declared his true and undying love for Sergeant Harriet Makepeace (in the eponymous late eighties television series), on his knees no less!

Not arrested, apprehended.

As the popular British broadcaster, Steve Wright might say, this was a fine piece of muppetry and he'd be right.

The night was both dark and stormy. (Well, okay, it was inner-city Brisbane in October 2000 and it had been raining a bit). I was living and working in a seaside town about four hours drive north of Brisbane but that particular weekend I'd happily driven back to attend a small bon voyage party for a good friend and colleague. She had just taken a scholarship to study epilepsy at the neurology department, the Mayo clinic, Minnesota. (Not a bad achievement for a girl from Bris). We dined at an Indian resto on Park Road, Milton and asked for the bill around midnight. I said my goodbyes and walked back to my car, which I had left parked in a side street. So far so good.

I pulled out into the street and drove up to the T-junction at Park Road. The lights were red. There were two lanes. A non-descript white sedan was in the left lane, indicating left. I was in the right hand lane. Suddenly, I remembered I wasn’t driving home to where I used to live in Brisbane but to another friend’s place, where I had arranged to stay the night. I quietly slipped out of my lane into the left lane behind the white sedan. At this point, everything was still okay.

On the green signal, we both turned left onto Park Road and down to the next intersection at Milton Road. This is where my muppetry began. Since I had last been there, the intersection had changed with a new sign and I couldn't turn right as I had planned. There was nothing for it but to continue behind the white sedan, heading away from my friend’s flat.

By this time it was raining again. The asphalt was glistening under the street lights and visibility by my standards (the astigmatismatic myope's) and I imagine by Brisbane standards in general, was poor. The lines on the roads were barely visible. The sedan and I reached the next major intersection, a complex five-ways. Well, what was a zimble to do? I thought, 'I'm not sure where I am going but the white sedan seems to know where it is going, so, I'll follow it,' and I did, across the intersection.

I know this is tedious but I promise there is a reason for my terminal long windedness, all of it being part of a feeble attempt to ameliorate my muppetry, as you will see.

I realised this was now getting beyond a joke. I was still going in entirely the wrong direction. I turned in a side street and started back out into the traffic, heading for my friend's flat. Suddenly, behind me, in the rear vision mirror were two very large bright lights, very close. 'What a turkey!' I thought to myself, 'high beam in the city and this close?' As though my thoughts were read, the lights were dimmed and I thought nothing more of it. It was an uneventful trip to the street outside my friend's flat by the river at Hill End.

As I pulled in, to park across the road from the flat, suddenly, the lights were there again, right behind me. At this point, several expletives slipped past my lips, 'Sh*t-sh*t-sh*t' to be exact. Whoever was in the car had followed me all the way across town and it probably wasn't to ask for directions!

I considered my options. One was to stay in the car, lock the doors and call the police. Now, had I chosen this option 'A', my muppetry would have magnified a hundred-fold (see below). Fortunately, as it was, I chose what I called option 'B', which was to get out of the car and run like the clappers up to my friend's third floor flat.

I jumped from the car, my purse and keys in hand, slammed the door and started pelting across the road. As I did so, I caught a glimpse of two very fit-looking young men wearing jeans, tee-shirts and runners getting out of a non-descript white sedan and hurrying after me across the road. The expletives worsened. "F**k!" I said, sotto voce.

"Stop! Federal Police!" one of them bellowed.

It's at that sort of moment in life that you feel like your chest is about to cave in, never to draw another breath. I stopped and turned. Although my thoughts at this point were somewhat incoherent, I did understand that if I kept running, things could get worse and possibly involve the firing of guns. The two men were still moving forwards.

I started to edge away from them and one of the men said, "No, you have to stop, we're the police, I'm going to show you my ID."

At that point, fight or flight was giving way to pure fright, along with a strong desire to heave or collapse or simultaneously do both.

The IDs came out and sure enough, the two men were Detective Sergeant Smith and Detective Constable Jones of the A.F.P.

One said, "You can't stand there, in the middle of the road. Come back to the car".

So I did, thinking by this stage that I probably wasn't about to die. The questions from the Sergeant came thick and fast. Whilst the Constable took my drivers licence back to his radio or computer or whatever communications device the A.F.P. have in their car these days, I did my best to answer. Where was I living? Why was I in Brisbane? Whose car was it? (It was a car from the hospital pool). Why was I driving it? What was I doing at Milton? Who was I meeting? And so on and so forth.

Finally, the D.C. returned and handed me my licence.

"Well, that's fine, Miss," he said, "My partner and I are working in this area in collaboration with the drug squad and the CIB and we wanted to know why you were following us."

At that point, the full extent of my muppetry hit me like a Mack truck. I did the only face saving thing a zimble could do and burst into tears.

"I'm terribly sorry," I said shakily, "I always blubber when I get a fright."

The D.C. gave a wry smile and said, "Don't worry Miss, so does the Serg."

After that, they laughed and could not have been kinder or more gentlemanly if they tried. They asked if they could walk me up to my friend's flat and explain it all to her. I said no, thinking that I had wasted enough of their valuable time.

As I said, complete and utter muppetry.

Sisters

I've really been enjoying Jem Shaw's blog about his trip with his brother, Martin and friend, Adrian. The trio descend not once but three times into deepest darkest France to repatriate (de-patriate?) to England, a very nice looking, little, yellow aeroplane.

Some of Jem's comments remind me of the vicissitudes of being the eldest sibling, in my case, to a sister, five years my younger. [Don't tell her I said that because according to said sibling, she is "twenty-nine" and I am "twenty-nine and some months" (cough)].

Of course the main thing, with respect to the relationship, is that if your little sister is a barrister with an LLM hons, then, no matter what, you never, ever, win an argument, ever. However, Naughtiness (not, said sibling's real name) has over the years caused her older sister some not insubstantial degree of consternation.

Like any brave young Aussie, she followed in the footsteps of the great Northern adventurer, Clive James, by moving to London for two and a half years. She took the usual slow, upwardly mobile course of living in a cheap B&B in Earls Court, then a bedsit in Wembley and then, when a brick came through the window, a share house in Battersea.

It was not the 'falling towards England' that was the problem but the crackly reverse-charge international phone calls landing like scud missiles at un-godly hours of the morning. The calls tended to come in three main types.

The most worrying type always started with "Dude, I'm sick," in a teary, high-pitched tone. Most people have probably experienced similar calls but how many of them are expected to put FRACP level medical knowledge into action at a distance of 16000 km at two in the morning?

You start listening, intently, for subtle signs of delirium, dyspnoea and sometimes dysentery and then you stop listening and start trying to remember if you have ever heard anybody mention the English emergency number: not 911, that's American, not 000, that's here, not 666, it wouldn't be that. Perhaps the international operator would help?

The next type of call always started I-just-wanted-to-let-someone-know-where
-I-was-going-but-please-don't-tell-Mum-and-Dad." This was followed by, for example, the taking down of a complex series of Aeroflot flight numbers, a shared and semi-accurate recital of the Cyrillic alphabet and the rote learning of the address and telephone number of an obscure Moscow youth hostel.

The third type was certainly less vexing but just as perplexing. On answering the phone, one would hear the cacophony of a pub on quiz night and then the following: "Dude, what is the name of the body of water between China and Taiwan?" um, Formosa Strait, "Ta Dude, see ya!" or, "Dude, what was the name of the base in Hawaii Five-0?" um, Iolani Palace, "Are you sure?" um, Yes. You get the picture.

Still, where would I be without someone to tilt their head to one side, examine mine as though it were an aubergine and say with some gentle exasperation, "You didn't put any product in your hair today, did you?"

A Buggy House (3.7.06)

Huntsman spider (non-dessicated).

Some dwellings are just plain buggy. For no good reason certain houses are frequented by far more than their fair share of cockies, spiders and ants. No amount of pest control can defend a "buggy house." It's the law of the shag pile in there.

I once lived in a buggy house. My sister was staying there too and she agreed, it was a buggy house. The worst invaders were the huntsman spiders. These spiders, as big as your hand, would appear on the walls, waiting and watching. Once disturbed they would run and jump at and cling to anything that moved, like superheroes of the bug world.

One day, a super-sized huntsman ventured inside. My sister and I, being good citizens of the world, tried to shoosh it outside with a broom and when that failed, we attempted to catch it in an old tea-towel and then shake it outside into the garden.

Our efforts were in vain. When we reached a consensus that this particular spider had done its dash, I turned environmentally unfriendly, put my Buddhist tendencies aside and reached for the spider spray.

Having received a lethal dose of spray, the spider disappeared. We searched and searched with not a sign of the spider to be found. Oh well, we thought, it will turn up with the next vacuuming. It didn't.

Some three or four months later, my sister and I ventured to O'Reilly's Guest House in the rainforest. It was just after breakfast and we were preparing to go on a day-long walk. My sister already had her walking boots on and was cleaning her teeth in the bathroom. I was sitting on the floor of our room: left sock on, left boot on, right sock on and then it happened!

As I slid on my right boot, my heel crunched to the sole. I immediately knew what it was and started convulsing with laughter. My sister came running, bemused by her sibling's sudden seizure. I couldn't speak. All I could do was tip the contents of my boot, one dessicated huntsman spider corpse, onto the carpet.

Three Women (3.5.06)

Victoria Foyt and Stephen Dillane in "Truth".

Recently, I've been pondering the thematic similarities of three works which, on the face of it, should have nothing to do with each other. The first is "Deja vu", the Henry Jaglom movie, recently released on DVD. The second is "Casablanca", now also on DVD and the third, a novel titled "The Constant Image" is by the late New York author and historian Marcia Davenport.

"Deja Vu" caught my attention because of the delightful performances by Glynis Barber and Michael Brandon. In this story, Sean (Stephen Dillane) and Dana (Victoria Foyt) meet coincidentally at various times and places and see these coincidences as signs that they were meant to be together. Ultimately, they leave their respective partners, Claire (Glynis) and Alex (Michael) causing much pain. There are some other characters who waffle their way through the film but they are entirely inconsequential distractions.

In Casablanca, as everyone knows, Ilsa (Ingrid Bergman) leaves Richard (Humphry Bogart) standing on a rainy Paris railway station platform with the German army knocking at the door and the last train about to leave. He reluctantly departs while she returns to her husband, the brave underground leader, Victor. Ilsa and Richard meet again, presumably by chance, in a bar in Casablanca and have to try and work it all out.

Marcia Davenport writes of a wealthy American socialite divorcee, Harriet Piers. (Well, they always say write about what you know.) Harriet is invited by a friend to spend a winter in Milan. Once ensconced, she embarks on an affair with a young married Milanese businessman. At first she is confident that she won't get "in too deep" and will be able to leave Milan in the Spring without major consequence. (Yeh, right). The two fall deeply in love and the separation proves excruciatingly painful. That is until the businessman decides to leave his wife and two young children to follow Harriet to America.

Each of these three women protest that they were doing what their heart told them, that they were swept along by fate. Dana emotes that she does not know what to do with this feeling of de jevu (or more accurately, the feeling that she should be with her new lover rather than her fiance). This may make "Deja vu" one of the most self indulgent movies ever filmed. Ilsa argues that she still loves Rick with all her heart but did not have the courage to leave her husband in Paris or to tell Rick the truth. That conveniently changes when she and Victor are desparate to leave Casablanca and need Rick's assistance. Meanwhile, Harriet knows well what it is like to be the wife of an unfaithful husband (her ex having been a real cad) but does not see this as a valid reason to leave well enough alone.

Are these three women entitled to behave as they did? Does their perception of "true love" excuse what are essentially three base acts of betrayal? I don't think so. We all put up with circumstances that may not be ideal and should do so to protect others from pain. Whether they have insight or not, these women are self absorbed and cruel. Moreover, they have no patience and so the consequence of their infidelity is immediate, searing and unforgiveable.

Traffic jam poem No. 1 (aka Zimble-ku) (28.4.06)

Vengeful clods make
Idiots fall, shake and rest
Save their souls.

Westward tide
Washes away last shadows.
Witching hour.

First sea swim
Salt on sundrenched skin
Summer surf

Funny at first
Always adding alliteration
Many buckles!

Chocolate Surprise Cake (8.4.06)

The nicer side of Cow Bay, F.N.Q.

Once, whilst working at a Far North Queensland hospital, I met a very unfortunate man and an equally or perhaps even more unfortunate baker.

A middle aged man was asked by his wife to organize a nice iced chocolate cake for her demure bridge party which was to take place the following day. Dutifully, he drove to the local bakery and spoke with the baker who said, “No problem."

It just so happened that a bunch of ferals from Cow Bay had had the same idea: a nice chocolate cake. (Not a bridge party). They trucked into town, dreadlocks waving in the breeze, and went to the very same baker. Varying the pitch of their monosyllables as much as they could, they grunted what they wanted and again, the baker said, “No problem”. (Actually, you wouldn’t want to tell a bunch of ferals that there ‘was’ going to be a problem, even if you couldn't understand them.)

The next morning, the man stepped out into the steamy sunshine, got into his slightly muddy 1978 Ford Falcon 500 and drove to the bakery. It was at that precise moment that his difficulties began.

The baker had stepped out for a short time and so, on his arrival at the bakery, the man spoke to the baker's wife. She found two lovely looking, seemingly identical, iced chocolate cakes on the shelf, picked up the first and gave it to the man.

The Cow Bay ferals lurched into the bakery just as the man was leaving and collected what they expected to be their ‘very special’ iced chocolate cake.

The bridge party was a hit with the local ladies but the man, relegated to the kitchen to wash up the tea cups, felt a bit left out. Gradually, over the course of the morning, he consumed the entire huge remaining portion of the chocolate cake.

As the rubbers concluded and genteel gossip filled the living room, the man staggered in from the kitchen saying he didn't feel quite right. His wife, a sensible lady, suspected a stroke. With the help of some of the bridge players, about five of them, she drove the man to the hospital.

The baker was eventually contacted (the mobile phone connection along the crab pot path in the nearby mangrove swamp was not very good back then). He was able to confirm that the ferals’ chocolate cake, the 'very special' chocolate cake, the one containing the liberal quantity of hashish oil, had indeed been accidentally sent by his wife to the bridge party.

The man recovered to his normal state of excellent health with supportive care. The baker's wife has probably calmed down. The Cow Bay ferals almost certainly won't have calmed down and the state of well being of the baker remains unknown.

"Truth" (7.4.06)

Thea Gill as "Laura".

I was looking forward to this television movie. It had been some five years or so since Stephanie Zimbalist’s last tellymovie outing in “Malpractice”. However, there was a problem. After watching “Truth”, I wasn’t so much disappointed as puzzled. Why did anyone actually bother to make this half-baked murder mystery?

In essence, the plot sounds ok. Thea Gill plays Laura. (It’s a good thing TV heroines always have nice sounding names. It would be too bad if she were christened something bland such as Mavis or Hilda or Zimble like the rest of us.) Laura intended to become a journalist but instead has become a lightweight TV entertainment reporter.

Laura decides to put on the old 'professional journalist' hat to investigate the murder of her best college buddy Amelia Moore. Amelia was killed whilst investigating real estate fraud in regional Southern California.

It turns out that Meredith Beckerman (Zimbalist), the girls’ old college professor, was running Amelia and tries to do the same with Laura in order to take revenge on the rich evil family that destroyed her own career in journalism and that is now perpetrating the fraud.

Meredith continually pans Laura for not pursuing a "proper" career in journalism but in the end, Meredith sells her soul by trying to blackmail the baddies and is arrested in a sting arranged by none other than the supposedly hopeless Laura. (Come on now, we couldn’t have an American telly movie without a “the good hearted will always triumph” lesson could we?)

So far so good. The movie starts promisingly with very contemporary shots of LA but then things get weird. Throughout the film, the lighting gives a strange goldy-beige colour. It’s looks glary but no one is fussed with sunglasses.

Meredith, Laura and Christie (one of Meredith’s current college students) are playing at being “serious” journalists but parade around in summer skirts and low cut blouses as though they are going to meet for drinks afterwards at their local Mexican resto. (Thank goodness Zimbalist had the good sense to put on a cardigan.)

I could handle these minor production anomalies but it was the very strange characterisation that really had me beat. Take the Laura character for instance. Her motive seems to change as quickly as the weather. First she’s mourning the death of her friend who she felt was "like a sister" but hadn’t bothered to visit in years. Then she pals up with Meredith and we’re off on a road movie when we’re not cozying up with red wine and classical music. Then we’re on a pizza date with the investigating police officer and then, just when it couldn’t possibly get any weirder, we’re walking away from Amelia’s grave, hip to hip with the grieving widower.

Zimbalist’s performance also had me scratching my head, at least for a while. Normally Zimbalist plays her characters with a great deal of sympathy but not here. Meredith is consistently anxious, a bit loud and mostly unfriendly. What is going on, I thought. Then it became clear. Meredith’s line “I’ve been in a downwards spiral for a decade” explains the performance. Zimbalist salvages an otherwise mediocre and very odd movie.