Sue and I enjoyed a fabulous afternoon at Boomali Aboriginal Art Gallery.
The current exhibition is on there until February.
Both Sue and I really liked a couple of works, which might turn out to be our Christmas presents to ourselves. As with all art purchases, there’s a degree of “think it over” involved.
That said, it’s a really great exhibition with lots of really great works from NSW artists which are worth checking out.
In contrast to the last couple of days, I never wandered very far today from the place where I’m staying at Meville, Johannesburg.
After breakfast, I stayed indoors, spending most of the morning in preparation for my presentations at the Radio Days Jo’burg Conference, being held at Wits University Radio Academy over the next few days.
“You know what it’s like being a journalist? You need a deadline”, I said to the conference organiser, Franz Kruger at tonight’s welcome dinner. So with a deadline in my mind, I spent the morning going through my papers, and reading them out loud several times looking for timing, tone, the right wording and so on. There’s nothing like hearing the spoken being read out loud to help you realise quickly where some things make sense, and when other things need greater clarity.
After a couple of days of listening to variations of the South African accent, for example, I realised today I would need to be a little clearer in the way I pronounced the words “airtime” and “eartime”. Although similar in meaning, there are still semantic differences, and when I said them out loud today I suddenly realised they could sound completely identical to someone not used to the Australian accent, and the way we mangle our vowels.
There’s another Australian speaking at the conference, a lovely bloke called Sam Cavanagh (who I met a couple of months ago at Radio Days Europe) who will talk about the “fan model” of listenership adopted by Hamish and Andy. I also met an Australian woman at tonight’s dinner. As she’s been living out of Australia for a number of years (in parts of Africa, and currently in Paris), I could no longer hear the familiar tones of an Australian accent in her voice, though the others at the table said they definitely could.
The issue of language came up a fair bit in discussion tonight. I was sitting next to a bloke at dinner who is the manager of a community radio station in a rural part of South Africa. He told us his radio station broadcasts in six of the eleven official national languages of South Africa. When I asked him how many he spoke himself, he told us “all six”. I also chatted for a while to a bloke who runs the national radio awards here in South Africa, and he told me about the complex business of judging a competition where entries are accepted in all of the eleven official national languages. I thought being involved in the organisation of the “ABC Local Radio Awards” was tough :)
Aside from preparation for the conference (which will dominate this blog for the next couple of days), I made a brief visit to a shopping centre here in Jo’burg. I’ve been invited to be a guest on a local television program here which focuses on activities in the media. So I decided I better pop into town to buy a couple of shirts to choose from. Although it’s been clear “dress” for the conference is informal, I decided I needed something a little more “flash” than what I’ve brought with me. I’ve picked up a couple of nice shirts for a very reasonable price.
I also decided a haircut and beard trim would be a good idea. Vanity is thy name. After a bit of chit-chat about the weather, the guy cutting my hair leaned over and whispered in my ear, “I do not think our great former President will make it to his birthday later this month.” He told me thought the nation was preparing itself for the inevitable death of Nelson Mandela, and that he thought he should be allowed to die with dignity. “It’s cruel keeping him alive the way they are”, he told me, adding he thought it was time for him to be with God, and “for all of us to continue to be like him, but to let him go.”
On television this morning they were, not surprisingly, still talking about Mandela/Madiba. They had a guest on (I didn’t catch his name), talking about the cultural protocols which he said were being ignored by the international media currently outside the hospital in Pretoria where Mandela is staying. He was quite clear about who he thought should be making decisions about Mandela’s health and who he thought who was “appropriate” to speak on these issues. “We need to be more proactive in telling people in the international media about these cultural issues”, the television presenter agreed.
Meanwhile, at tonight’s dinner Australian politics also got a mention, as a bloke visiting from the United States asked me to explain what happened with Julia Gillard and Kevin Rudd. “You mean news had spread that far?”, I asked, feeling a slight embarrassment about the apparent triviality of Australian politics compared with everything else happening in the world.
I still remember the sounds of the pile drivers as they constructed the “new buildings” for South Lismore Public School.
And when I say “new buildings”, the “new school” was opened in 1978, the year I started high school. Many of the school’s previous timber buildings were replaced with “modern” brick buildings.
The school was a construction site between the third and sixth classes for me.
And I remember the sound of the pile drivers was a constant annoyance for students and staff alike.
When the “new school” was opened, it was very modern, and much appreciated.
Fast forward to 2022, and most school buildings were seriously damaged in the flood.
“Unsalvageable” was the word used today in a series of school meetings. My niece attended one of these. Her mother went to the school, she went to the school, and now her two daughters attend the school.
“She hasn’t really had much experience of the school. First, there was COVID, and then there was the flood”, she told me about her youngest daughter. For the last few months, they’ve been attending another nearby school.
When my niece mentioned what was happening today, I felt pretty sad. As I was in the office, I told a few colleagues, but I knew from their reactions, no one quite understand how sad I felt.
A few weeks ago, they made a similar announcement about Richmond River High School, the high school we both attended.
“They’re talking about rebuilding Richmond River further up the hill, behind the showgrounds”, she told me.
In the meantime, they’re installing demountable classrooms on the nearby sports field opposite South Lismore Public School (the official name is Lismore South Public School, but no one ever calls it that). And they’ll soon commence a building project which may take 2-3 years, according to the brochure handed out today. They’re promising something new and better, which was great to read about.
But still, there’s sadness, about memories, and the rough time the students and staff have had over the last few years.
#proudsouthie
In keeping with the French theme of the opening night movie, there was an Edith Piaf sound-a-like performing “Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien” at last night’s opening night party of the Sydney Film Festival. Accompanied by Monsieur Camembert, Nell Schofield sang, “La Vie En Rose”, making the party one of highlights.
Although a couple of people I spoke to didn’t like the opening night film, “La Vie En Rose” I thought it was tremendous. “I’m left with more questions than answers”, a friend told us. “Was she a lesbian, what drugs was she taking, who was the man she had the child with, what happened with the plane crash, and why did she die her hair ORANGE at the end of her life?” Yes, I think that covers everything.
For me, the lack of answers didn’t matter. I’ve been aware of Piaf for a lot of my life, having first seen her perform “Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien” on television as a child. Although I’ve been aware of her music, I wasn’t aware of the more troubled parts of her life, including being raised in a brothel, her drug abuse, and the many tragedies which occurred, including the death of a child, and the death of a lover.
At times, however, she seems to live a fairytale life (the film looks like a 1940s musical). At other times the film demonstrates (in a Les-Mis kind of way) the grim realism of her life on the streets of Paris. The film is also interesting in its non-linear treatment of her life story, as we’re taken from childhood to death and back again many times.
But isn’t that what life is like? Isn’t life really a non-linear narrative where you learn and forget life’s lessons over and over again? At times, such as when she is being interviewed on the beach you sense real satisfaction and personal happiness, at other times such as when she is close to death, Piaf tells a friend, “I don’t want to go”, demonstrating a fear of the unknown, despite her strong Catholic faith.
For me one of the most profound moments of self-realisation was when she described her life simply in these these terms… “I over did it”. I cannot imagine what it must have been like to have been in her close cadre of friends. The highs, the lows, the volatility. She must have been a nightmare, despite her obvious talents.
Also last night, there was a terrific little short film called, “Nana” by film-maker Warwick Thornton, about the perceptions of a young Aboriginal girl living in Central Australia of her grandmother. But while the grandmother is the sweet old lady you might expect of any nana, she has a wicked streak too. The little girl follows her gran as she goes hunting for bush-tucker, bringing home quite a hall. There’s a terrific line about how her grandmother is a well-known painter, but keeps the painting the same story over and over “because white people don’t know any different”. And there’s an amazing scene where nana bashes a group of young men seeking to bring alcohol into a community. It was a lovely film and highly recommended.
Actually, both films are recommended. Great stuff!!
And the party? Well, the party was good, with the Sydney Town Hall beautifully decorated. The wine, especially the red, which I think was from Bimbadgen was great, though the food was a little disappointing.
We had a great time, though, wandering around the circle, chatting to a few people here and there. We didn’t stay too late, though, since it was cold, wet and blustery, meaning I got soaked on the way home.
“How are you REALLY?” has been a question that’s been asked of me quite frequently in the last weeks.
My answer has consistently been “I’ve had a couple of tough days, but mostly I feel good”. I should note the “tough days” have been more physical than emotinal or intellectual. The day when my body sugar fell dramatically, sapping me of energy and enthusiasm, is an example.
As I’ve engaged with people, whether in person or through social media, I’ve noticed two main groups of responses.
There are those who take my positivity at face value, offering encouraging affirmations like “you’re amazing.”
Then there are others who approach the situation differently, perhaps sensing that I may be hiding my true emotions about what’s happened. They wonder if, once I leave the comfort and support of the hospital environment, I might experience a deep depression when the reality of it all sinks in. And maybe that’s a possibility.
Speaking of recovery, I’ve noticed some “phantom feelings” in the area of my amputation. People around me have suggested that it’s my mind and body grieving, and maybe there’s some truth to that. But I can’t ignore the 57 years of neurological responses that my body and brain have built together, which may also play a part.
Visitors and well-wishers have been keenly interested in hearing about the forty-eight to seventy-two hours when I rapidly lost my sense of what was occurring. I understand their curiosity, and to be honest, I enjoy recounting the story. After all, I’ve always had a deep desire to tell engaging stories, evident both in my career choice and this blog.
However, I’ve come to a point where I want to shift my focus away from the past and towards the future.
In the grand scheme of things, there are millions of people around the world who’ve lost partial limbs (or more). And they’ve done so without the privileges I’ve enjoyed living in an affluent country with a first world health system.
For now at least , I’m choosing to focus less on what has already transpired and more on what lies ahead.
Even if this newfound perspective could be considered a sort of false consciousness – too optimistic? – is that really a bad thing?
There was a moment in the fitting room when tears welled up in my eyes. I had just tried to put on a pair of long pants over the shoe on my prosthetic leg and they wouldn’t fit. “Am I ever gonna wear long pants again?”, I wondered to myself.
It was like that moment when you’ve been out for a really big night, and in a drunken stupor, you think it’s possible to remove your pants without taking off your shoes first. Except this was in reverse.
I’ve been wearing a prosthetic leg for about a month now, and I’m still getting used to it. I’m especially struggling with the idea of wearing long pants.
I also needed a new pair of shoes.
Currently, I have no proficiency in taking shoes on and off my prosthetic limb. For about a month now, I’ve been wearing the same pair of shoes, the ones fitted by the prosthetist, Carl.
I dropped him an email last night, and he returned my call earlier today. I explained the situation of wanting to attend the annual formal dinner, the Andrew Olle Media Lecture and needed advice about shoes. He explained the key thing was to have a heel that closely matched what I already had. If I couldn’t find that, he could make me some adjustments.
Today, I decided to go shopping for a new pair of shoes and pants. I didn’t want to spend a lot of money on shoes that I would only wear once or twice a year, so I headed to the discount stores at Market City, Haymarket. They had a pretty good deal of a suit plus shoes for $199.
Getting the pants off over the shoe was a little more of a challenge than I thought it would be, but my support worker was able to help me. I’m hoping that I won’t need to ask for help after the dinner.
I shared my dilemma about getting pants over my shoe/prosthetic on a Facebook group, “Amputees – Limbs 4 Life Australia”, and received some wonderful replies.
I reckon you can get most pants over the prosthetic foot, especially ones with a normal cut. Needs a little more care , but I still just buy pants I like for the most part. I can’t get skinny leg jeans up over the knee but that’s ok also
Bruce
When I’ve bought a suit, I’ve always asked for an extra lining over the knee or prosthesis area that bends. Always been accommodated
Mark
I use a lady in king st Newtown , St. Peter’s end who charges $70 a pair to put a zip down the leg . She has done 4 for me to date on jeans and work pants . Happy to pass her number on if you like
George
The beauty is as your stump sheiks and you get a skinnier socket you can wear your skinny jeans again, don’t throw them out!
Clay
In reply, I joked, skinny jeans will eventually come back into fashion.
I buy jeans, chinos and casual trousers that aren’t too tight. Trousers with a suit are best bought or made with a lining down to below the knee, this protects the trouser leg cloth from wear and also allows the material to hang looser. I have never yet owned a pair of trousers/jeans/chino’s that I couldn’t get over my foot. Slim style pants thank goodness are on the way out and straight legs are back in …. just not too wide
Christopher
And finally this…
I have issues in cold weather with my prosthetic arm sometimes tearing up sleeves. I now heat-shrunk a PET bottle part over some protruding parts, that helped. I always make sure I buy sufficiently large jackets without particularly thin inner lining. So I can get in and out without problems. But long sleeve shirts, eww. I also started to add reinforcement fabric to shirts and shorten some sleeves. — I guess you could put the prosthesis on after the trousers?
Wolf
Put your pants and shoe on the real leg… then put your shoe and sock on your prosthetic, put your liner etc on your stump. Put pant leg onto prosthetic and then stump into socket, pull up pants. Works a treat! I do this for tights and skinny jeans.
If your formal shoes are the wrong ankle height, check if your prosthetic clinic can help measure and make an insert for your shoes to even up and walk well.
Have fun!!!
Priscilla
That’s it. That’s the solution. So logical.
“What’s it like being back in the office?”, my friend asked me at the pub this afternoon. “It’s exhausting”, I told him. He looked at me a little sceptically. He’s a tradie and, aside from a few weeks in lockdown, has been working all the way through COVID.
I’m well aware of the privilege I’ve enjoyed, having a job where I could work from home, and not being in the position of a number of people I know, of being out of work, thanks to the pandemic
Aside from a few days here and there, I’ve been working from home since March 2020, and I have the shirts to prove it.
As usual, on the weekend before the big lockdown, I dropped some shirts into the dry-cleaner. By the time the lockdown started, I’d only worn one of the freshly ironed shirts. Four of those five ironed shirts have stayed in the wardrobe ever since. But on Monday, I pulled one out, along with a suit I haven’t worn in ages, either.
I’m back in the office full-time for the next month or so. I’m back doing my “old job” at ABC Radio Sydney, filling in between when the previous manager finished, and a new manager starts.
At today’s staff meeting I mentioned that in the 10 or more years between when I last worked there, and now, one thing had remained consistent: “The kitchen is still a mess!” Everyone laughed, and then someone on the Teams call put me on “mute”. We all laughed even harder. Later in the day I acknowledged someone had done the washing up!
Despite previous comments from some well-known politicians that we have spent lockdown “under the doona”, I’ve been working very hard. In fact, I’d say I’ve put in more hours and have been more productive than when I was previously in the office. I think it’s because the lines between work and home have blurred. I wake up in the morning, have some breakfast, and then I’m at work. It’s also been pretty easy to do work at home at night.
Going back into the office means a greater formality. You get up in the morning, you get dressed more formally (no trackie dacks in the office), and then you make your way into work, grabbing a coffee on the way.
And then you login to your computer, chat with a few people about what they’re doing and do the daily 15-minute more formal catch-up on plans for the day,
Then, you need to think about some lunch which usually involves an excursion out of the building. Along the way, people want to discuss things face to face with you. And then it’s 45 minutes or so getting home again.
I don’t want to call it “wasted time”, but there’s certainly a lot of time back in my day when I could have otherwise set aside for other things.
Like, going to the pub, and catching up with my mate. And today is when I mentioned this to him, and also the “emotional energy” involved in chatting to people throughout the day. By nature, I’m quite introspective, and I have really enjoyed the solitariness of working from home. It can be exhausting.
On a very positive note, it’s nice to be able to see people face to face again, instead of at the end of a computer screen.
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