Small Town Hairdresser

A simple pleasure having your hair washed by another person.
The warm water miraculously not dripping down the side of your neck.
That special way they massage your scalp,
And it never feels the same when you try to do it to yourself.
As they trim or put on colour you fall into a comfortable discussion about your kids, or theirs.
Or some other local news item of interest.
Other customers join in,
Because we all know each other.
Despite realising that you must look hideous,
With 'goop' and aluminium foil on your head,
You are not concerned.
Especially as your neighbour looks just as ridiculous.
There is an air of camaraderie.
We are in this quest for beauty and style together.
And we put our trust in the hands of our stylists,
Who have our personal combination of hair colour on file.

Wind on the Monaro

The tussocks roll,
Like an invisible hand stroking the soft fur of a puppy,
Or choppy waves on a bay.
It is soothing to watch.
It caresses my eyes.
I can observe insulated in the sanctuary of my warm vehicle.
The stands of trees I pass are another matter,
Ferocious in their calisthenics.
They bend, whip and quake alarmingly.
I prefer to watch the grass.
Then I come upon a gang of White Winged Choughs.
They are on the road, sheltering in a cutting.
As I approach they simultaneously rise in the air.
The blast they meet, causes them to rise slowly,
And make a gentle backwards arc.
Flashes of white break up the black.
They arch their backs unnaturally,
back paddling into the sky.  

The Frustrated 'Aspi' and the Meeting

I love and loathe meetings.

Love the protocol, the organisation,
And the language: minutes, chair, motions, second and agenda.
Love the soft 'g' in that word 'agenda.'

Loathe the fluff of:
Preening egos, ulterior agendas, (got it in there again) and jockeying for position.
The well organised, constructive and efficient meeting,
Gives me a strong feeling of solidarity and optimism.

The emotive, vacillating meeting stresses me to near tears.
Then frustration releases my most blunt, hard-edged persona.
The double edged sword of social embarrassment and helplessness overwhelms.
I can keep up the façade of vacuous conviviality......
Normally,
But at a meeting there is an even chance that it will end in tears......
Most likely mine.

Time to Think

It seems that thinking is a dying pursuit.
Pondering, daydreaming or inviting free flowing, flights of fancy.
Lives are filled with activity.
Some purposeful, some mere distraction.
Time without activity is characterised as boring.
Now our children are spending every waking moment entertained or stimulated.
Their time organised into activities.
Interspersed with babysitting by screens.
All but gone is the wandering about outside,
Letting the curiosities of life pump into you.
Pleasantly poking, prodding and pondering.
We adults are no better incessantly rushing,
Or playing on our electronic devices.
Grant me time to think.

The Child Cave

They screech and chatter like monkeys.
Whoops and calls of unbridled infant revelry.
We have paused at a town playground.
Modern play equipment in bold primary colours is ignored.
Rather, the children have discovered the steam-powered grader and stationary engine,
Over which they clambour unperturbed by the lack of soft-fall.
Excited primates in darkened hedge habitat.
They clambour over low branches and find their secret nesting spots.
Hide and wait in excited apprehension of discovery.
When found, their silence is broken by peels of screeching joy no longer contained.

The RSL Club

Social mainstay of this  country town.
Bistro meals, raffles and the odd band.
Wednesday night 'Schnitzels'.
Upstairs is the Board- room
Amongst the orange vinyl spinning chairs are the relics.
The glass cases of old uniforms and military paraphernalia.
The walls are inhabited by past presidents in the photographic,
And clothing styles of their respective reigns;
Black and whites with suits and brill cream,
Gaudy colour with wide ties and flares.
In the little auditorium the annual events are hosted.
High school formals, dance concerts, Melbourne Cup luncheons,
And of course Anzac and Remembrance Day commemorations.
It is friendly and familiar,
And available.
Membership is reasonably priced,
And it makes you feel apart of something bigger than yourself.

But I still hate the 'Pokies'

The Tag

Those damned starlings have left their 'tags' on my veranda.
Autographs in piles of black and white,
Underline the washing line,
And emblazon the kids toy box, the chairs and the little fibreglass coffee table.
The rocking horse has 'got one in the eye.'
I am incensed.
I spend more time cleaning this space than sitting relaxing in it.
Out comes the broom, buckets of bleached water and high pressure hose.
It is not the most clement of weather.
It is going to take a long time to dry.
I am saturated and cold.
Almost done and I'm cleaning the bottom of the table.
It would have been pretty 'groovy' in the sixties.
Would not look out of place in 'A Clockwork Orange.'
It has been passed on to me by my father, who made it.
Then I spot it,
My 'tag'.
In pencil,
My name and address from 1977.