Since I am a heathen, don't expect any holy words from me. Christmas is good because I get presents. I suppose it is good for families to gather too and who could forget how it was when you were a child. Magical.
Ok, I recognise it is a special day at least and I feel the need to do something nice. No, this time I will not call you a selfish prick or prickess if you haven't arranged for you organs to be donated. Heaven only wants your spirit, not your messy bits. Leave them to benefit someone else.
What could I do that is nice, especially when I can't think of anything? Nice does not come naturally to me. I know, a repost.
Look after your elderly neighbours if you can. Preferably before you are alerted by the odour of rotting fleshl. It doesn't take much effort. We had one instance in our building of a elderly woman who lives on her own collapsing and not being able to get help for hours.
I wouldn't say I was old yet, but I am not that far away. I would like someone to do the same for me, that is check up on me, but not when the rent boy is attending to my needs.
Here is the lightly edited repost, first published May 2006.
She was a great neighbour, although there were times when she called out over the fence, we ignored her and crept around silently, but it was not often. As she was the other half of our semi detached in East Malvern, she wasn't easy to ignore and we did grow fond of her.
Our neighbour's father was a politician in the first Victorian Parliament. I can't remember the details now.
One night she invited us in for a sherry and canapes. We learnt how to make mock chicken. Forget how now but something to do with tomatoes. She was clutching a photo of her Adelaide daughter and son in law. We had already met her daughter who lived in Melbourne. She started to show us the photo and then pulled back. She repeated this a couple of times. Then she said with great gravity, 'Um, there is something I need to tell you before you see the photo'.
Our minds raced.
'His name is Rajiv and he is Indian'. Our ho hum reaction must have been a little disappointing to her.
While she was in the kitchen preparing tea and cake, we looked at the really weird pictures on the walls. Why would this very normal middle class woman have such odd pictures on her walls? Of course they were works by Albert Tucker. They were grim pictures.
The Indian born son-in-law called one evening to take our neighbour out for dinner when he was in Melbourne for a few days. We peeked out the curtains, sure enough he was Indian, although not very dark. Probably a Seihk
I used to buy The Age daily back then and she bought The Sun. Once I had finished reading The Age, I would tuck into the fence palings and she would retrieve it. She did the same with the Sun. The day arrived when she did not collect the Age or put out the Sun. We called her daughter who broke in and she had had a stroke. We visited her in hospital. It was indignity for her. All that hair on her face, no make up and speech very slurred. She recovered to a point. She would not be seen on a walking frame. The shopping jeep was her ideal walker and she did continue to wear high heels, against advice. But probably about a year later, again the paper did not appear jammed in the fence palings. Again we phoned the daughter, but it was the end this time.
We went to the funeral of course. The intellectual daughter from Adelaide attended and did the full histrionics thing. Unlike the Melbourne daughter, she wasn't particularly nice to us; quite dismissive really.
Some old queen conducted the funeral, and surprise surprise, not long later, he conducted my brother's wedding. Maybe it was the other way around.
The Melbourne daughter was very nice and grateful for what little we had done. She and her husband had a picture framing business in Eltham. They had two sons, I seem to remember. I bet they are important people in the world of art now, like their great grandfather. Maybe not. Should not have such expectations.
A fellow blogger posted a tale of the loss of a pet dog and it reminded me of pets we have lost. One was the cat Thomas. Our neighbour had taken a photo of Thomas sunbaking in her back yard and a while after her death, her daughter gave us the photo framed with a note on the back. I suppose the daughter would be oldish now. Just for curiosity, I put her name into google. Yes, she did come up. More interestingly, there were links to her sister, the Adelaide university lecturer, niece of Albert Tucker with the Indian born husband.
I was pushed for time and did not fully follow through at the time.
Here is what I quickly gathered. She is a WHISTLEBLOWER and a member of some club for whistleblowers. She accused authorities of stitching her up with a charge from the RSPCA regarding the death of her dog because of what she might divulge. She has an early child reading school/business, one in Adelaide, one in Melbourne, and is also on the speaking circuit. She is a rabid feminist. I really can't be bothered finding out much more. I am not that interested. More interested to know what the Melbourne daughter is now doing.