Pause for Thought - Literally

I have literally had to pause for thought because it was time for the start of the commemorative dawn services at ANZAC Cove, Gallipoli.

96 years since tens of thousands of deaths, hundreds of thousands of casualties, in a futile endeavour.

Or was it futile?

Certainly, the offensive itself was misguided, ill-conceived and doomed to failure. War itself is, well, a debatable method for resolving human conflict. For me, one who believes whole-heartedly in peace, there have always been conflicting feelings. How do I justify my support and appreciation for those who have served in armed conflict?

The answer is that I don't need to justify my feelings.  I don't need to apologise either for despising war, or for honouring those who have participated in it.  It's not all that incongruous.

People have died in order that I might now live as I choose. That is worthy of honour.

Recently, I participated in the writing of Tallong: A Heritage.  It was my privilege to research and write the chapters that included the period of  the World Wars.  I can't tell you of my emotion revisiting the story of the ANZACS.

As some of you know, I've lived in many countries.  I've seen people living privileged lives, for whom Memorial Days and Armistice/Remembrance Days are nothing more than a day off from work.  I'm sorry for them.

I'm proud to live in a country where tens of thousands have not only participated in commemorations today, but tens of thousands have appreciated them.  As I type, there are tens of thousands standing in the cold and rain in Sydney, clapping, cheering, weeping and appreciating.

I read history and political theory at university, so I could go on for pages discussing these issues.  I won't.  I have my own commemorations to make.

May their souls,
and the souls of all the faithful departed,
through the Mercy of God,
rest in peace.

Aleta: What's in a name?

What's in a name?  That which we call a rose, by any other name would smell as sweet.  So Aleta would, were she not Aleta called, retain that dear perfection which she owes without that title.  Aleta, doff thy name!

I have to giggle at the thought of  'retaining my dear perfection'.  I am not, in fact, perfect, although I can get close to perfection at times, and of course parts of me are undeniably excellent!

The Redhead Riter recently asked about names over on blogfrog. Made me think.


When I was a youngster, I used to hate having such an unusual name.  No one else was called 'Aleta', no one knew how to pronounce or spell it, and there was no 'Saint Aleta'. Being called 'Mary' seemed like it would be a Godsend.

I grew to really love my name.  Finding out that 'Aleta' was the princess in the Prince Valiant tales helped. Plus, it's always fun to run into another Aleta. It's like we're in cahoots with this special name that only a privileged few are party to.  And every so often, someone'll say, 'Oh!  I know another lady named Aleta!' and it starts a conversation.  Nobody ever says 'Oh! I know another lady named Mary', now do they?

Now, apparently, there's a new generation of children who know the name from a new Prince Valiant television series! The name doesn't sound at all strange to them. Cool!

Of course, it's always a little weird to read that 'Aleta Curry died last week aged 82', (God rest her soul) or that an 'Aleta Curry' was arrested somewhere in California (falsely, as it turned out, hope she sued successfully).

Someone's always telling me what a pretty name 'Aleta' is.  Do people say that 'Margaret' or 'Jennifer' or 'Vicki' is such a pretty name?  I think not!

On balance, it's pretty cool being called 'Aleta'. I won't be doffing my name any time soon!

This is why TV cops always hold the criminal's head as they shove him into the car....

More haste, less speed!

- Proverb

I got a phone call at around six o'clock this morning.  Way too early for business calls for antiques, even too early for construction trade calls, unless it's someone saying he's sick and can't come in to work today.

No, phone calls at 6:00am usually spell t-r-o-u-b-l-e.  This one was no exception.  Husband was stuck in the truck. Could I come right away?  Bring a drum (no, not the kind you beat on) and....

So I had to turn around in a hurry, as I was still in sleep shirt and dressing gown (it's not a good look, trust me) and explained to the dogs no, they couldn't come - except Bandit, who had already beat me outside, and whose coat would shield him from the cold if we got stranded anywhere.

Anyway I rushed about as well as I could, with the result that I launched myself into - or at - the driver's seat of our crummy station wagon just a leetle bit too early....

Thud!  Ugh! The sound of the proverbial sickenening blow to the skull as my head hit the car frame. And I mean I really hit it, too.  I didn't even say 'ow!' - this was too big for an 'ow!'; it was more like 'AGH!'

I sat down hard, head pounding, thinking, 'I've really got to get going' and 'That's why the American TV cops always push the bad guy's head down as they shove him into the car!' and 'Sit back down, Bandit, I'm fine!' (a lie) all at the same time.

The bottom line was that the truck had run out of diesel; it was at a good spot for it - he pulled off the road easily and was still in the Village if he'd needed help - and thank the Lord it was nothing more serious than that.

I was back at the computer by eight.

Life goes on...and that's life!

Cloudy, but clearing!

'Oh, woe is me!'

- Some minor character in every B-grade medieval period piece

Sometimes it all comes at you hot and heavy. It's like that today. I've a ton of paperwork and business management to get through, and look, I'm down with a bad cold and now it's cold and cloudy out, which means the barometric pressure is down, putting increased pressure on clogged and rebellious sinuses.

It's not good.

Of course, as those of you in business know, you can't just stop when you have a cold.  Especially not since the other half of this team is actually out of doors in this inclement atmosphere, and if he has to slog it out in the elements, the least I can do is push on through, even if it does feel like one more cough is going to burst a blood vessel.

Or make an eyeball pop out.

Did I say it was clearing?

Well, not literally, but figuratively speaking.  The Sydney Royal Easter Show is about to begin, probably my favourite of all the diversions I've been able to experience in this my lucky life.  There's nothing else like it.

Now, a short spiel when I'm feeling rotten will not do justice to the affair, so I'm going to save that for tomorrow...or the next day.  For now, I'm going to sign off and make a cup of tea.  And have a beer.  Oh, okay, I'm kidding about the beer, but I *am* going to make tea, and then get back to cataloguing.

Ta ta for now.

Don't be a Friend, Indeed!

Found an interesting little snippet this morning from Ontario, Canada.

As you may or may not know, I've been busily researching what are ironically dubbed 'social media' recently.  I say 'ironically' because the very idea that any medium that requires one to be chained to a desk typing away, (or with one's eyes glued to a mobile device, to the exclusion of all else, like maybe missing your stop on the train or, heaven forfend, forgettting to look up when crossing a busy street) is somehow more 'social' than other media, is a bit of a giggle.

But I digress.

This little article says that teachers in Ontario are being warned not to 'friend' students or request that students become their friends.  It correctly, in my view, calls for professionalism to be maintained at all times, i.e. reminds teachers to stay within the accepted boundaries, and not give out or request photographs, phone numbers, or do anything else that could be misconstrued.

Here are some salient points:

"Electronic communication and social media can be effective when used cautiously and professionally. They serve a range of purposes, from helping students and parents/guardians access assignments and resources related to classroom studies to connecting with classrooms in other communities and countries."

"However, the most popular social media applications were not created specifically for educational purposes and their use can expose members to risk when it comes to maintaining professionalism." [emphasis added]"

That last is an important point to remember.  The new social media can (and if the gurus are right will) be used increasingly for business purposes, but right now their primary use is social, and we all have to grapple with where to draw the line.

Bandit does it again!

Bandit is a worry.  The largest of our many dogs, he is an animal of such extraordinary beauty that people stop to look at him, marvel at him, talk to him...and more than one tradesman specifically asks how Bandit is doing, when phoning for business. But beauty and brains, as we know, are not intrinsically linked, and Bandit is also a colossal pain in the posterior.

Someday I'm going to publish my Collected Bandit Stories.  For right now, however, it's sometimes all I can do to keep the fellow in order.

Take the other day.  Bandit decided, for reasons he did not explain, to roll in something disgusting.  Fox faeces, was my husband's guess.  The stench was enough to turn the strongest stomach to jelly. This happened late in the evening, and I could not stop and bathe the creature, but dragged dog, rug and water outside and locked him in the bathroom for the night. The next day it took a shampooing, combing, swim in the pond, another shampooing and rinsing (with Bandit objecting strenuously; tell me, why is it that a dog will jump into any body of water, no matter how cold, stagnant or fetid, with glee, but faced with clean water and soap will react as if you're trying to immerse him in battery acid?!). Anyway, after all that, his coat still smelled, though much less strongly, and it was bearable when dry.

Today's party trick was coming back from a run entirely coated in the thorny prickles from a weed that infests the perimeters of our house park.  I should have mentioned that Bandit is a collie, and that Border Collies are double coated.  Trying to rid a long double coat of dozens - scores - of prickles, is just not a joke.  I could throttle him.  I've been at it for almost an hour, and I'm taking a break just to get off my knees; he's not done yet!  Of course, he doesn't know what he's done to cause me grief, and though I'm in no mood to be reasonable, his patient bearing of me yanking away at his fur, pulling out burrs and grousing at him, all the while looking up at me with liquid amber eyes that say What?! goes a long way in lessening my ire.  It's so hard to be cross with him; even the time he ate the whole leg of lamb I had to admit it was my fault for leaving it where he could get it.  But that's another story!

Every princess needs a tiara....

I am a princess.  Every little girl is!

- Sara Crewe, in A Little Princess - Frances Hodgson Burnett

I was moved to write this post because of a current offering by...you guessed it, Sotheby's....A tiara.  And not just any tiara:  it's formed using sets of exquisitely matched jewels:  notably emeralds of extraordinary size and clarity, but also some beautiful diamonds.

I'm in desperate need of a new diadem, myself, but I'm afraid my husband simply cannot afford the 10 million quid it'll take to drop this baby in my lap.  (But it's a 'heads up' to the rest of you - go for it! <big cheesy grin>).  And why are people even *thinking* of buying a 10 million dollar tiara?  Well, because every princess needs one!

For centuries, writers and psychologists have tried to figure out exactly what it is about a princess.  So many of us want to grow up to be princesses (or princes and princesses, for the phenomenon is observed in boys, as well), that some serious professionals have endeavoured to puzzle it out.  Some of these have become very wealthy puzzling it out, and Bernard Shaw, Hodgson Burnett, Cabot and Rowling have made fortunes by capturing our imaginations in this regard.

I'm not a mental health professional, I'm just a writer.  An above-average writer, 'tis true, but a humble writer nonetheless.  I will hazard a guess, however: I think it's simply a matter of our desire to be the best that we can be, and to have other people recognise that about us and accord us the respect that's due.  A princess, you see, is not only treated well, but she behaves well, and who among us does not want to think that she is well-behaved?  (Most of the time, at least.)  And who doesn't think they deserve to be well treated...?  Somebody...?  Anybody...?

This chicken-or-egg phenomenon has already been remarked on by better writers than I:  Bernard Shaw said 'The difference between a flower girl and a lady is not how she behaves, but how she is treated.'

I think there may be some truth in that.  Do me a favour: find people who treat you well.  Seek them out.  Spend time with them.  You're a princess, and you deserve it!

Handshake deals, Part Deux

Inigo:       I could give you my word of honour as a Spaniard
Westley:  No good, I've known too many Spaniards!
Inigo:       Is there no way you would trust me?
Westley:  Nothing comes to mind

Inigo:       I swear on the soul of my father, Domingo Montoya: you will reach the top alive!
Westley:  Throw me the rope.

- Wm Goldman, The Princess Bride

Oh, we of great faith!  Things worked out just fine in the handshake deal. So kudos to those of you who said they would. No padlocked gates, no vicious dogs, just the fair exchange of merchandise at the agreed-on price. Huzzah!