MLK

how do you feel mr james earl ray

when you recall that april day

do you laugh, or cry
(or feel anything)

at the waste
the loss
the death
 of martin luther king?

anon

There's still some debate as to whether James Earl Ray actually pulled the trigger. He was never tried. He pleaded guilty before trial and was sentenced to 99 years (this was increased to 100 years when Ray escaped from prison and was recaptured). He recanted his confession, said his lawyer badly advised him and fought for the right to stand trial. Later he took - and failed - a polygraph test. A televised 'mock' trial led King's family to conclude that there was a conspiracy and that Ray was innocent. A civil case awarded damages to the King family against someone other than Ray. In 2000 the US Department of Justice investigated the claims and concluded that there was no evidence to support the 'conspiracy argument'.

Ray died in prison of liver failure. This was the result of Hepatitis C contracted following a blood transfusion that he needed after being stabbed in prison.

Martin Luther King was assassinated at 6.01pm on the balcony of room 306 on the second floor of the Lorraine Motel in Memphis, Tennessee.

James Earl Ray was arrested two months later at Heathrow Airport. He was travelling on a false Canadian passport. Ray was trying to get to white-ruled Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe). It is not disputed that Ray was an extreme racist, nor that he owned a gun identical to the one that was used to kill MLK. Ballistics testing on the gun and the bullet was 'inconclusive'.

Paraphrasing or selectively quoting Martin Luther King is always a dangerous thing. His words tend to call for more than the increasingly modern trend towards 'sound-biting'. But as this is a blog and time and the attention spans of both bloggers and bloggees are notoriously short, I'll give it a go. In a speech earlier in 1968 MLK, eerily talking about his own funeral and how he might want people to remember him, said:

'I want you to say that I tried to love and serve humanity'.

I don't think there's any doubt about that.

When I think of those people who have been assassinated who did so much but were likely to have done so much more, I think mainly of John F Kennedy, John Lennon and, of course, MLK.

Martin Luther King won the Nobel Peace Prize in 1964, aged just 35.

Martin Luther King. Died on April 4th 1968. He was 39.

Men & the big tearjerkers, like Toy Story 3 in 3D.

I don’t mind a good cry. 

There I said it. I’ll probably regret saying it but who cares. It’s 2012 and metrosexual is the word of the moment. 

I don’t mind a jolly good cry.

Having made this shocking confession I have to admit that I do tend to cry at very odd moments. I didn’t cry at that magical moment that Pearl popped into the world. I’ve got no idea why I didn’t. I’d been fully expecting to burst into tears as soon as Picky started pushing and to continue through most of the action. 

But nope, it wasn’t to be. I even checked in the mirror in the delivery room to see if I might actually be crying without realising it. Nothing. Nada. The peepers were dry as a bone.

And they stayed that way until the nurse had swaddled Pearl in a hospital towel and passed the pink, blue and yellow-striped bundle of newborn baby to Eileen who was lying, exhausted, in bed. I sat on the edge of the bed next to my two girls and promptly started to blubber. 

Sitting there on that bed in that delivery room next to Picky and my swaddled daughter (aged five minutes), who was sleeping soundly in my girlfriend’s arms, I was suddenly overcome with the emotion - and the enormity - of what had just happened. 

Bursting into tears in a delivery room is not a topic that had been covered during nights out with the lads. We had talked about cutting the cord, but there’s something profoundly masculine and primitively ritualistic about cutting a baby’s umbilical cord with a tool (or with a pair of nicely sterilised surgical scissors). Detaching a baby from sole dependence on its mother, and thrusting it into the world to fend for itself is something that men can really be men about. It’s something to talk about with a beer in one hand and with your chest - the hairier the better - puffed out as far as possible. 

Sitting on the edge of a hospital bed and sobbing whilst a nurse passes you a tissue is a different kettle of fish entirely. There’s little scope for a bunch of blokes in a trendy bar to beat the evolutionary drum - and their metaphorical (or real) hairy chests - about a big box of Kleenex being passed to a blubbing 40-year old. 

Whilst my waterworks in the delivery suite weren’t a total surprise they were just a little too public for my liking. A self-confessed cry-baby I might be, but I do try for the most part to keep my sobbing out of the public domain. 

My last proper cry (before the delivery suite) was during the final scene of Toy Story 3 in 3D. 


It was showing on the giant IMAX Cinema screen in Sydney’s Darling Harbour. Whilst I’ve never been remotely sentimental where movies are concerned, animated movies are different. Over the years every classic tear-jerker has washed over me. I spent most of the Bridges of Madison County looking at my watch and dreaming of the post-movie beer, and Ghost left me completely cold. And completely dry-eyed. 

On the other hand, I was a gibbering wreck through most of Finding Nemo, and I didn’t get too far into Cars before I was reaching for the tissues I'd stuffed into the pocket of my jeans. 

Animated movies. The buggers get me every time. 

I lay the blame for this squarely at the feet (hoofs?!) of Bambi. 

During the famous forest scene when Bambi’s mummy is shot dead and destined to end up covered in gravy on the dinner plates of the nasty hunters, I was a blubbering mess. 

I was 8 when Bambi’s mum hit the forest floor, and whilst Bambi went on to save the forest and do a whole heap of other very noble stuff, I barely recovered. I was scarred for life. From that momentous moment on I was left barely able to get to the end of an animated movie without, at the very least, welling up. 

The main problem with my tendency to go to pieces during what are essentially feature length cartoons is that, more often than not, I find myself watching them in the company of kids. In the case of Toy Story 3 in 3D, I was with five of them. Me and Picky had taken our friends' little ones to see the movie as a pre-Christmas treat. 

Miraculously I managed to maintain my manhood for the entire movie. Almost. Until the very last scene. Until Andy’s grand gesture of generosity. As he dropped off his old toys for his neighbour’s baby I could feel the odd tear dropping onto my cheeks. As he left his neighbour’s house through the 'Oh-so-homely' white picket-fence they were in free-fall. 

And they were still falling freely as the credits rolled and the funny out-takes started, when they finished, and when the lights in the cinema came on. 

As IMAX was gradually illuminated I was mightily relieved. I was surrounded on all sides by kids. I was in good company. Remembering my own reaction as an innocent 8 year-old to a semi-orphaned deer in the forest, I was confident that the cinema would be overflowing with sobbing kids. The poor little mites would be inconsolable. I would be handing out tissues - my tissues - til late in the night.

It wasn’t to be. Modern kids are obviously made of tougher stuff than we once were. 

There wasn’t a single tear to be seen. Anywhere. Except for mine. Little Tommy P, the eight year-old boy who was sitting next to me, simply looked up at me, asked me why I was crying, and whether me and Picky were planning on taking them all to MacDonald’s for a post-movie McFlurry. We were, of course. But only after Picky had passed me a tissue.


Animated movies. I'm a sucker for them. And I'm a real sook when I'm at them. Pirates! Band of Misfits opens in Oz this week. I can't wait. It's in 3D too. Woo-hoo. Tissues are highly recommended, if not essential.


Pip pip. Hope you had a great weekend.

Alaska. The land of blood beer, lakes and Sarah Palin

I'm really rather cross with Sarah Palin. She has a lot to answer for in my eyes.

It's not that she comes across as a complete fruit-loop every time I see her on Fox News. That's taken as read. At least she's consistent in her fruit loopiness. At least she's a full-time fruit loop. In that sense you know what you're getting with Sarah Palin. I can't stand those pollies who come across as all smart and intelligent and then they get into power and ... wham! ... they suddenly become complete muppets. And then you've got to wait 4 or 5 years to get rid of them. Good old gun-toting, hunt 'em down, shoot 'em up and skin 'em clean, Sarah P is never like that. What you see is what you get. She's as mad as a cut snake. 

What really annoys me about Mrs Palin is the fact that she's from Alaska. That's all.

It's really that simple.

But it's important. I really wish she was from Ohio. Or Nebraska. Or at least from somewhere that I don't really care for or I don't know too much about. That way I could just ignore her and not be so annoyed with her. But I am. She's from bloody Alaska. And bloody Alaska will never recover. It's going to be forever linked with Sarah Palin. It's destined to be 'that place' where 'that nutty woman' is from. And the Alaskans? They will always be tarred with the nutty Palin brush when I'm fairly sure that they are, by and large, a pretty normal bunch. All 722,717 of them.

I first fell for Alaska at Uni. I was going through my left-wing radical phase. I even threw an egg at Margaret Thatcher. It missed. In fact it missed by so far that I doubt she even noticed that I'd thrown an egg at her. In hindsight it was a waste of a good egg. It was a good egg thrown badly at a bad egg.

When I wasn't throwing eggs (badly) at British Prime Ministers, I was listening to protest songs, wearing a woolly fez-type hat and smoking Gauloise cigarettes because they were French and France had had a revolution. Mostly I was listening to Billy Bragg. And Michelle Shocked. In between the rabble-rousing, burn the barricades stuff that Michelle put out, she recorded a simple and stunning little song called 'Anchorage' (have a listen here). It contains the words,

'You know it's kinda funny
Texas always seemed so big
But you know you're in the largest state in the Union 

When you're anchored down in Anchorage, Alaska'.

That's when I first got thinking about Alaska. 

& then a few years later when I'd stopped throwing eggs and wearing woolly fez-type hats, I met a chap in a pub. He was standing next to me and he ordered a beer. Nothing wrong with that I hear you say. Well, no. Except that he asked for a shot-glass of tomato juice to be dropped into his pint. Dropped into it. Right into the middle of a decent pint of English beer. Of course, I couldn't help myself. I asked him what the heck he was doing. Had he gone barmy? He told me that he was having a cool and refreshing pint of ... blood beer. Apparently he was just back from a spot of salmon fishing in Alaska (like you do) and blood beer was all the rage out there.

Blood beer. A pint of beer with a shot glass of tomato juice dropped into it. Naturally I had one too. It was a million times better than it sounded. And looked. In fact it was really rather nice. Alaska. It's full of little surprises.

Alaska.

It's the largest state in the USA and the least densely populated. Half of all Alaskans live in or around Anchorage. Basically, the rest of Alaska is more or less empty. It's twice the size of Texas and has more coastline than the rest of the United States combined. In short, it's big. Very, very big. And very, very empty.

It also has 3million lakes. Yep, 3 million. And 100,000 glaciers. In fact, more than half the world's glaciers are gently sliding south in Alaska.

There's a few rather quirky things about Alaska too. First off, the locals pay no income tax. And no sales tax. None. Lucky Alaskans I say. But that's not the quirkiest thing. Not by a long shot. The quirkiest thing, without a shadow of a doubt, is this:

Alaska used to be part of Russia. Yep, it sure did.

It was bought by the US in 1867 for $7.2million. That's $120million in today's money. That works out to be 0.2c an acre. Alaska, the largest state in the Union is officially worth just $120million. That's less than Manchester City football club's midfield line-up.

Of course, this valuation came before Mrs Palin arrived on the scene. I fear that the value of Alaska might have diminished in recent years. That's a real pity. It's always sounded like a truly awesome place to me.

Alaska. Flogged by the Russians to the Americans for just 2c an acre on March 30th 1867. Palin or not, I reckon the Yanks got a bargain. I'll raise a glass to celebrate. Of blood beer. Maybe. Maybe not - me and Picky are all out of tomato juice.

Btw ... on Sept 11th 2008 Mrs Palin made her infamous comment. She said that she could see Russia from her back yard in Alaska. Far be it for me to leap to Palin's defence, but in one sense she was spot on. The Big Diomede Island (Russia) is separated from the Little Diomede Island (Alaska, US) by just 4km. For much of the year, if you're game enough, you can actually walk between the two. That's 'cos the sea is fully-frozen. Don't forget your passport.

pip pip

Ps ... next up I'll be posting a few words about those very special grown men who cry at the movies.

The great oversized day-bed swindle

When it comes to interior design there’s no two ways about it; I’m rubbish. I simply don’t have the eye for it. I used to think I did. I used to think I was a shoe-in for the final four on Top Design. & then I met Picky and she put me straight. 

Picky came round to my apartment for dinner just after we’d met. I was desperately keen to woo her. I cooked dinner and bought a nice bottle of vino. During the afternoon I even tidied up my apartment a bit too. That’s how keen I was. I stuffed all my socks and other assorted odds and sods into a cupboard, and I put the toilet seat down. In my book that counted as 'tidying up a bit'.

When Picky arrived she wasn’t so much woo-ed as blinded. 


My apartment consisted of seven rooms. Seven multi-coloured rooms. The hallway was orange. Bright orange. Orange like ... er... an orange. My lounge was a two-colour split; mustard yellow at the bottom with bright yellow above. The kitchen was green. Pea green. The main bedroom was baby blue and the spare bedroom was deep maroon. I'd left the bathroom white. For impact. 

The bathroom certainly had an impact. Picky spent most of the evening in it to protect her eyes from the glare of the walls in the other six rooms. It was a good job I’d remembered to put the toilet seat down.

When me and Picky eventually moved in together, she politely suggested that we should re-decorate ‘our’ apartment. I thought she just meant re-painting the walls. She didn’t. She meant repainting the walls and replacing each and every item of furniture that I owned. 


My multi-coloured apartment was, apparently, a 'bachelor pad'. Picky wanted a 'love-nest'. I thought about putting up a fight. But the truth was that I was sitting on my oversized day-bed in front of my wall-mounted plasma TV watching the English Premier League in full Dolby surround-sound through my Bose home entertainment system. And I had a beer in my hand. Picky on the other hand was standing up. She had no choice. My bachelor pad had just one piece of decent furniture to sit on. The oversized day-bed. It took up most of my lounge. My mustard and bright yellow lounge.

It was time to go neutral. We painted the orange hallway first. It needed four coats before it even approached neutral. Covering bright orange, pea green and deep maroon with neutral tones of white and grey is no mean feat. After each coat I was convinced we’d hidden it all, only to find in the morning that the orange or pea green had peeked through. It was a right old job. It took weeks. I’ll never paint a wall orange again. 

Once the love-nest was neutral, it was time to farewell the furniture. The oversized day-bed was photographed and uploaded onto eBay. I used a wide-angled lens, and I still couldn’t get the whole thing in one photo. It was like photographing a car. Or a bus. 

Last week was National Fraud Awareness Week. Apparently Australians are e-scammed out of more than $85m every year. 


I reckon we’ve all received the classic ‘I’m the executor of a massive Will. You’ve inherited $10million from old uncle Eric, please send me your bank account details and password for on-line banking and I’ll pop the entire $10million into your account forthwith” email. And we’ve all deleted it quicker than you can say “my password is 389721’ (it isn’t by the way, before you think you’ve struck gold).

But there are other scams knockin' about too. Scams you wouldn’t even imagine. Scams you wouldn't know were scams. Scams you'd struggle to spot no matter how un-scammable you think you are.

Or maybe you would spot them. Maybe you have spotted them. Maybe you’ve been scammed yourself. Maybe National Fraud Awareness Week brings back terrible memories for you. Maybe it makes you shake your head and go a nice deep maroon colour with acute embarrassment. 

My oversized day-bed wasn't on eBay for long. A ‘lady from Perth’ contacted me and offered $500. Just like that. My first thought was ‘I’ve struck gold here’. My second thought was, ‘what else can I sell her?’.

We only communicated by email. She said that she really wanted my oversized daybed. My oversized daybed sounded like the answer to all her prayers; the solution to all her problems. It was the only thing she desired in life. She lived in Perth. She was going to have it collected and shipped all the way over from Sydney. By road. That’s 3938km’s. 

I was stunned. She was paying me $500 for a used daybed and shipping it nearly 4000km's by road. She could quite easily have bought a brand new one from Bay Swiss in Perth for $800. Brand new. No shipping. No slight red wine stain on the right arm. I pointed this out to her, but she was smitten with my daybed, and my day-bed only. 

Fair do’s. I tried. I did the right thing. More fool you, lady. 

More fool me.

On the morning of the ‘pick-up’, 'she' emailed me nice and early with a link to my Paypal account. Excited, I clicked on the link and saw that she’d transferred a cool $500. Bingo. Deal done. Bye bye day-bed, hello seating for Picky and distinguished guests.

The removalist rocked up. Removalist. Singular. He was all alone. Poor chap. The poor 'lady in Perth' could only afford one removal guy. I felt sorry for him. My apartment was up six flights of stairs. I'm a nice guy. I took my t-shirt off and grabbed one side of the day-bed. I think it was the side with the red wine stain.

It took us a good 30-minutes to get the damn thing down six flights of stairs. My oversized day-bed was a big bugger and the angles were all wrong. When we reached the bottom I was sweating buckets. I needed to rest but he was keen to get off. He had 3938kms ahead of him. I took a few breaths and helped him to load it into the back of his van.

Back in my apartment I was exhausted. I needed to sit down. There was no-where to sit. Still, it was worth it. I was $500 richer. 

The next morning I woke up and walked into the lounge. I stood and stared into the space where the oversized day-bed had once been. The apartment felt empty.  And, strangely enough, so did I.

Why? Why? Why?

I couldn’t put my finger on it. 

As I stood in my newly neutral lounge and stared into the void left by my oversized day-bed, I wondered how ‘the lady in Perth’ had managed to send me a link to my own PayPal account. It seemed just a little odd to me. How had she done that?


She hadn’t. 


'She' had created a mock-up of my PayPal account and had emailed me that mock-up. It looked real and it looked like it had $500 in it. It didn't. My real Paypal account was empty. As empty as my lounge. I’d been scammed. It was daylight robbery. I'd been robbed of my oversized day-bed and what's more I'd taken the shirt off my back and helped the thief carry it down six flights of stairs and load it into his truck. I’d even waved him off my driveway. And he’d waved back at me. Bye bye. Bye bye badman.

There's a lesson for us all in this sorry tale. Somewhere. 


I think it might be this; if something looks too good to be true, it probably is. The other lesson is this; if someone's going to nick your oversized day-bed don't help him carry it down the stairs and don't help him lift it onto the back of his truck. Let him do the work.


National Fraud Awareness Week. Be aware and be alert. Or lose your day-bed.

hope you had, or are having, a super weekend. pip pip 

Life. Lived perilously close to the bleeding edge

I can't be accused of being an 'early adopter'. I definitely don't live my life on the 'bleeding edge'. You'll find me a few feet back; just close enough to peek over the bleeding edge. But only just.

When facebook was invented I thought it was a right load of old rubbish. I told Picky it'd never catch on. My mantra was that I knew who I knew and I didn't need to know who I used to know. Now, of course, I love being in touch with everyone I used to know, and at the same time I can snoop hourly - sometimes more frequently - on everyone else. 

Then there's blogging. Picky loves reading her favourite blogs. She dips into a fair few of them on a fairly regular basis. Mine is partway down her list. I once told her that blogging would never catch on. And now? Well now I'm writing this and telling Picky what I'm blogging about, and she's sitting next to me telling me that I will never be accused of being an early adopter.

When the first iPad was released and I saw the queue outside the Apple store in Sydney, I thought the fanbots were stark raving mad. Then we visited our mates Dale and Tony in San Francisco,  and I saw them using their iPad. I had to have one. NOW. These days I couldn't live without mine. I'd literally die on the spot if I didn't have it, and I feel lost and bereft if I ever forget it. It's a little sad I know.

There's other things too. I recently upgraded to the iPhone and now I wonder how I lived with a blackberry for so long. I could go on and on, but you get the idea. I'm behind the curve, behind the 8-ball, blah blah blah.

That's why I have Picky. Well it's one of the reasons. Me & Picky. You probably haven't realised it but (and I know this will come as a complete surprise, if not a total shock) Picky is a wee bit younger than me. Yep I know, you'd never have guessed from the photos and all the other stuff.

The upside of this startling fact is that she's able to keep me abreast of all the new-fangled stuff that comes out. And she's perfectly positioned to advise me on the stuff thats 'trending'. She was even able to tell me that the word 'trending' is perfectly appropriate for use in that last sentence. That's how 'with it' she is. And how 'un-with it' I am.

Admittedly she does have to explain things to me in detail. And slowly. But I do get it. Eventually.

She recently introduced me to Instagram.

I didn't get it at first. I thought it was just the camera on my new iPhone by another name. Then I got it a bit mixed up with telegrams. Picky didn't even know what they were. There's that age gap again.

& then I got it. And now I'm addicted. I'm Instagram-ing all over the place. Right, left and centre. And I'm loving it. I've gone all creative with my iPhone. But it's a bit of fun and I love seeing other people's stuff too. If you're on there please let me know. I'd love to follow you.

I'm all over it - like a seagull into a bucket of sick prawns. If you wanna follow me and look at the amateurish stuff that I think is 'o so professional', you can follow fourseventen (that's me) or 3littlepichs (that's Picky) ... she's the one at the bleeding edge!

On Sunday I'm being introduced to Pinterest. By Picky, of course. I've already made my feelings known. It's a right load of old rubbish. It'll never catch on. Look out for my Pinterest account details over the next few weeks. & do send me yours!

Have a great weekend. Pip pip

Ps ... On Sunday I'll be tackling the tricky topic of Nigerian email scams and other less popular frauds. 

A view from THE bridge

I landed in Sydney on May 3rd 1997. I'd left England on May 1st. So technically-speaking I skipped May 2nd 1997 entirely. I wasn't overly bothered. May 2nd has always been quite uneventful for me.


At 7am on May 3rd 1997 I took a taxi from Sydney International Airport to The Holiday Inn in Coogee. In the years since 1997 both of these have changed beyond all recognition. Back then, the International Airport was basically a well-mowed strip of grass in the middle of a field a few kilometers to the south of Sydney. Some bloke had to shoo the cows off the field whenever a 747 from Europe approached. I'm not even sure if he was paid to do the cow shoo-ing.


& then the bods in charge of the Olympics announced 'the winner is Syd-e-ney', and Macquarie Bank somehow convinced everyone that the city needed a shiny new airport to accommodate the hoards that were expected in the year 2000. They also convinced us that it was perfectly OK to charge the earth for parking at their shiny new airport, and for taking a train to their shiny new airport. Now, thanks to Macquarie Bank, Sydney's shiny new international airport is little more than an overpriced shambles. 


It's a right royal rip-off. It was far better when I first rocked up on May 3rd 1997.


The Holiday Inn in Coogee is now called The Crowne Plaza. I haven't stayed there since 1997, but I can guarantee that if Macquarie Bank were involved in any of the changes it'll be overpriced and shambolic now too.

When I got to the Holiday Inn, after what felt like a six-week flight from a different world in a different hemisphere, I had just one thing on my mind. The Sydney Harbour Bridge. I was itching to see it and even more itchy to whizz across it.


For me Sydney was the Harbour Bridge. I'd never been to Sydney before I moved Down Under. I'd seen pictures of the bridge and I liked the look of it. The truth is that I don't mind a good bridge. I remember going over the Clifton Suspension Bridge when I was about 11 and thinking, 'how the heck does this thing work?' And that's the rub of it for me. I have no idea how they work, why they don't collapse in the middle and fall in a heap into the water below. When I was at Uni a very bright Engineering boffin - who is probably sitting at his desk right now, designing bridges - explained it all to me in great detail. I did a fair bit of nodding and mmm-ing and ah-ing, but the truth was that I had no idea what he was on about. He lost me when he said that 'through-arch bridges' (the Sydney Harbour Bridge is technically a 'through-arch bridge') don't rely on the four concrete towers on either end in any way at all. They are there for purely aesthetic reasons. I thought they were crucial. I still do if I'm being honest. But they're not. They're cosmetic.


I left the Holiday Inn in my rental car. It was a Holden Commodore. The previous driver had left a half-eaten MacDonald's meal in the glove compartment. As a result, the drive to my first crossing of the Sydney Harbour Bridge wasn't as pleasant as it might have been.


The approach to the bridge from Sydney's Eastern suburbs is a strange one. You don't see 'the Coathanger' until you're almost on it. I was so excited I could hardly contain myself. There I was in a, if a little pungent, car, in a new city, on the cusp of a new life, cruising the streets of the iconic Bondi Beach, on my way to cross the even more iconic Sydney Harbour Bridge.


& then I missed it.


Just like that. I missed it. I didn't see the sign with the arrow pointing up the left that said 'Cahill Expressway and Sydney Harbour Bridge'. I went straight ahead and ended up in the Sydney Harbour Tunnel.


From an engineering perspective I have no doubt that tunnels are just as fascinating as bridges. I suspect that the Sydney Harbour Tunnel is - as tunnels go - a real belter. It burrows under Sydney Harbour for god's sake. That's really quite impressive. But the truth is, when you're in it, and going through it, and you really, really wanted to be on the Sydney Harbour Bridge, going across it, you can't help feeling a little bit gutted. Let down even.


The view from THE Bridge was supposed to be spectacular. The view in the tunnel was nothing special. It was - and still is - mainly concrete and cars. The tunnel is as functional as THE Bridge is spectacular.


Of course, when I popped out of the tunnel I was totally lost. It was my first day in Sydney and I was in a strange car that reeked of half-eaten MacDonalds. I ended up in Lane Cove. Those people who know Sydney will know that if you're looking for the Sydney Harbour Bridge and find yourself in Lane Cove you're having a bit of a nightmare. Your day ain't going well.


Being a typical bloke I was reluctant to ask a passer-by for directions. That was mainly due to the language problem. I'd just arrived from England and I had no idea what dialect the people in Lane Cove spoke. So I just cruised the streets hoping I'd end up on the Sydney Harbour Bridge. I didn't.


Eventually I did manage to turn around. I retraced my steps from Lane Cove. Past Crows Nest. Through North Sydney. McMahon's Point. Milsons Point. Kirribilli.


Bang. There it was. In all its glory. The Sydney Harbour Bridge. And it was as magnificent as I'd hoped and imagined.


The Sydney Harbour Bridge. As bridges go, it's a cracker. One of the best I reckon. It's 80 years old today. Happy birthday to it.


Here's a few bits 'n' bobs that you might not know about the old Coathanger ...

• It was built by the English firm Dorman Long and Co. Their winning bid was touch over 4million quid
• The winning design was one of seven. The other six are over there on the right
• At 42 metres it's the widest longspan bridge in the world. It's also the heaviest, but not the longest.
• It's 1149m long (including approaches), 503m between the arches and 49m above the water
• The bridge can rise and fall up to 18cms due to heating and cooling
• 272,000 litres of paint are needed to spruce it up completely

As for traffic crossing the bridge, in 1932 about 11000 cars whizzed (!) across each day and a few horses pulling carts. Today that figure is close to 200,000. Today no horses are allowed. Daily traffic across the bridge dropped by about 50,000 cars on 31st August 1992. Why? That was the day that the Sydney Harbour Tunnel opened.


Since 1992 drivers have had two options when needing to cross the harbour by road from the north, east and city.  Tunnel or bridge. Bridge or tunnel. There's pros and cons to both. But, in my view, the Bridge wins hands down. Always.


It's been that way since May 3rd 1997.


drawings from www.sydneyharbourbridge.info

PIFD ... a day to remember

There's a heap of 'those days' in a typical year.

I don't mean regular days like Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and the rest. They're boring days. I mean 'celebration days'. Look, I reckon most them are a bit of a waste of space. Walk to Work Day is a big one down here. I don't get that one at all. I'd imagine that if you live close enough to walk to work you pretty much always do (work to walk). In most cases, I reckon that's probably why you've chosen to live close to work ... so you can walk to work. I'm not sure that the people who live close to work really need a special day to remind them to leave the car at home.

I work a good 40kms from home. They could offer a whole heap of Walk to Work Days each year and you wouldn't find me getting involved in any of them. Walk to Work Day just makes me feel guilty. Guilty that I can't walk to work. It may as well be called Feel Guilty that your Buggering up the Environment by not Walking to Work Day. Although I guess that doesn't have the same ring to it. 

On the other hand if you are on the lookout for a decent celebration day - if your birthday, Christmas Day, Pancake Day and all the other 'big ones' aren't enough for you - I've come across one that might just tickle your fancy; 26th April 2012.

It's International Pay it Forward Day.

Yep, it's international. It's a worldwide day. Woo-hoo! Pop the date in your diary right now.

I mean it. I really do. I like the sound of this one. To start with it doesn't involve me having to walk 40kms to work. 

Pay if forward. It's a really nice concept. A great idea. A nice way to live. Even for just one day.

I'll explain it, but only because I've only just heard the phrase myself. You might already know what it's all about. Hell, people might have been 'paying it forward' on April 26th for years and years, and I might just not have been told about it.

Admittedly, I have been living under a rock for a few years. I've been lost in my own little world. Picky tells me there was a movie made about paying it forward. It was called 'Pay it Forward'. I do like a movie title that doesn't mess about, that isn't too cryptic and gets straight to the point. I think it had Jennifer Aniston in it*. Or someone. Like I say, I've been under a rock on the movie front. I've not plonked down on me bum at the cinema with a family-sized box of salted popcorn since Pearl was born.  That's almost two years. I thought Jennifer Aniston was only in Friends, and was knocking about with Brad Pitt. That's how 'in the dark' I am. My darkness is pretty dark. 

Pay it forward.

It's the idea that you do someone a favour - help someone out - with whatever resources you have, whatever skills you possess. You lend-a-hand. And you don't expect anything in return. But because you've done something nice for that person, you hope that they will do something just as nice for someone else. Not for you (technically that's 'paying it back'), but for someone other than you. In the future. That's paying your kindness forward.

It's nice don't ya think? You help someone out, give them a break, do a good turn, and you don't expect anything in return. You just hope that they will Pay it Forward. It's simple and cool.  I like the idea that, for one day at least, the world will be full of people who are busy doing nice things for other people and not expecting anything in return. 

Me, Picky and Pearl - the 3 Pichs - have an odd living arrangement. Not odd as in we sleep in different parts of the house or anything. Although that might have crossed Picky's mind from time to time. We live in a beautiful apartment in Manly. Our place has got super views out over the ocean. I say 'our place'. It's not. We just rent it off the parents of some friends of ours. They live in England and they come back to Manly each year for three months to visit family. So, the deal is that we live in their apartment for nine-months and then we move out for three-months. For those nine-months we pay them reduced rent. That's why we live in such a beautiful apartment with great views. We could never afford it if we didn't have this funny '3-months / 9-months arrangement'.

The downside is that for 3-months every year we're homeless. 

We're not complaining. It's a great set up. It works a dream. Of course, it's a bit of a hassle moving out and finding somewhere else to live for three months. Particularly now we've got Pearl. Imagine packing up and moving out and into somewhere temporary, and then - three months later - doing the same thing in reverse. It's a right old hassle.

This year we found a great place to live. For two out of the three months. We struck gold. But we were a month short. We tried everything to find somewhere for the final four weeks; friends, the internet, friends of friends, Facebook friends, friends of Facebook friends. Nothing. Nada. We could hardly blame people. Who really wants three Pichs rocking up on their doorstep with 25 bags bulging with assorted bits and bobs?

Finally as a last resort we decided to pack Picky and Pearl off to Europe to visit her mum and dad for a month. That way at least it was just one Pich and my 25 bags of assorted bits and bobs in need of a place to stay for a month. 

& then I popped down to grab a couple of takeaway coffees from our local coffee shop. As I was waiting for my cappuccino (with a double shot) I told the fella making it that I was packing the girls off to Europe for a month due to our impending homelessness. There was a lady with a pram standing next to me. She'd just grabbed her own coffee. She asked me what my problem was. I told her. She asked for my number & she called later that day to say that she'd chatted to her husband and we could have their apartment for a month if we wanted it. The three of them would move into her husband's parent's place. For a month.

I was stunned. Picky was stunned. Pearl was stunned. Pearl was more stunned at all the new toys she spotted when we popped to see what was destined to be our home for a month.

That was a week ago. I'm typing this from the sofa in our 'new place'. They moved out and we moved in. They cleared some space in their wardrobe, talked us through the set-up of their TV, said we could use their wireless, hopped in their car and said they'd be back in four weeks. Just like that.

Is it me, or is that odd? It shouldn't be odd though, should it? It should be how things are. I think it was how things were back in the olden days. In our grandparent's day. People helping other people out, doing a good turn, pitching in, doing people a favour. Even strangers. Just because they could. I don't think it happens too much these days. Maybe it does. Maybe everybody is secretly helping everybody else out. Under the radar. Maybe. I doubt it.

I said to Picky that I'm going to make sure that I do a bit of that myself from now on. Consciously. That I will try to help people out whenever I can, if I can, just because I can. When you think about it, it's really not too much of a hassle to do someone a small favour from time to time. And you never know, to them it might actually be a huge favour.

Cheers Anna, Kris and Hugo. You did us a huge favour and I'll pay it forward - hopefully before the big day itself. Pay it Forward Day. April 26th 2012

*crucial fact check. The movie Pay it Forward (2000) did not star Jennifer Aniston. It starred Kevin Spacey and Helen Hunt. Jennifer Aniston is no longer with Brad Pitt and Friends finished ages ago. Jennifer Aniston was indeed in Friends. Picky brought me up to speed on a few things when she read this post.