The awaited summer heralds the arrival of luscious mangoes that are now grace the shelves in various markets. Of course, like everything else of late the price tag offers somewhat of a shock, even though the shelves are indeed laden—as costly as $5 per in some places.
Years ago I was asked by a young bloke, never destined to be a gastronome, I should add, what a mango actually tasted like. His mother, only God knows why, would not allow a mango in the house. He thought it might have been something to do with his father’s reaction the fruit—a fetish I suspect later explained in this story.
Defining the elusive flavour of a mango is as futile as trying to describe beauty. An attempt at such might reveal a flavour somewhere between an apricot and a pear. Is it a melange of peach and a banana? Maybe it's more toward sweet melon and an avocado?
I REMEMBER WHEN Armistice Day was commemorated spontaneously, reverently and universally.
As a kid at state (primary) school we were taught about the sacrifice of the soldiers who died in the war to end all wars and assembled at 11.00am to salute the flag, the Union Jack, and have 2 minutes silence with heads bowed.
That was in the 1940’s when there were many veterans of WW1 still among us.
Read more: Armistice Day is Remembrance Day and We Must NEVER FORGET
The Optus Crash in Australia showed the Value of Cash Today's world is awash with electronic money.
But yesterday, much of Australia's electronic money disappeared for up to 14 hours with the crash of the Optus electronic network.
The disruption to business and the community was "immediate and profound". Rail networks, hospital services, retailers and banking were affected.
Naturally this was not helped by babbling politicians waving big sticks.
Shoppers rushed ATM's to get cash for a cup of coffee. Some were unable to pay for meals they had already consumed.
Some time ago a writer to these pages who is a grandmother to a young teenage family, visited her own Mother to catch up for a family get together.
The youngsters were to have a pleasant visit, not only to Grandma, but to be part of a four generation ‘get together.’ Four generations together ...now that is something else and I would venture to suggest that is a fairly rare event in ones greater family.
It should be an occasion to remember well into old age.In fact I am told that they are now up to five generations so let's hope they can get a photograph of that.
It reminded me of my Grandma Boddy.
Read more: Resolve and Character - Are They Things From the Past?
It all started in 1452, when Pope Nicholas V issued the papal bull Dum Diversas addressed to King Alfonso V of Portugal, giving Portugal sovereignty over all non-Christian lands their inhabitants, everywhere.
" We grant to you full and free power ... to invade, conquer, fight, subjugate the Saracens and pagans... wherever established their Kingdoms ,,, and to lead their persons in perpetual servitude "
" I’m buggered ! It has been a great day for me."
The staff had races emulating the Melbourne Cup Day for the patients. One of the nurses was a kiwi and I piped up “we must have more kiwi representation “, Management who were all there frowned as no inmates were taking place. Given a handicap, I finished in front.
A big cheer and excitement was a lot of fun. Like I have written you make your own fun in here.
But what happened here?
" Bugger it’ " was different. Bugger is a word we use quite frequently down under.
" Buggered " means tired. " Bugger it " means " I am tired of it. " ,
Read more: My Life in a Nursing Home - the Ultimate Handicap Race
" The white Western Culture is vastly superior to the other rabble cultures of the world. No wonder those human debris peoples hate the white people so much. "
I read this some time ago and realized that it is more than about time that the White Caucasian peoples of the world stopped their cringing at every brickbat that is thrown at them by the coloured races from Africa and the Middle East.
I have never had a tattoo. Nor am I likely to. I hate pain and am rather partial to my skin colour without feeling the need to change its colour or use it as a canvas for artistic expression.
It seems somehow foreign to me. I am rather appreciative of myself and what I look like and, though I may not be as I wish I appeared to others, I am what I am as Popeye used to say. Because I am an Individual and you can't touch me.
Why are people so eager to get branded these days? Tattoos? Vaccinations? Barcodes? Digital Identities? Why?
Read more: Branded... People are Strange. A Story about Tattoos, Vax and Individualism
Florence Nightingale is well remembered as the founder of a nursing order. She was also revered as a saintly vision by so many suffering and wounded soldiers during the bloody Crimean War of 1845.
From her ministering to the sick by the feeble light of a hurricane lamp, Miss Nightingale became immortalised as, “The lady with the lamp.”
Soyer, on the other hand, was a Frenchman, an author, a flamboyant egocentric, also a culinary genius. So how did these two unlikely souls come together? Perhaps it is not as strange as it first appears.
Read more: The Story of Two People Who Had Simple Solutions to Complex Problems
When I was a lad in Western Australia, the 5th of November used to be an eagerly awaited event.
That was Guy Fawkes Night, commemorating the apprehension in 1605 of conspirators who plotted to blow up the British Parliament and were hanged and quartered.
Just the sort of thing a young Flysa could get excited about.
The Catholic conspirators lead by Fawkes, placed thirty-six barrels of gunpowder in an undercroft beneath the House of Lords in order to assassinate the Protestant King James 1 during the opening of Parliament, and place his young daughter Elizabeth on the throne as a puppet Queen.
When I was a kid, we used to play a game called “ stacks on the mill “. It essentially meant that a kid would lie down and the rest of us would jump on and form a pyramid and chant “ stacks on the mill, more on still “ until the pile of kids collapsed and the poor kid at the bottom of the stack would drag himself or herself out from under the pile of bodies and breathe again.
It was a great game to play – unless you were the poor kid at the bottom of the stack. And I think that we, these days, the normal people, are the poor kid at the bottom of the stack. Let me explain.
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