Janet Gogerty's Blog: Sandscript - Posts Tagged "western-australia"

SERVER NOT FOUND, words guaranteed to strike dread in the hearts of anyone expecting to go on line in the next few seconds. When I saw those words I tried every device in the house, only to get the same answer. I did not need to go on the internet, it was a catching up with housework day. At least we hadn’t had a power cut; electricity not WiFi was all that was needed to work the washing machine, vacuum cleaner and most importantly the radio, the only companion that makes chores bearable.
So why was I experiencing medium levels of stress, anxiety and restlessness? First cause was the question Why? Obviously the Internet works by magic, but what had broken the spell and would the magic ever return?
Second worry; I was due to Skype family in Australia early the next morning.
Third problem; I needed to update my website with the next episode of the serial.
Finally came the hollow panic: what was I missing while off line? Would I be the last relative to put a sad emoticon on Facebook if a baby wasn’t well or if someone was in casualty? Were there any important e-mails?

There was a time when I wasn’t on Facebook or Skype, further back I didn’t have an e-mail address. There is a telephone in the house attached to a land line, which at some stage beams up to a satellite. I could just phone Australia. Anybody could phone me if there was an emergency. I could get on with writing my novel on Microsoft Word, if I ever finished the housework. So why was I still anxious?

When the long suffering Cyberspouse came home from work he did not realise the gravity of the situation, commenting calmly that Virgin was probably ‘down’. However, he decided he would unplug the router and plug it in again. Instantly, messages and Whatsapps pinged into our mobile phones. Facebook lit up the large screen of my desk top computer. I was delighted, proof indeed that the internet works by magic. The way to restore it is by a magic spell that I cannot perform; the internet has to be switched off and on by someone who is not a technophobe and who is totally uninterested in social media.

I was late cooking dinner that evening because I had to check all my multi media connections. And what had I missed? I was in time to see sunset pictures from Facebook photographer friends and to sign a petition to save a cow swimming in the harbour after escaping from a live export ship in Fremantle Port, Western Australia.

Of course I am not a Facebook Fanatic. After several years of being blissfully without a mobile phone I now have my first (third hand ) Smart phone and with it comes the security of knowing I can check Facebook while I am out to make sure I’m not missing anything. Also I can take photographs with my phone and post them, so that Facebook friends do not miss anything I’m doing out in real life.

Read about what can go wrong on Facebook in two stories in my anthology Dark and Milk ‘You Have One Friend’ and ‘Friend Request’
https://www.amazon.com/Dark-Milk-Jane...

Catch up with the Friday Serial at my website
http://www.ccsidewriter.co.uk/chapter...

There is only one event certain to happen during the Christmas season, the winter solstice; the December solstice is a moment that will occur at 10.44 GMT on December 21st this year. But for those of us who are not scientists it just means the shortest day; 7 hours 49 minutes and 41 seconds in Britain. While the shops are crowded with shoppers, others will flock to Stonehenge; the prehistoric monument is carefully aligned on a sight-line that points to the winter solstice sunset.
People were celebrating at this time of year long before some spin doctor had the brilliant idea of tacking Christmas on to Yueltide. Apart from the weather, Christmas is what we make it and after all the media and commercial hype, when Christmas Day finally arrives it is centred on the home, each family creates its own traditions.

For those of us who had a happy childhood Christmas remains in our memories as a time of heady excitement; dark winter days brightened with nativity plays, school parties and candlelit churches. There was one traumatic experience that dulled the excitement when I was seven. At school we were told to write a letter to Father Christmas, the girl sitting in front of me turned round and said ‘What’s the point of writing to Father Christmas when he doesn’t really exist?’ I tried to appear nonchalant, I was not going to admit my ignorance, but I was devastated. As soon as I got home from school I asked my mother if it was true; my last hopes were dashed and she swore me to secrecy, not to spoil it for my younger siblings. I soon recovered, the Christmas atmosphere remained and there was still the thrill of presents to unwrap.

When I was eleven we emigrated to Western Australia; our arrival was in October, we moved to our new house in December and my childhood Christmases disappeared forever. This was not the fault of Australia or my parents; I was growing up, the dark mystery of winter days was replaced by bright sunshine, we knew nobody, there were no gift bearing relatives visiting and my parents’ budget was tight. But by the following year Christmases were settling into a new pattern and we acquired family friends to celebrate with.

My first Christmas away from home, when I was nineteen, came about when my best friend and I planned a six week summer holiday trip across Australia, inveigling a mutual friend to share the driving and his car across the Nullabor Plain. She assured me her relatives in South Australia would be delighted to have the three of us for Christmas and indeed they were very welcoming. A collection of aunts and uncles had orchards and shops. On the first morning of our stay my two friends were commandeered to take one of the aunts to hospital with a miscarriage, I was left behind to look after her young children who I had never met before. More relatives arrived and unbeknown to us they had spotted a freezer that didn’t work properly in uncle’s shop, they warned each other not to eat the chicken. A very pleasant Christmas Day was followed by food poisoning on Boxing Day.

Events in our lives are marked by where we spend Christmas. When I was twenty I arrived at Heathrow Airport at six o’clock on Christmas morning, for a six month working holiday that stretched into infinity. The airport was huge and deserted, but by some miracle I found my way to the waiting relatives; back at their home I saw colour television for the first time.

Over the years there have been very different Christmases; in one town we had too much food with one family on Christmas Day, then a Boxing Day with the other family who didn’t appear to have any food in the house; we went out searching for food, but all the shops were shut. One year the longed for white Christmas arrived when we were staying in the countryside, we enjoyed ploughing across the fields and sitting by a blazing fire, but the rest of the house was freezing.

If you have access to children Christmas feels more real and we had a few years with four generations, though children are a risk as well, they are liable to be sick all over great aunt’s sofa.
Christmas is something to be ignored and got through for some people, while for others it brings enormous stress as they juggle extended families. But it would seem strange for the year to peter out devoid of any celebrations.

For writers Christmas provides plenty of plot possibilities.
My novel ‘Quarter Acre Block’ is inspired by our family’s experience. https://www.amazon.co.uk/Quarter-Acre...
In the ‘Brief Encounters’ trilogy the characters enjoy three very different Christmases. https://www.amazon.co.uk/Brief-Encoun...

We have been dipping into the Commonwealth Games, literally on my part as swimming is one of the few sports with a chance of grabbing my attention; it’s easy to understand the rules and it’s mercifully short. To add interest, unlike the Olympics, Cyberspouse and I are on different teams. The United Kingdom is split asunder into England, the Kingdom of Scotland, the Principality of Wales and the Province of Northern Island.

Alongside the big names such as Canada and Australia, this year’s host, are tiny countries and islands we may never have heard of, but these are the ‘Friendly Games’ and the crowd love to cheer the valiant competitor coming in three laps behind everyone else in the relay. Also adding to the feel good factor has been the total integration of paralympians for the first time.

I like swimming, I love swimming in the sea, in rivers, lakes and heated swimming pools. In a previous incarnation we were nearing the end of a training course and waiting to see where we might be posted. For some reason I can’t recall, perhaps to do with our welfare, we were being interviewed by a person. What were my interests and hobbies, this person asked and I was stumped for an answer; competitive sport was not my thing, writing I had not taken seriously yet, dressmaking sounded boring, youth hostelling, walking vague, gardening was out of the question for a good few years to come. I heard myself say swimming. Swimming for leisure I meant and was horrified to hear a few weeks later that I had been put down for swimming races at Chrystal Palace.

I admire the swimmers in races. I know the few minutes or less the race takes is in contrast to the hours and years spent to reach international competition. Even more I am fascinated by their elegant dives, tumble turns and sleek powering through the glittering blue water. If I was there on the starting block I would be sure to take off seconds too soon or too late. In the backstroke race, as the other swimmers let go of the rails and propel themselves into a graceful arc, I would splash water into my nose and mouth and have to cling to the side spluttering to recover. Swimming is purely for fun, to cool off on a hot day and hopefully to save oneself or someone else in an emergency. Training and competitions have never held any attraction. Luckily when I turned up at Chrystal Palace I was only reserve and never entered the water.

I did not learn to swim till I was nearly twelve. I loved the water, but my activities were confined to paddling in the sea and wading in Frensham Ponds while my parents looked on, fully clothed and with blankets over their knees if it was the seaside. When we emigrated to Australia I was too embarrassed to tell the children at school I couldn’t swim. After one experience of the beach and Indian Ocean our parents decided to stick to the river. I kept splashing up and down till one day I started floating.

My novel Quarter Acre Block is inspired by my family’s experience of emigrating to Western Australia; it is not autobiographical, but the Palmer family, like mine, arrive for their new life unable to swim.
Read about the novel and my family’s own story at my website.
https://www.ccsidewriter.co.uk/chapte...