le Tour and le Ashes

It's Tour de France time, and as usual SBS is embracing it and giving it a very continental double cheek kiss.

For your enjoyment, every Australian's favorite frog, Gabriel Gate, gives his now regular gastronomic tour. I have a few of Gabriel's cookbooks, and while they're excellent, they don't allow me to hear his fabulous accent, so his Taste le Tour spot is just that bit better. I have onions sauteing as I type for the pissaladière. Won't be doing anything good to my breath, but I'm not too concerned!

I like to catch up with the Tour highlights every night, but I have to admit that I don't really follow the race itself. I enjoy the spectacle of so many men on cycles bunched together like that. It's suspenseful. Any minute they could go down in a spectacular heap. Once one goes down, that's it for anyone but the most fortunate. The bikes look so spindly and slight. And the men themselves do if you really look at them. And those outfits; that's part of the interest. I live at the foot of a so-called mountain that attracts cyclists from all over town. They look quite hilarious in their tight little outfits, but during the Tour that's the standard! One of the few places in the world you're not risking a beating by venturing out in public in an outfit that is little more modest than paint.

Image from Britain's Daily Mail

The other thing I love seeing is the French countryside. Generally if I'm watching I'm looking over the cyclists' shoulders at the vista. I don't get sick of that.


These days the first thing the Tour de France brings to my mind is Kraftwerk. It's my favorite of all their albums, and you can get a little bit of it here.

While we're tuned to SBS, the novelty of them hosting The Ashes isn't wearing off any time soon. Cricket on telly without having to suffer Tony Greig or Bill Lawry, or the strangeness of having the radio on and the television turned down! No limited edition autographed prints for sale for several hundred dollars! No Tubby Taylor and his inanity! Wonderful! Stuart McGill is turning out to be an urbane and witty host, too.

Image from SBS

I think it's safe to say that this year's Ashes have made Nathan Hauritz Hervey Bay's most famous son. Poor guy has had a nasty finger dislocation -- his spinning finger, too! -- so will most likely be out for a while, but still. He's one of ours, and we love him for it.

Farewell, Fellows.

It's my second last day at work today — I resigned a few weeks ago — and as I was waiting for my regular 6:39 am bus this morning I felt a sudden surge of sentimental sadness. I've been seeing many of the same people each morning for a year, and this morning I feel as though I'll miss them terribly. I feel I should be saying goodbye, letting them know where I am just so they don't worry.

Bye, cute 50-something obvious smoker. All your lovely waist-length hair is going to fall out once you're on chemo, you know. Try to pack the fags in, won't you? And just so you know, Mandrake-look-alike man with long leather coat, I won't be catching this bus anymore. All the best, eh?

And there's the gorgeous young woman who gets on in Ashgrove, if she's on time. When I do see her she's running across Waterworks Road, barely missing the traffic to get to the bus. I'm guessing the bright red coat she wears was a gift from a concerned friend, so at least drivers can see her darting madly about, and have a chance at dodging her. I really want to know who cuts her hair.




And there's the guy with one arm. He's about my age, and I'm guessing the absence of his arm is due to Thalidomide. I recall seeing Thalidomide-affected kids around when I was young, but I don't notice them grown up and out and about these days.

There's also the guy who combines office and cowboy wear to endearing effect.

And the otherwise quite nice woman who gets on at my stop and manages to inject religion into even the briefest exchange. The insurers didn't repair her roof for around six months after the big storm, and you can see discolouring where the tarp was.

And the high school-aged twins who go to Kelvin Grove, but have to turn up early for orchestra practice. The boy of the pair has a harder time getting out of bed than she does; I hear his sister telling her friend what excuse she's been asked to relay for the day.


Later in my commute, I pass by Woolloongabba bus station, where a Buddhist nun gets on, and a schoolboy aged about nine or so. He's a bit of a misfit; you can just see that he's not one of the cool kids, and is a bit awkward and odd. I like him for that. The nun seems to have taken a bit of a shine to him, and wraps up a smiling conversation as they get on each day. She has that typical peaceful happiness that committed Buddhists often do. As the weather has become more frigid, I've fantasised about making her an arm warmer. She puts heavier fabrics around herself, but her right arm has to make its own way out in the cold. It bothers me. The imaginary arm warmer is a beautiful yarn, soft and warm but not sweaty, and just the right colour. She loves it, but can't wear it because the arm has to stay bare. She likes the gesture anyway, and I'm happy with that.

The commute for me is much more than a means of getting to work. These days I am enslaved to my domestic obligations, and this small amount of time I get two days a week is precious. I can wander off and get a quiet coffee if I feel like it. I can go to the library. I can browse the shoe store. I can do whatever I damn well please, so long as it doesn't take too long. I can't see how I'll get that regular freedom again in the foreseeable future. The commuters I'll forget in just a few weeks; that tiny window of small freedoms will be missed sorely.

Pictures from Creative Commons.