Mrs Talasiga's Diary - Oops!

Poststructural Pub
1

I was getting organised for our annual trip to the Spring Fair: I put the bag containing the thermos and cups out on the front verandah and walked down the hill to the laundry.

Where’s my handbag?

So I walked back up the hill to the house, located the handbag and put it on the verandah. I then walked down the hill again, collected the washing, walked up the steps to the clothesline, hung out the clothes, picked up the picnic bag from the verandah and walked over the hill to Aunty I’s. As I approached the Primary School I thought:

Where’s my handbag?

So I walked back over the hill to the house, collected the handbag from the front verandah and retraced my steps. When I got to Aunty I’s she was in the bathroom: “I’ve spent most of the morning looking for my wallet” she called out. “Don’t worry” I replied, “I’ve lost my handbag twice this morning.” “Well that makes me feel better, I’m glad it happens to you young ones too” she said.

Aunty G arrived and off we went for a lovely day in the hinterland viewing the flowers, fossicking around the stalls and enjoying the scenery. In the afternoon we dropped Aunty I off and returned to Aunty G’s to unload her shopping and wash the dust off the car. Once that was done Aunty G threw her purse into the back of the car and offered to drive me home.

I unloaded my things from the car, unlocked the house and carried the picnic bag and purchases into the loungeroom.

Where’s my handbag?

So I walked back over the hill, past the Primary School and over the next hill to Aunty G’s place. She looked surprised to see me back so soon: “I’ve left my handbag in your car.” I said. “That’s funny,” she said, “I can’t find my purse.” “It’s in the back of the car with my handbag.” I said and we headed down to the garage.

Handbag securely over my shoulder I walked around Aunty G’s hill and over my hill and home.

The next morning I was scooting up the hill to get to the newsagent and drew level with some casual walkers at the top:
“You’re not even puffing!” one of them exclaimed.
“I live here, I do this every day.” I replied “Very good for toning the bottom.”
“Glad to hear it,” she said.

I didn’t tell her how many times a day I do it or why…

JW

2

Sorry, I thought you folks were headed into autumn, not spring, but a well-tuned bottom is important anywhere.

djm

3

Dear DJM,

I hope it doesn’t come as too much of a shock but the diary entries, while true, are not contemporaneous. They are extracts from my diary from the past few years.

Yes, we are in late Autumn heading into Winter. I don’t know how it’s arranged in Canada but we change seasons on 1 March, 1 June, 1 September and 1 December. Strangely, in this part of Oz, the climate generally complies with this arrangement.

And indeed a well toned ass is always an asset!!

JW

4

Not a big concern, of course. I just thought you may have written “Spring” by accident.

Do you know where your purse is now, and who owns that handbag in the boot of your car?

djm

5

We do have seasons here but I think we have more accidentals in them than you do in Canada. I think thats becuase we are so close to the Orient. For instance we’re in late autumn now but we have had some wintry days and some spring days recently. But these are accidentals because overall we’re in autumn.

Sometimes there can be so many accidentals in a season that we begin to think of it as a chromatic season. Of course the concept of “so many”, “much” , “overall” and the like are tied up with the semantics associated with scale.

6

I love the thought of “accidentals” in a season. Better than saying, “This &$#@! weather!” which is what we usually say around here where accidentals happen all the time…

7

I was driving over the hill to Aunty G’s when I noticed a group of people on her hill – even from this distance they seemed excited there was a lot of arm waving and pointing going on. Perhaps they had seen a whale - so I decided to detour.

As I turned into the parking area I saw a group of men lowering the flag. I became alarmed : they looked like reasonable retired gentlemen, they were unlikely to be stealing it, but, had they permission from the Postmistress? G raises the flag each morning and lowers it every evening : she would have something to say if people were mucking about with the flag. Not to mention her husband, R, Chairman of the Chamber of Commerce – not one to reserve his views on civic matters.

Thankfully, no sooner had the men lowered the flag, than they raised it again. I didn’t stop to speak to them – I turned around and went down the hill to Aunty G’s – but the whole thing seemed rather strange.

Later in the day I headed over to the Post Office to pay a bill. G served me and I couldn’t help mentioning the strange incident with the flag.

“Perhaps they were putting up a new flag” she said, “I was away over the weekend and J has been doing flag duty for me. Perhaps he thought that the flag was getting tatty and bought a new one.”

“He would have raised it this morning” she said.

“He did,” said R, dropping his eyes and blushing slightly “but he raised it upside down.”

I could still hear G’s laughter as I turned the corner to walk home.

8

I sniffed a carton of milk the other morning and was struck with memories of primary school. That unmistakeable smell of milk on-the-turn evoked the spreading fig trees under which my classmates and I would be gathered each morning to drink our compulsory little bottle of milk. Sitting on logs under the trees, surrounded by acrid smoke from The Colonel’s rubbish fire, we steeled ourselves to drink the warm milk without gagging.

In the early 1960s I would start each day at sitting on the front step waiting for the milkman. We only said a few words to each other (I mean how much conversation is a busy milkman going to have with a preschooler) but I would wait anyway just to greet him. He’d leave four bottles: three with silver aluminium caps and one with a red cap. The silver caps denoted homogenised milk, the red unhomogenised. Dad would pour the cream from the top of the unhomogenised bottle on to his desert as a treat. The other bottles were for general use. At certain times of the year the sun would strike the silver tops and the magpies would attack them - pecking holes through the caps – but we drank the milk none-the-less.

When each bottle was empty Mum would wash them out. The rising pitch of the water as it filled up the bottle was so distinctive that I’m sure she could have done it with her eyes closed. The cream wouldn’t come off the bottles immediately and there always seemed to be bottles soaking on the edge of the kitchen sink. If you tried to use hot water to move the cream you’d only succeed in breaking the bottom of the bottle, which would come out as a neat round piece.

The empty bottles would be put out in the evening and the milkman would replace them with full ones. I think you got a discount for returning the empties and the appropriate money would be left beside the empty bottles in their wire rack ready for the morning. Any variations to your standard order, such as a bottle of cream, would be given in a note under the money. As Christmas approached, we would start saving the caps, pressing them over the top of a lemon squeezer and threading them onto string as decorations.


The Rivermouth milk van sounds its “Mooooo” horn as it does the rounds each afternoon nowadays. It may be in paper cartons but at least you can still buy it at your front door.