B and B....and P

Just back from a weekend away in the area around a small "heritage" town called Bangalow, about two-and-a-half hours' drive to the north. Bangalow, while pretty, seems in danger of stifling under the weight of its own pretentions, a strange mixture of designer capitalism to cater for the well-to-do Sydneysiders who holiday there and equally well-organised hippy capitalism. Actually, now I think about it, there's no real difference between the two but, somehow, you'd hope there would be. Anyway, we were lucky to get out without having our chakras realigned and our wallets emptied.

We stayed outside the town in a bed and breakfast in hilly countryside that was strangely like mid and west Wales. Though the wildlife wasn't. A carpet python emerged to sun itself at breakfast each day; a slimy-looking tree frog watched us as we sat on our verandah in the evenings; and there was a possum fight in the palm tree opposite, after which one of the possums floundered on to the nearby roof and waddled off with its tail in the air.

We also found a picnic shelter and water tank in the middle of nowhere which was being decorated with coloured glass and mirrors. Don't know why but it restored my faith after Bangalow.....

Long Ago and Far Away

They say the internet has made the world a smaller place and, in many ways, that’s true. But, in many ways, we just haven’t caught up. Living here, for example, is quite deceptive. We have all the benefits and disbenefits of civilisation and you certainly don’t feel as though you’re out on a limb when you go about your everyday business. And, of course, we also have the internet which brings a cornucopia of goods and services from all over the world to our doorstep. Only slowly.

Seeing all that stuff on your screen that you can order at the touch of a button is deceptive. Order something from Amazon and, unless you pay shipping fees sufficient to deliver the contents of a small home, your order will take weeks to arrive. Try something nearer home, in a fit of Antipodean loyalty, thinking it must arrive more quickly, and you’re likely to be disappointed.

I ordered couple of books from Sydney more than two weeks ago. I’ve just received an email to say they’re finally on their way but it’ll take them a few days at least to struggle up the coast from the capital. I decided to try Smoke CDs for some music. It’s a perky New Zealand outfit with a fine range of cds but, again after far more time than I’m used to waiting, my order still hasn’t even left the Land of the Long White Cloud.

I think one reason may be that there’s not many of us down here. So there’s less money to be made, less money to pay people to do the work and less people to find to do the work. For instance, yesterday a Qantas flight from Sydney to Wellington had to be diverted when Wellington airport was closed because “an air controller was sick.” Now you can’t imagine Heathrow running short of an air controller or two and having to shut but I guess there’s not that many of them in Wellington. Possibly just two, taking it in turns.

So slowly it dawns on you that, despite appearances, you really are on the edge of things and that perhaps getting what you want, exactly when you want it, isn’t that important after all.

Rubbing It In

Been pondering the unemployed/employed interface a bit for obvious reasons, and the loss of most of my time. All I can say is the Australians certainly rub these things in.

We were on a constituency outreach visit the other day at a beautiful place on the coast to the south called South West Rocks. It was a splendid day and we'd parked the car outside the tourist information centre, a wooden cottage overlooking some dunes and a beach. Luke, my boss and MP, had gone to buy us some coffee after being berated by a passer-by about the Tampa and the "children overboard" fiasco (which was nothing to do with him but that's grass-roots politics for you) leaving me to watch the shop, which meant standing in the sun next to the sandwich board which we'd erected, announcing our presence.

I was gazing longingly down on the beach when a short-clad bloke marched purposefully into the garden of the information centre centre, went inside and then emerged in the garden with an Australian flag which he proceeded to run up a flag pole. I thought how splendid the blue and red and the stars looked in the sunshine. Nearly all flags do, I find.

"That your first job of the day?" I asked.

"Mate," he replied with relish, "it's my only job."

Off Air

I've given up my programme on CHYFM. I'd always wanted the chance to present some music but, when it came to it, I didn't enjoy it as much as thought I would. For one thing, it was rather lonely.

There was never anyone else at the station when I was on air and the frequent lack of light bulbs late on a Friday night, coupled with the slightly damaged sound-proofing on the walls, the teenage carvings on the desk-top, and the generally down-at-heel air had a lowering effect. So did the phone calls, always requesting Britney or Kylie. "Why don't you play some new stuff?" one asked. Well, I was playing new stuff. It just wasn't Britney or Kiley. I found that very depressing. I preferred the drunks, on the whole. Lack of any sense whatsoever is easier to handle then lack of appreciation. One of them did say: "I don't like any of the stuff you're playing. What about Midnight Oil?" I rest my case.

Then I realised that I didn't know one person who listened to the programme. A new colleague of Sara's tuned in one night by mistake, I think, and her verdict was something like this: "We heard one long, boring track, then Richard's voice. he's got a very good voice. Then we turned off." (If that was a Jim White track, I'm hurt, deeply hurt). So now that I'm working full-time, I can see no point in continuing to devote a minimum of three nights a week to it, including preparation time.

I'm thinking of turning to that vast, warm, welcoming home of all lost causes and personal enthusiasms - the web. What interest there was came from the playlists I posted each week. I even had a New York record company emailing me, offering me an album. That was some weeks ago and nothing's arrived yet but, hey, that's rock n roll and, in any case, you get my point. It's the thought, or the email, that counts. In due course, no doubt after a titanic battle with technology, something will emanate from Sandy Beach to the handful of faithful scattered across the world. And, yes, there will be no Kiley. Or Midnight Oil.