Published The Advocate, February 26, 2005


THE week started in Hobart, a city of many charms and waterfront bars. I was sitting with a beer at Salamanca Place around the corner from where the ALP state office shared the same floor as the Anxiety and Mood Management Clinic, a mutual dependency if ever there was one. It was a bar where the waiter joined in your conversation, uninvited, and where the patrons, concerned about their appearance, believed everyone else was watching them. I was tempted to do a wolf whistle just for the hell of it to see how many girls put their necks out twisting around. A young woman at an outside table was tugging the hair behind her ear and making her eyes go big at the bloke sitting across from her. She was animated - no, more than that … she was being theatrical, using her hands to swipe and chop the air to emphasise points. I was enjoying the performance … until she lit up a smoke. Pity. The week ended with a drive to Cradle Mountain, a place of natural enchantment and hardly any smokers. Waiting to buy a $10 walking permit at the information centre, I stood alongside a Japanese woman with a map in her hand. In halting English, she asked the girl behind the counter: ``Where kangwoo?'' The girl explained that the best time to see kangaroos was at dusk. ``Where kangwoo?'' the woman demanded again, seemingly put out by the girl's inability to point exactly to the kangaroos on the map or, better still, to just whistle one up outside. I had come to see Dove Lake under the brow of Cradle Mt. A shuttle bus went from the information centre all the way to the lake but I had been taking notice of the statistics: Tasmania had the highest incidence of heart disease in the nation and the lowest levels of physical activity and we were the most verweight. So I decided to walk the 8.5km to the lake on the boardwalk. The first couple of hundred metres went downhill easy. Then uphill, and up again, and up again. The boardwalk went forever upwards. Soon I regretted not catching the shuttle bus. Late February, the end of summer, and the ground beneath the boardwalk was still soggy and criss-crossed with tea-coloured streams, tannin-stained from the button grass. Giant gum trees lay on their sides, toppled in the last big storm, the root systems so shallow it was a wonder they ever managed to stand up by themselves. I worried about the trees in my backyard. Hundreds of animal droppings littered the boardwalk, a wry commentary on the man-made intrusion in their environment. The walk took about two and a half hours and, sitting on the wind-blown shores of Dove Lake eating a salad roll, I felt exhausted and caught the shuttle bus back to the car. On the drive home I was so whacked that I pulled into a roadside parking area near the Waratah turnoff and had a sleep. I am more of a bar person.

Published The Advocate, February 19, 2005


MORE visitors … I should be paid a commission by Tourism Tasmania.

The latest mob was from Melbourne: Ann and Ken and their four-year-old, Angus.

They wanted to be here for my birthday but I told them to put off the trip because I was too accident-prone around my birthday.

On the big day, a bird smacked into the lounge room window and dropped dead on the balcony. Not a good omen.

Ken and I had an exchange of emails leading up to the visit, which I said was timely because I needed help to eradicate the Argentinian ants, spray the blackberries, build a rock retaining wall and remove the linoleum in the kitchen.

``Amazing,’’ Ken replied, ``Ann is great at all those.’’

He and I sat on the balcony drinking beer as the sun set and we watched Bass Strait change colour every five minutes. We turned our backs on the bloodstain where the bird had dropped dead, and also ignored Ann’s grunts in trying to lift the kitchen lino by herself.

Ken crossed Bass Strait aboard the Spirit with his car while Ann and Angus flew from Melbourne to Launceston for less than $100 return and Ken had picked them up.

I wonder how many people do that? No matter how TT-Line adjusts its fares to capture business, there always seems to be an escape hatch.

Ken said there were a lot of cars with NSW numberplates aboard the Spirit. I had noticed the same thing when I did the crossing.

Ken said he had seen a Falcon station wagon with numberplates announcing ``NSW – Towards 2000’’. We agreed the slogan did not have the same effect now as it did in 1999.

For dinner we had whitebait, which I suspect was poached and I do not mean slow-cooked in a warm liquid. I told Ken that illegal fishing around the Coast was almost as common among blokes as forgetting your wedding anniversary. He understood.

Ann, who wears earrings that look like ceiling fans, is an Adelaide Crows barracker – the Crows having only barrackers, not supporters – while Ken has loyally followed Richmond with gut-twisting agony all his life.

When Angus was born, friends gave him gifts in Richmond’s yellow and black colours: a soft toy footy, baby football booties and a little Tigers beanie.

Fearing the life of Richmond misery that lay ahead for his son, Ken hid the lot.

The problem now, despite Ken’s best efforts, is Angus is at an age where he just loves real tigers and the ``roaarrrr’’ sound they make, so it seems Richmond will be his favourite footy side until he matures more.

Ann, Ken and Angus moved on to Hobart and at the time of writing, the result of last night’s Wizard Cup footy match between Richmond and Collingwood was not known.

Should Richmond win, I expect Ken to call at around 11pm and say: ``Mate, I’ve got that September feeling again.’’

Richmond supporters are sadly deluded dreamers. Carna Cats!