If you haven’t got anything nice to say don’t say anything at all, said like no politician in the history of the world ever. This becomes apparent in the brief snatches of news footage or articles I have intermittently stumbled across in relation to the UK election. So, from what I can make out, some commie wonk stumbled when feeding a shiny-faced posh man a bacon sandwich, who choked upon hearing Scotland are going to build a big high speed rail bridge bypassing England to Europe, but turned up to the NHS only to find it riddled with BBC bias and a wealthy man of the people chuffing a cigar hand-crafted by Romanians he secretly keeps in his shed. Meanwhile, some woman had a baby, which like happens every minute of every day of every year. Oh Britain, how I miss you.

All this leads me to say that I don’t have much to say; not because there is nothing nice to say, but really since things (unlike Election 2015, oh yes!) are fairly mundane. The biggest event was having all four wisdom teeth – intricately shaped at angles in the kind of x-ray you see in medical journals – extracted. Convalescence was aided by frozen peas, warm soup, and gentle walks around the leafy, crunchy, rainbow suburban streets.

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apr07Like Batman getting my powers back, things progressed at a steady pace: work was sadly possible but also happily income-giving; hills could be walked up; soup became mashed potato became fish curry became shepherd’s pie…until finally I could mercifully manage a bacon sandwich. The bike could be pedalled, when the variable weather was having a good day. And wine could be safely drunk, useful when on a charming tour of Lerida Estate two weeks post-wisdom.

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ANZAC day came and went with its usual amalgamation of touching remembrance, freedom- embracing alcoholism, and political posturing. This year, one hundred years after Gallipoli, there were more TV dramatisations and politicians posturing than ever. I spotted in Target the day before that you could buy a ‘Camp Gallipoli’ swag. Yes, you too can sleep out like the ANZACS, though I presume without the cloying mud, stench of death, and general sense of imperial-driven futility.

The dawn service – a genuinely poignant and worthy lamentation for the death and sacrifice of war – was attended by something like 120,000 people. Too late to the party, I stood alone, upon a nearby hill, the sun rising above the early mist of dawn as magpies uttered melodies, and the shadow of gums were given new life. Standing to see the sun, lucky.

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And with that I really can’t think of anything else to be said.

2 comments

  1. Enjoyed reading your blog schneilford. You really are a talented writer. You could have a column in the newspaper…

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