Our world is getting homogenized. Airports are all the same, shopping malls everywhere are sporting the same labels, and hotels seem to vie for who can be slicker, shiner, glassier - producing just more of the same. So, if you don’t want to have “home” when away from home, to find a place with a sense of place, it takes a bit of effort and skill - Jean supplies both.
Armed with a “Letter of Introduction,” she has us in a cartoon of a old stodgy British club - private of course. The walls festooned with gilt-framed oils, yellowed photos and cases full of tarnished medals - reminders of long dead members and their exploits. Past presidents have letters like DSO, OBE, KB after their names, and “Sir” before - honors supplied by kings named George and a queen named Victoria.
A snooker room, burl paneled phone booths (where one must retire to use one’s mobile phone). Rooms are tiny and bath floors raised to allow the in-suite plumbing to be added in the 20th Century. Everything reeks of old, traditional, custom quality, and a continuance of the values of days gone by. I love it. It brings back memories of Mother’s Victorian culture - a city girl from an Imperial capital. I see the silver sugar bowl at breakfast and have to explain my mirth to Jean by telling Mom’s only “dirty” joke:
The matronly wife of the club’s president finally is forced to breach a delicate complaint to the club manager. The ladies have noticed that the gentleman are coming out of the loo, and then using their fingers to place sugar cubes into their tea. The manager agrees with her suggestion that tongs should be supplied to prevent this unacceptable situation from continuing. Of course, the next day, the fingers were still being employed and she summons the manager in displeasure, demanding to know, “Why haven’t you supplied the tongs I asked for?” He replies in deferential defense, “But I did madam. They are hanging in the men’s room.”
Out the window, we can see Sydney Harbor Bridge - a riveted jumble of iron bars that together takes on the grace of its technological contemporary, the Eiffel Tower. The bridge, the elevated train, the motorway and even this old club, now surround Sydney’s famous central dock, the Circular Quay. None of these were yet built on May 10, 1915, when Granddad and his mates climbed a gangway to board HMAT (His Majesties Australian Transport) Euripides, and steamed away from Australia, bound for British Egypt, the Great War - and Gallipoli.
Their lives, our world, would never be the same.
Armed with a “Letter of Introduction,” she has us in a cartoon of a old stodgy British club - private of course. The walls festooned with gilt-framed oils, yellowed photos and cases full of tarnished medals - reminders of long dead members and their exploits. Past presidents have letters like DSO, OBE, KB after their names, and “Sir” before - honors supplied by kings named George and a queen named Victoria.
A snooker room, burl paneled phone booths (where one must retire to use one’s mobile phone). Rooms are tiny and bath floors raised to allow the in-suite plumbing to be added in the 20th Century. Everything reeks of old, traditional, custom quality, and a continuance of the values of days gone by. I love it. It brings back memories of Mother’s Victorian culture - a city girl from an Imperial capital. I see the silver sugar bowl at breakfast and have to explain my mirth to Jean by telling Mom’s only “dirty” joke:
The matronly wife of the club’s president finally is forced to breach a delicate complaint to the club manager. The ladies have noticed that the gentleman are coming out of the loo, and then using their fingers to place sugar cubes into their tea. The manager agrees with her suggestion that tongs should be supplied to prevent this unacceptable situation from continuing. Of course, the next day, the fingers were still being employed and she summons the manager in displeasure, demanding to know, “Why haven’t you supplied the tongs I asked for?” He replies in deferential defense, “But I did madam. They are hanging in the men’s room.”
Out the window, we can see Sydney Harbor Bridge - a riveted jumble of iron bars that together takes on the grace of its technological contemporary, the Eiffel Tower. The bridge, the elevated train, the motorway and even this old club, now surround Sydney’s famous central dock, the Circular Quay. None of these were yet built on May 10, 1915, when Granddad and his mates climbed a gangway to board HMAT (His Majesties Australian Transport) Euripides, and steamed away from Australia, bound for British Egypt, the Great War - and Gallipoli.
Their lives, our world, would never be the same.
- Sugar-cube Stew
Once a jolly swagman carried his pack
And lived the free life of a rover.
From the Murray's green river to the dusty outback,
He waltzed his Matilda all over.
Then in 1914, his country said, "Son,
It's time you stop ramblin', there's work to be done."
So they pinned up his hat brim, and gave him a gun,
And off he marched to the war.
And the band played "Waltzing Matilda,"
As the ship pulled away from the quay,
Amid all the tears, flag waving, and cheers,
He sailed off for Gallipoli.
From “The Band Played Waltzing Matilda”
by Eric Bogle - Revised with permission
Once a jolly swagman carried his pack
And lived the free life of a rover.
From the Murray's green river to the dusty outback,
He waltzed his Matilda all over.
Then in 1914, his country said, "Son,
It's time you stop ramblin', there's work to be done."
So they pinned up his hat brim, and gave him a gun,
And off he marched to the war.
And the band played "Waltzing Matilda,"
As the ship pulled away from the quay,
Amid all the tears, flag waving, and cheers,
He sailed off for Gallipoli.
From “The Band Played Waltzing Matilda”
by Eric Bogle - Revised with permission
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