A true third person account of teaching in Nottinghamshire, mildly censored

George had been at the hellish school for three days now. The only pleasant thing about each school day was the lovely drive. Every morning he would depart from his Nottingham home at 8 o’clock and slip the Nick Cave cassette on in his car. The music was buoyant, with bold, pulsating rhythms: The music not only woke him up; it also seemed to instil in him some confidence, some Dutch courage he needed to just simply arrive at his destination. The drive was thirty minutes and the pretty roads wended their way through tiny villages, some with friendly post offices and proud little community churches. It was winter and the fields were green and usually wet with rain. Every day so far on the same bend he would see black birds all in a row alight from a wire fence. Relaxed and nodding with the music he would greet cows and sheep with a toot from his horn. School children from various district schools were always waiting by the side of one of the narrow roads, holding an umbrella and text messaging at the same time. He didn’t quite have the courage to toot them as well, although he always wanted to.



The lovely uplifting drive ended each day at the black, sombre school gates. The English co-ordinator this particular day smiled at him, grateful it seemed that he was back for the third day now. A silent understanding between them as if to say ‘we appreciate the fact that that you’re hanging in’. She was diminutive and  looked, George had told his wife, just like the malevolent dwarf in the Julie Christie film ‘Don’t Look Now’. As was the pattern so far there was very little chatter in the staff room. Tired mouths sipping coffee. Looks of resignation. Foot weary soldiers who know they are about to lose yet another battle.

George crept away to his form room and saw several students in the corridor leaning against furniture, talking loudly. Unlike other schools he’d taught in, he couldn’t find any art work or posters on the cream- coloured walls. A couple of empty glass display cabinets and a student’s yearly planner on the floor. As he arrived at Room 41 to place his key in the lock he noticed that for the second day running somebody had forced pencil shavings and bits of paper in the lock. It took several minutes to dig it all out. He wondered who had done this and why. What was the point? At least this time there wasn’t saliva on the door handle as well.
Time stretched inexorably towards 9 o’clock. The form meeting with the year 11’s passed without too much trouble. George even had some banter with a girl he called ‘Polly Page’ because she looked like Polly Page. ‘The calm before the storm’ he prophesied to himself. Soon, outside the door, the day’s first class announced itself with a loud thud against the wall, someone rummaging for last place with some obnoxious shouting and swearing.

This was a Year 10 English class that George spent some of the night worrying about. He hadn’t done any photocopying, yet he knew some of the students wouldn’t have their anthologies. They ‘filed in’ in an ugly mass. After setting some comprehension work that only about half the class had bothered listening to, George left them to it, interjecting now and then with an unassertive ‘Get back to your work!’ and ‘A bit quieter so we can all think!’

George knew this had little effect, and he now spent several minutes tuning into some conversations. He couldn’t believe his ears. Courtney and her friends were compiling a list of boys’ names and drawing bar graphs. Noise he could tolerate, however obscenity offended something deep in his consciousness. He lurched forward and yelled at the group and told them to continue with the set work. His voice, louder and more urgent this time, drew a few furtive glances in the first rows, and only amusement at the back.

Nevertheless this surprisingly settled things down somewhat. In a one- hour lesson, only half an hour remained. George contemplated asking for quiet to see, as a class together, whether or not they could co-operate enough to discuss the first answers. Then, suddenly, the mood of the classroom changed.
Courtney decided to yell a question at one of the girls she disliked near the back of the room. It was loud, insistent, and received a huge reaction. ‘Charlotte, is it true you….’ His temperament inflamed, George dealt with it quickly. ‘Ok, get out! I’m sick of your disgusting conversations. Your behaviour isn’t good enough for my room. Out now and shut the door after you!’

Courtney did go, arching her spine and walking haughtily towards the door. As she passed George she looked at him steadfastly and repeated a further obscenity. George simply uttered ‘charming’ and to his surprise there was no more than a snigger floating across the floor. It was clear that some sort of mutual moral code had been broken, and over twenty people at that moment agreed that Courtney had to go.
Only a few days here, and already George knew that things were done by telephone at this school. He rang the Deputy Head, Mr P, who had shown him around at the beginning of the week. ‘Yes, yes, I know Courtney, I’ll speak to her myself’.

In the ‘palatial’ surrounds of the staffroom George was delivered the sobering news from seasoned staff members: ‘Forget it. The girls at this school, and especially the pretty ones like Courtney, have Mr P wrapped around their little finger. She’ll say ‘now would I speak like that Mr P?’ and he’ll say ‘Well I hope not, Courtney, that doesn’t sound like you’, and she’ll say ‘Now Mr P you know I’m always a good little girl’ and he’ll say ‘Well I hope I don’t hear any more stories about you upsetting your teachers..’
In the circumstances George felt it might be better approaching the Head of Year 10. He didn’t want the little vixen in his class again without an apology. He told Mr P that this was his preferred option, and it was all sorted out, albeit rather haphazardly. “Oh, alright, I’ll take your class then, but I can only give you fifteen minutes!”

George met the Year 10 Head in rather unfortunate circumstances in the corridor near her office some twenty minutes later. “Are you the teacher that I’ve been told I’m having a meeting with period five? Well thanks very much, that’s my only spare for the entire day.”

Her office was, to put it simply, a mess. The school had in place a system in which teachers would make a report about student misconduct on either blue or pink forms: blue was for the more mild transgressions, and pink was used for more serious classroom breaches of discipline. George had filled in a pink form for the incident with Courtney earlier. There were a few blue forms scattered on top of the Head’s filing cabinet. For the pink forms, there was a large pile. George estimated about forty or fifty. Books about accounting and legal studies were lying on the dirty shagpile floor, and a spectacular poster advertising Cumbria was wrinkled and coming away from the wall. A cheap desktop calendar displayed ‘June 30’ which was a Friday about three months ago.

The Head, herself, was hardly a sight to inspire. Greasy hair. Tired, bulging eyes. A grimace as she got up to stand beside her desk. And a large mass of fat circling her waist making a wobbling ring. George would feel several emotions whilst he was inside the Head’s office. The first of these was pity.
“Take a look at me. What do you see?”
“Sorry?”
“I’m fat, aren’t I? Look at me. Do you think I’m happy in this job? Do you know how much work I’ve got to do? I won’t even get to have my lunch today. This job’s driving me crazy. Can you tell I’ve let everything go?”

George began to tell the Head she should resign, that it isn’t worth it, when Courtney knocked on the door.
The interview wasn’t going very well- Courtney had her back to George much of the time as the Head asked for assurances of better behaviour. These assurances were so pathetic that George decided he must be firm. He wanted Courtney to sign a statement stipulating that she would only talk in George’s room if she was asked to- by George. After all George ‘couldn’t be confident about what might come out of Courtney’s mouth’. Furthermore, if she broke this necessary rule, George would have no choice but to tell her she must leave.

It seemed that both The Head and Courtney were so anxious for this meeting to end that within a minute or two the form was signed and the meeting was over. As unsatisfactory as the meeting was, Courtney didn’t come to George’s class again after this. So in a sense there was a positive outcome. Not long after George received a blunt letter from Courtney’s mother telling him he was ‘spineless’, or words to that effect. For four more weeks George and Nick Cave made the trip every weekday morning and evening. Then it all came to an end when another window opened in Gloucestershire, which offered a much sunnier and all ‘round more pleasant vista.


                                                   

Why Is Life Worth Living?

‘Why is life worth living? That’s a very good question. There are certain things that make it worthwhile.’ So says Woody Allen in a typically self-indulgent- yet brilliant- scene in ‘Manhattan.’ So if Woody Allen can be self-indulgent, then I can, again. First here’s Woody Allen (as Isaac):


'Life is worth living because of Groucho Marx; Willie Mays; the second movement of the Jupiter Symphony; Louis Armstrong's recording of Potato-head Blues; Swedish movies; Sentimental Education by Flaubert; Marlon Brando; Frank Sinatra; those incredible apples and pears by Cézanne; the crabs at Sam Wo's; and, of course, Tracy's face.’

A nice selection, and I can see where he’s coming from. For what it’s worth here’s mine (leaving aside obvious family connections).

For me life is worth living because of ‘Van Morrison asking “Can you feel the silence?”, Colm Toibin’s prose, catharsis in the films of Mike Leigh, Shropshire and Yorkshire in England, running in the warm winter along the sands of the beach at Port Douglas, Vincent Van Gogh’s letters, the sweet tenderness in the short story ‘Snowdrops’ by Leslie Norris, the Villa Mirenda outside Florence, Kelmscott Manor, my collection of D H Lawrence books and dreams of living in the countryside surrounded by lambs, calves, ducks and border collies.

Saturday Reflections

I DREAD these public transport days on occasional weekends, especially train trips. I have never enjoyed train rides, probably connected to some hostile experiences at night on trains when I was younger. Sometimes it can be quite interesting though. Recently I had with me a National Geographic that contained an article about Amelia Earhart that was fascinating, and completely absorbed me until the train trundled slowly into Flinders St Station. I found out that she once travelled in her plane during a storm in which visibility was almost non-existent. It must have taken incredible bravery. They say she wasn’t the best pilot, male or female, of her time. But maybe she was the most ambitious and most courageous.


Last weekend the trip was in mid-afternoon from Preston to the city. I read the opening chapters of Alex Miller’s novel ‘Journey To The Stone Country.’ It didn’t grab me all that much but at least the time went quickly enough, so I must have been reasonably absorbed. I have read quite a bit of Alex Miller. I once wrote to him when he lived in Carlton about ‘Conditions of Faith’, his 2000 novel which is one of the best books I have ever read. I don’t like his other books nearly as much, although several are still very good. I am partly seduced by the Chartres Cathedral sections, where some of the significant action takes place. It is my favourite cathedral in the world. I love how you can see it on your approach for miles- how it totally dominates the town. How many lives have been directly influenced by it, whether involved in building it, maintaining it, working in it, or merely visiting it? There must be people who live in Chartres or its environs who visit it every day, and know all its intricacies. I find it fascinating that writers visit places (like film people looking for film locations) obsessively so they get to know the place intimately, in order to cover it faithfully in their stories. Much like Colm Toibin visited Henry James’ Lamb house many times for the relevant sections in The Master.’ Miller knew Chartres Cathedral well to write his novel.

The purpose of my trip to the city on Saturday was to meet Alex Miller, for the first time (oh, and to get him to sign some of my books). But first there was another train journey, this time to Glenferrie Station, to take me to a book launch at Hawthorn Readings, on Glenferrie Road. I didn’t feel like reading as much, so I observed this time. Sitting diagonally opposite me was a young couple, probably both about 18. They weren’t interesting per se, just really into each other and looking out the window, and pointing a lot as if it was the first time they had caught a train ride through the inner suburbs. He had pale skin and blonde hair, good looking in a classical Rupert Brooke private school style, a bit like the boy who is the object of interest in the film version of ‘Death In Venice.’ She was also blonde and tall and thin like Twiggy. Sitting opposite them was a middle aged man, probably mid-40’s, and he found them- her in particular- fascinating, to the point of rudeness. Even though he was sitting on the adjacent seat and in close proximity, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the young couple. I couldn’t stop looking at him for his brazenness and yet they didn’t appear to even notice him.

The book launch of the new novel, Autumn Laing, was very late. I used my time though. Alex Miller was alone more or less (I was a half hour early), and he looked just like he does on book dust jackets. He wore a yellowish/ green suit jacket and looked preoccupied, maybe a bit overwhelmed. He might be one of those writers who don’t really like being the centre of attention. I walked over, very nervous myself, thinking of that beautiful, beautiful writing. Hand extended, I said ‘I have been wanting to meet you for a long time.’ I received a blank expression. I then went on to tell him I have taught ‘Conditions Of Faith’ before, and explained a couple of the passages that students have written closely on, like Emily returning to the ‘boat hire lady’ for the first time since she was a child. Again, a blank expression, when a smile was what I was expecting. Worse, I then nervously said ‘Conditions Of Faith’ was my favourite book of his. As I said earlier, it was written in 2000. So if you think about it, I am more or less saying that his eight or nine subsequent novels aren’t as good. Whoops. I didn’t get far with Alex Miller, but to his credit I was bumbling along not making a lot of sense, and he was understandably preoccupied.

There was a good hour after that before his publisher from Allen & Unwin had something to say. I was surrounded by strangers but I went up and introduced myself to some people. There were people who live in Miller’s home town of Castlemaine who were friendly. One man didn’t seem to know his novels terribly well, but he has a coffee with him every Saturday morning so I guess that’s pretty good. Another man I soon discovered is the Head of Art at La Trobe, Bendigo. He has written several books- ‘coffee table books’ he described them- and he talked about the writing process, and that writers don’t make much from their books- it’s the prize money that makes money for you, if you are good enough. Finally, and it was interesting, drifting from person to person- a man who is head of www.materialthinking.com , a website I have looked at since and can’t make a lot of sense of. I was curious to meet him because he and his partner had earlier given Alex Miller a huge hug.

But the highlight was Stephanie Miller. I introduced myself and told her how lucky she is to have a book like Conditions of Faith dedicated to her. He showed her bits and pieces as he was writing it. The beautiful Sophie, from the convent in Chantilly, evidently is based on his mother. Stephanie Miller was kind enough to write down their address in Castlemaine on a piece of paper.

I felt light headed as I caught a train back to the city around tea time. Some of the Caulfield Cup crowd was on the train. I watched a group of about five people, all around sixteen, seventeen, all dressed immaculately in suits with expensive looking jewellery. What caught my eye was a Japanese boy, with flashy, flamboyant dyed blonde hair, very sculptured, wearing black boots, black suit, very sophisticated for his age, he could have been in the new film ‘Norwegian Wood.’ His friends or associates were a bit like him as well, and the whole atmosphere of the train was a bit Caulfield Cup like, if you know what I mean.

I was walking around the city for a good hour, killing time until an engagement, walking past an amusement game shop, one of those dirty, tacky ones in Bourke Street, when lo and behold! There inside I discovered the Japanese group from on the train. And what’s more, they were really into some stupid, simulated game, stamping their feet and carrying on, and suddenly these sophisticates looked like a bunch of kids. Very amusing. I really read them wrong.

This was a great day for great conversations. I wandered into a nondescript DVD shop. There on display were all the best foreign language titles you could ever wish for. Lots of Bergman, Bertolucci, whoever it was that made ‘A Short Film About Killing’, etc and lots of Russian titles. I bought ‘Moloch’, directed by Sokurov. I got into conversation with the owner, and discovered that he too has seen almost every Bergman film. We agreed that ‘Scenes From A Marriage’ was close to our favourite.

So the night more or less finished with meeting a special friend I haven’t seen for ages. We drank outside The Elephant & Wheelbarrow. We go back quite a long way, but we only talked about current things, not much about the past. It was a lovely way to finish off a highly stimulating day.

The train ride home was dull, but safe. I continued reading Alex Miller, with fresh eyes because at last I have met him.

Following is a letter I wrote to Alex Miller back in 2005, which he kindly replied to.




December 31 2005

Dear Alex,



I felt inspired to write you a quick letter after spending the afternoon yesterday totally ignoring the cricket and reading ‘Prochownik’s Dream’ instead. I received the book as a present and took it with me to my sister-in-law’s house. We are minding their home whilst they are on holidays- she has air-conditioning. The house is around the corner from Bridge Road- this unforeseen connection with your novel enhanced my enjoyment of it.

I teach Literature at a school near Melbourne. During the past three years I have taught Conditions of Faith as one of the texts- a hugely enjoyable experience for me and my students. I am especially drawn towards it because Chartres Cathedral is one of my favourite places in the world- I love making connections between novels and places I have seen. Another example of its type is Lincoln Cathedral and its importance in The Rainbow. We have had a lovely time with Conditions of Faith as I have said, my students amused by my attraction towards Sophie. I think that some of the best passages are those involving Sophie and Emily.

Now that my wife J is pregnant, this time the novel held more meaning for me, and I am pleased to say that J is far more sensible than Emily in these matters. And as far as I know there wasn’t any clandestine meeting with strangers in her case- perhaps I will learn otherwise when the baby is born in three weeks time!



Getting back to your newest novel, this held resonance for me as well. I mentioned that I read it here in Richmond, which is where I spend a lot of time because of family connections. There were a lot of references to Mount Macedon. This is where a close friend lived until they sold their house near Waterfalls Rd in 1998, and it is where the two of us first met in 1993, at The Mountain Inn. I also enjoyed the reference to Beverley Farmer. Do you know her? She is someone that I exchange emails with- we are both members of the D H Lawrence Society, and we share an interest in lots of writers and artists.

The two novels I have read of yours are both full of ideas, and both have left me asking lots of questions about life and of myself. I found it interesting that you have created two people who are so alike in lots of ways- I am referring here to Emily and Toni. They are both so driven by what interests them- research and painting- and their intensity means that there is a huge impact on their personal lives. Both Emily and Toni find it virtually impossible to chase their dream and be able to include and sustain their partner and their daughter. In both cases it seems their work and their dream are ultimately too important for them to compromise, even at the expense of their own family. It makes me think of all those writers and musicians and artists out there who don’t forsake their relationships, thereby compromising, and becoming mediocre as a result. Living alone and apart, like Vincent Van Gogh, means you can thrive in your work because your work has priority, and yet you miss out on other good things so much, too, as he acknowledges so much.

A great contrast in your two novels lies in the characters of Georges and Teresa. Both these people are frustrated and are scared to death that their respective marriage is going to collapse. They make little concessions of their own to try and ride out the time during their partner’s obsession. The way in which they deal with the ultimate collapse is so different. I am glad that you didn’t make Teresa passive, like Georges. It gave me an opportunity to see what you are like when you are writing about someone with anger and violence in them, and it was so melodramatic compared to Georges’ quiet acceptance of discovering that Emily is leaving him around the time of the jazz concert.

Well I am sweltering in the backyard in my little study/ bungalow surrounded by all my books and pictures and posters. I will finish now and say that I hope this letter has somehow reached you. Prochownik’s Dream will stay with me for a long time like Conditions of Faith has. I can see that Toni, like Emily, has great ambition and hope for his work, and that it goes beyond what his friend, Andy wants, and that is making lots of money.



I will finish with a couple of little questions-



a) Where can I get a book or a poster of Chartres Cathedral for my study?

b) Does The Red Hat really exist?

c) Have you spent time yourself in Mt Macedon and is ‘Plovers’ there?

If you get time to respond I would love to hear from you.



Yours, Darren Harrison

norwegian wood (not the song, or the book, but the film)

NORWEGIAN WOOD (dir: Tran Anh Hung), was long and good to look at but I didn't find it particularly engaging. The settings were beautiful- lots of wintry landscapes of snow and rain, beautifully lit interiors- and the actors were nice to look at- the male lead handsome and young with a soft face, a nice freckle on his nose- the young women beautiful as well with young faces and nice hair and lovely expressions. The dialogue was simple and easy to follow. The music was nice to listen to. I especially loved hearing the beautiful Doors song 'Indian Summer', even though it was suddenly cut off. One of the women sang 'Norwegian Wood' on a little guitar, and it was beautiful and simple, and of course 'The Beatles' did it as well at the end.



One of the women gets sick when her boyfriend kills himself. She moves to a retreat in the middle of a beautiful Japanese landscape. She ends up killing herself too, but not until about two hours into the film. The male lead kind of has to choose between this woman with all the psychological problems, and another beautiful young woman who is sort of is and sort of isn't available, so it's very difficult for him.

I kept thinking that Bergman would have done something much better with the script which meandered around and around and didn't go very far- possibly handicapped by the fact that it is based on a novel- and he would have had better dialogue (it was very vacuous at times), and he wouldn't have worried about the beautiful settings, because his script and actors would have been able to sustain something great without it. Maybe I'm getting old, but all the young people talking about erections and periods and so on didn't particularly interest me.

So I was glad when the film finally ended, even though everything about it was easy on the eye.

                                                                

On A Whim, A Letter To Pauline

Dear Pauline,


I hope all is well with you and Simon. It’s been almost ten years that I finished at Maidstone Girls’ Grammar School, and J finished at Maidstone Hospital. I’ve been thinking about England a lot, but no more than usual. I still miss it terribly and what a beautiful year J and I spent in Maidstone in 2001.

I still remember arriving at Bearsted Station in the pouring rain, then to be met by Simon. I felt a tingling excitement to be in England at last. It was getting late if I recall correctly, and in the morning I will never forget sitting in your conservatory, cradling the thick ‘villages of Britain’ book on my lap, searching hungrily for information about little Kent villages, noticing Leeds (which was close by),  and Edenbridge in particular.

I have such a fondness for little details about our stay that I will never forget. Playing games with your two beautiful cats on the stairs. Walking with gum boots in the expansive back yard  with grey skies overhead. Seeing Simon in his workshop and going to see films at the cinema in Maidstone. We were even going to the gym regularly then. And those great day visits to places like Chartwell and Sissinghurst, and Marden to see Caroline and the kids.

                                                        

And of course teaching at MGGS which has been the best year I have ever had as a teacher because the students were wonderful and the school was run in such a supportive, civilised fashion which you do not often experience.

It is early as I write and I woke this morning with the urge to get something down, because my dreams were filled with England last night. A lot of the time I was standing by a harbour or a beach in some undisclosed place that could have been Cornwall. I was alone and watching the dark waves crash violently, as in ‘Break, Break, Break’ by Alfred Tennyson. The sky was pale and my emotions were surging. I felt like the figure in ‘Monk By The Sea’ in the picture by Caspar David Friedrich.

                             


I hope we will all see each other again soon. Well before it becomes twenty years, at any rate.

Much love, DH XXX

Notes:

- Leeds, Kent is where Leeds Castle is. Van Morrison played a gig there about two months before we left.
- Edenbridge, Kent is where D H Lawrence used to visit not long after his marriage to Frieda. He stayed in a house called The Cearne, owned by his mentor Edward Garnett who played a big role in Lawrence's earliest publications and became an early editor.
- Chartwell, as in the principal home of Churchill and his wife from 1922.
- Sissinghurst, as in the fabulous garden and property owned by Vita Sackville-West and her husband Harold Nicolson from 1930.
- 'Monk By The Sea', Caspar David Friedrich, 1809 (German Romanticism) - all about, it seems to me, how small we are in the vast Universe- just one tiny grain of sand.

Restaurants, in general.

ON Father's Day we all went to Chinatown for yum cha. I've been wanting to have it for ages. When I was a teenager I went to a Chinese restaurant with mother, and it was a wonderful experience. All I remember is special flavoured dim sims and spring rolls and other curiosities. Not the best restaurant experience I've ever had- that would be in 1979 when, after seeing King Kong with a friend from school and his parents, I had spaghetti bolognaise for the first time in St Kilda. But a lovely memory nonetheless.

These days I take my children to 'The Spaghetti Tree' once a year. Hopefully they will grow up remembering our sweet times. I like the idea of a yearly ritual. We sit by the window and watch people and order the same thing, at the same table. The idea of everything being the same pleases me. The first time, as soon as we finished the meal- the second we put the fork down- my eldest daughter, who is still young, said nonchalantly 'can we go home now?!'



When I left school I went to a lot of restaurants. Our group either went to see a band, a film, or we went to a restaurant. It felt like a very adult, fun thing to do. I had meal after meal after meal of disappointing dishes. In fact, I garnered a reputation amongst my friends for ordering nasty dishes. Instead of saying ‘what’s your soup like, or what’s your meal like?’, they would say ‘how crap is your spaghetti?’, or ‘how crap is your steak?’ I remember at Mt Macedon once ordering pea soup. And that’s what I got. A bowl of watery liquid filled with thousands of little soft scungy green peas. It was disgusting, and of course everybody laughed.

In the late 70’s I discovered whole snapper or whole trout, and these dishes were often wonderful, but unless I ordered fish, it would usually be a disaster. It got to the stage where I would occasionally send a meal back. Or if the owner of waiter said ‘how was your meal sir?’, I would start being honest and say that it was disappointing, usually with a reason why. Maybe there wasn’t enough vegetables, or the sauce didn’t taste homemade- when I think of it, I’ve become pretty fussy. As bad as my meals have become over the years, I haven’t quite had the experience that customers in Basil Fawlty’s restaurants have had. Two old ladies have an awful piece of steak and decide they want to cut their losses and get out of there. So one asks Sybil if they can skip dessert. It’s too late she tells them, ‘chef’s just opened the tin!’

So going back to the yum cha restaurant that I was referring to at the start. Yes, another disastrous experience. The restaurant is called ‘Westlake Chinese Restaurant’ and it is in Little Bourke Street. It was packed and the four of had to wait a little while to be seated. The first thing I noticed was a few huge fish tanks on the right with large docile looking fish swimming around and around. There were two large nets at the end of wooden poles leaning against one of the tanks. It was one of those situations that have always made me feel sick in which the customer can point to the fish he/ she would like, and the poor thing is whisked upstairs to be boiled alive. Yes, the web site refers ominously to ‘Choose from a variety of live seafood from the Aquariums.’



Those little yum cha trolleys starting coming around, but there wasn’t any echo of childhood yum cha with mother. I didn’t recognize any of the dishes, except for one called ‘chicken’s feet’ (gross). After passing on a number of choices, it began to look a bit silly so I said yes to a couple. The food was edible, but only just, and very expensive. A little plate of a few slices of strange looking pieces of beef cost $11. We left early, but not before we tasted four dishes, for about forty bucks. And that was without drinks. We then moseyed on down to somewhere safer in the Queen Victoria precinct, had better food, and spent about half the money.

So not a great Father’s Day dining experience- yum cha never again- but not the worst dining experience I have ever had. This title belongs to a dreadful place called ‘Don’t Tell Tom Bar and Cafe’ in Sydney Road Brunswick. I won’t even bother writing about the experience- I’ll just add the letter I wrote instead, which, I think, says it all. I will never be able to listen to my favourite album, ‘Astral Weeks’ the same way again!




Don’t Tell Tom Bar and Café

420 Sydney Rd Brunswick 3056



Sunday, April 13



To Whom It May Concern,



My wife and I came into your eating house during the song ‘Ballerina’ by Van Morrison, and left after the whole of Astral Weeks had been played again, and some more.



We waited some considerable time for what one would loosely describe as a bowl of soup and some chips and some watery orange juice.



None of the waiting staff came over at any stage to tell us why things were taking so long. This, despite the fact that there were a large number of them, sitting around and eating, and looking extremely lazy.



My wife eventually walked to the bar to enquire as to the whereabouts of the food- miraculously it was just coming. When it arrived, the chips were ok but the soup was inedible (pumpkin & coriander, recommended by the waitress!) and two pieces of cold, dry and hard toast.



We weren’t asked what we thought of the food, but duly paid the bill of $18.00 for crap food that took an eternity to arrive.



On the way home my wife found a spinach and cheese pie that took one minute to make, cost $2.00 and was infinitely more tasty.



My recommendation- have a stern word with your waiting staff, an even sterner word with the chef and oh, by the way, vacuum your carpet.



One * out of 5, and that’s for the Van Morrison music.



Darren,



rananim@hotmail.com

How Has Keith Richards Managed To Stay Alive For So Long?

JUST finished Keith Richards' autobiography- 'LIFE'- aptly named because it is a fascinating one. I've never had a lot of interest in Keith Richards. I like The Rolling Stones, but nowhere as near an attraction for them as ,say, The Beatles or The Doors. I would have looked at the photos in the book if I saw it on a table in Readings, but would never have bought it. So it was with marginal interest that I agreed to take it home when a music teacher friend of mine lent it to me last month.


                                                                       

I'm glad I did take it home because it's been a fun read, especially good for that period between 9:00 and 10:00 at night when the television is junk as usual. Richards is a good writer, and he captures your attention from the start by avoiding the usual 'crap' David Copperfield opening that Holden Caulfield despised. Instead he takes us to Fordyce, early seventies, deep in the south of the United States, 'hillbilly country' a'la Easy Rider. An amusing account of trouble with the law and trouble with the locals. Fordyce and a drug laden Keith Richards and Co make an interesting combination. Apparently there were even drugs hidden inside the panels of their car.

Richards doesn't hold back with sections of his book involving tense periods with Mick Jagger, the expected encounters with female fans, a monotonous multitude of drug-related stories, and relationships with Anita Pallenberg, the making of songs and records, and the regard he has for many mostly black musicians.

He desribes the emergence of the Stones in an interesting passage, in which in 1963 he realised they had something when their crowds were getting bigger and riots were occuring at their concerts. Fans weren't listening to songs. Ordinary singing and guitar playing went unnoticed. The entry and in particular the exit strategy became the most complex and troublesome event of each gig.

I always thought for some reason The Beatles and The Rolling Stones were major adversaries and had little involvement with each other, but apparently I am wrong. There is a lovely passage in which Paul McCartney makes a series of visits to Keith Richards' home in the early 90's. They discuss amongst other things the old days and I am sure there would have been a lot of respect for each other. The Rolling Stones admired The Beatles for their harmonies and sheer songwriting abilities. The Beatles in turn admired the Stones for their refusal to compromise and their anti-authority atttude. It disgusted Keith Richards that The Rolling Stones became more and more mainstream, especially the greatest insult of all when Mick Jagger became 'Sir Mick.'

Brian Jones also features prominently until his death, and Richards continually pays out on him for his arrogance and insecurities. Mick Jagger cops it a lot for his insecurities as well. Richards felt that Mick didn't like it when Keith formed strong bonds with male friends like Gram Parsons. And he is scathing of Mick's solo ventures as well.

All up it is a riveting read. But I come away from it, not with a lot of admiration for somebody who has had a huge number of drugs and a fair share of sex as well. But I guess for his bold as brass telling of an interesting story, and his unconventional and enigmatic approach to life. Much the same probably as someone like Jim Morrison. However he died at 27. So how has Keith Richards managed to stay alive for so long?