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Mobility Scooter
I have always had mixed feelings about mobility scooters. Living in Surry Hills, I associate them with a certain…eccentricity… based on the elaborately decorated scooters you often see in the area. Plus, Sydney’s excellent public transport means I have never considered needing one myself, even after last year’s lower limb amputation.
This Christmas, while visiting my sister and brother-in-law in Lismore, I have had a chance to really experience a mobility scooter. Their daughter recently purchased one on their behalf, but so far they are reluctant to use it. Like many of their generation, they seem to resist accepting assistance, even if it means a better quality of life.
Seeing their unused scooter, I decided to give it a try.
In the last few days I have been exploring Lismore with a newfound freedom – the shopping centre, the town, the riverbank – all easily accessible. The wind in my face, the ease of movement…it is exhilarating.
This experience is definitely shifting my perspective. While Sydney’s excellent public transport still makes a scooter seem unnecessary to me and my current situation, I now realize the value it could bring in a place like Lismore, where getting around isn’t so easy. It’s not just about convenience; it’s about independence and the freedom to explore new possibilities.
Inner Naturist
I really think I could be a closet naturist.
The first thing I did when I got home from work today was strip off.
After a hard day at work, there’s something kinda relaxing about coming home, pouring a glass of wine, and getting your gear off.
And besides it was humid. It still is now, several hours later.
In between I’ve met Grant at the pub ahead of tonight’s Swedish class.
After last week’s poor turnout, we had a full class tonight. But, as with last week, the emphasis has turned to conversation about topical issues, which I really like.
Yes, we had a grammar exercise. And yes we had a very unsuccessful game of “twenty questions”. For a while it felt like we would never answer identify the identity of the mystery person.
But mostly, we were encouraged to converse about topical issues.
A few of us wrote pieces about the volcano eruption in preparation for class, so we spoke about that for a while.
Though it was still humid, I enjoyed my walk home through the streets of Surry Hills.
There’s something kinda odd about the people you see out on a Tuesday night.
You wonder why they’re out and about on a night when most people are at home… or Swedish class… or getting their gear off in the privacy of their own home.
Same, But Different
“I’m sorry, I have absolutely no idea who you are…” is the kind of phrase you never really want to hear. especially when it’s delivered by someone you’ve known for over twenty years.
I was wandering home on Friday night, having spent the evening with a friend at the newly re-opened Newtown Hotel. And just metres from home I saw a very attractive tall blonde woman standing outside a Surry Hills restaurant and speaking on the phone. It was a woman I first met twenty years ago, and who I last heard from via email a few months ago, and who I last saw at a wedding a year ago. She’s a lovely woman, and it’s always great to see her. And so I waited for her to finish her call, standing a few metres away.
And that’s when she delivered that killer line. Normally it’s the kind of thing that would cause your heart to jump, and for you to wonder how you got it all so terribly wrong. But there was no need to worry. In just a half-beat, I laughed realising it was my friend’s identical twin sister. D’oh!
For many years, my friend’s twin had lived in the United States and so we had never actually met before. “We look a lot a like these days”, she told me, as I noted they now boasted identical hairstyles as well. “Say hi from James from Wagga”, I told her, as I made my way home. I’m sure it happens all the time, and it must get a little tiresome for them both, but for me, it was an amusing experience and anecdote, and one which was strangely, analogous, to the evening spent at the Newtown Hotel.
For years, the Newtown Hotel was one of the landmark gay hotels in Sydney, with an everyday crowd, drag shows, unisex stripper contests and so on. It was the place you would go to in the evening, until it closed about midnight, and then you would make your way to The Imperial to see one of their iconic drag shows. But the Newtown closed rather dramatically in 2007.
Although it reopened a couple of years ago with a mini-makeover, the gay and lesbian communities of Sydney have been waiting with anticipation the re-opening of a large, successful gay pub. In the last couple of years, the Sydney gay scene has undergone a transformation. Thanks largely to the internet, a lot of the reasons people used to go to gay bars – to make friends, to have friend, to pick-up – have gone on-line, and many bars no longer hold much attraction. As a result, the remaining pubs have been forced to cut costs, and thus, have become even less attractive places to go.
I’d hazard a guess there’s been a major investment in the “New Newtown”. I haven’t seen the figures, but it would have been millions and millions of dollars. The pub has had a major architectural re-design, with more levels, more spaces, and even outdoor verandah areas. “The view’s pretty good up here”, my friend and I agreed as we sat on the second floor and enjoyed the view down King Street. “You couldn’t have gotten better weather”, my friend added.
In the old days, the number of people who attended the re-opening would never have fitted into the bar. Or maybe they would, as the place was often very full. I remember on one occasion the place was so packed that it was easier to cross the road and get a beer at the nearby bar than struggle through the crowd to the bar. On Friday, the bar was full, but not so much that you felt uncomfortable. You could make it to the toilets and back fairly easily.
The downstairs bar is your normal priced beer bar. Upstairs, the beer prices go up, and there’s more variety. There’s also a restaurant. On top of that, there’s a room which could easily book for a birthday party or a board meeting, and there are even plans for a small cinema.
“But will it be gay”? was the question my friend asked as we caught the bus from Railway Square. “It’ll depend on the bar staff”, I told him. Although not entirely sure of the sexual proclivities of those serving us beer, my guess is they’re part of the generation and crowd where it doesn’t matter so much. “They’re certainly not hipsters”, I told him. Gay or not, people felt comfortable with the bar staff, I think.
We recognised quite a few faces on Friday night and ran into some friends. My friend recognised a former Sydney drag queen who he hadn’t seen and who had lived in Sweden (of all places) for eight years. We spoke Swedish. “I never thought I’d be speaking Swedish in The Newtown Hotel”, he laughed. I also ran into one of the students I’ve recently been chatting to. The world is too small.
Although now physically very different, there was something warmly familiar about the newly re-opened Newtown Hotel. Same, but different.
Confessions of a Recovering Workaholic
Since childhood, my days have revolved around work. Evenings have been spent hunched over tasks until exhaustion. Waking thoughts have been consumed by the next project.
Being a journalist, a “passion job,” probably made it worse. News is always lurking. I vividly recall a dinner party years ago when an interesting comment by someone sparked the journalist in me, and my then partner, Damien, gently reminded me. “Stop. It’s not a story. Just enjoy the evening” he said.
Occasional self-reflection throughout my life has revealed the folly of my ways. After a mid-life crisis and a rejuvenating travel break in 2008, I vowed to take proper lunch breaks and disconnect after work. Yet, I soon found myself back on the workaholic treadmill.
Last year’s health scare, likely fueled by my workaholic tendencies (eating, drinking, and working), forced a hard stop in my life.
As I begun my recovery early mornings in hospital were spent weak and reliant on others, a stark contrast to my usual frenetic pace. I was entranced by the rising of the morning star out my hospital window.
Returning to work, part-time at first, I resolved to never revisit that state of work exhaustion. But lately, with a near-full-time schedule, the familiar pre-sleep and morning work anxieties have crept back.
This triggered introspection. I yearned to recapture the simple joys of my days in hospital, or my pre-school days – listening to country music with my dad over breakfast. Or the periods in my adult life where mornings began with calming walks or quiet relaxation before work.
Last year, I experimented with a new morning routine – music instead of the news. The difference was remarkable. In recent weeks, I’ve extended this practice, savoring the sound of the nearby birdsongs and music instead of the immediate pressure of work brought about the news. It feels incredibly good.
I acknowledge the privilege of my position – a middle-class government job that allows for breaks and a work-life balance, a luxury many lack. For example, today’s midday half-hour nap that was needed to recover from physical exertion was easy for me to take.
I also aknowledge the later life privileges this has brought me. By working so hard in my early years, I have a good income, superannuation etc, albeit at some cost.
And as I approach retirement, albeit a few years away, I’ve finally grasped (perhaps belatedly) the importance of work-life balance. It’s a concept I now fully embrace.
Bridges and Views
The other day, as I was crossing the Ballina Street Bridge in Lismore, I stopped to take a photograph.
“You should take some photographs from the southside”, a bloke crossing the bridge stopped to say to me. “You get to see some great views of the rowing club”, he added.
And so that’s what I did today.
But it wasn’t easy to decide where and how I should take these photographs, as the southside of the river doesn’t have the same level of access as the town side.
Traditionally, the southside has been dominated by the railway lines and factories, and so it’s quite hard to know exactly where the best views would be obtained, or even accessed. Being a little unsure, I headed down Union Street, and turned right into NORCO Lane, where I discovered both the “Men’s Shed” and a demolition company with a sign firmly declaring it private property.
Thanks to Google Maps, I eventually figured the best view could be afforded much further down Union Street, closer to Coleman’s Bridge (known locally as “The Double Bridges”), where you can get much closer to the river itself.
It was a terrific adventure to embark upon, and it took me to some of the backroads of South Lismore I’ve never previously visited.
While I was in the area, I took a closer look at the old railway bridge that connected North and South Lismore.
The last time I crossed the bridge was about 10 years ago, and I came close to plummeting into the river below, as much of the timber structure is deteriorating.
It’s nice to see they’ve erected fences to stop idiots such as myself from attempting to cross.