It has been my experience - for whatever that is worth to you - that you never can tell at the start of a new hobby whether it will be a good thing, or a bad thing...
To put a finer point upon it - and this counts especially in the process of consideration when attempting to judge whether or not a habit is a vice or a virtue - the former being considered generally to be a bad thing while the latter ostensibly a good thing...
If I may digress freely?
In my dotage I have come to understand that questions of this sort have great potential for confusion, and specifically when you tug at loose threads of this sort for sufficiently long enough they tend to work out to be a sort of transformation from worthy consideration to a tightrope walk along the thin edge quite rapidly.
The point that I am trying to make before I confuse myself has something to do with how what starts out as virtue inexplicably metamorphs into vice, and the even more disturbing effect of a vice that has managed to mysteriously transform into a virtue!
My dogs like it when I brush their coats with a stiff brush, while my brain likes it when I stroke it with a soft idea.
The Collecting of Quotes - Virtue or Vice?
In my mother's house in Byron Bay there are four bathrooms; at her Sheep Station there is just one - though very well equipped - indoors bathroom that was added to the house in 1932; in fact its rather decadent form and features being something of a story unto itself.
You see my grandfather purchased the entire bathroom suite - quite literally the entire room - it being one of the master bathrooms from the old Belgravia Hotel that was crafted during the period that it was being converted into a hydropathic sanatorium by a mate of his named Mark Foy who was something of an entrepreneur in the era.
Actually the Foy's had something of a reputation for setting the standards by which the fashion in fashion and in rooms was decided... Think objects like chandeliers or a piazza in their retail premises to get your imagination flowing.
After the old Belgravia was converted, sometime in 1932 there was a fire in one of the wings, and it needed to be torn down, so my grandfather made an offer for the master bathroom and Foy allowed that it would certainly raise the standards for Sheep Stations throughout the nation should that bathroom be transported to our own station.
That is the short story for how a bathroom that is actually larger in size than the kitchen of the house was built onto the station house - a bathroom with hardwood floors polished to a shine, a mixture of art deco and Victorian era fixtures, a massive clawed foot tub and matching massive water closet with detached tank - it really is a thing of beauty that room, and an anachronistic presence considering the utilitarian nature of the rest of the structure.
To be fair, should one care to leave the relative safety of the veranda and journey into the yard, risking mozzie attack, heading in any direction other than north, one might reasonably anticipate an encounter with one of three very well-constructed dunny to be found there.
A Convo with Czechoslovakia
At an embassy party held in Canberra just before the 1986 Christmas holidays -- it was an unusual party largely, as I recall, due to it taking place indoors which was not usually the case for a summer party of the holiday sort. The reason for that related to it being quite cooler than usually the case.
It was the sort of weather that my mother refers to as "jumper weather" and, if I recall correctly, was somewhere in the vicinity of 19°C which is - if you are at all familiar with Canberra, decidedly cold compared to the very comfortable but more typical 26°C to 28°C one might expect in that time of year and in that place.
While I do not recall which nation was our host for the evening, I do remember that that particular nation enclave had a spectacular garden and, perhaps of more significance, its holiday parties were traditionally held out of doors, with a very large canopy for the dance floor in case of rain.
Because of the temperature though, the dinner occurred in the ballroom rather than on the terraces, which is how I happened to be present for and overhear a conversation between my mother and a diplomat from Czechoslovakia.
If we can circle around again to the weather? I observed earlier that my mother often called that sort of condition jumper weather - I should point out that I personally prefer a windcheater over a jumper, even when the jumper is made from honest wool.
I never claimed to have any sort of advanced level of sartorial taste - after all when given the choice I prefer RM's over gumboots, being particularly fond of an old and well-worn pair of Doc Martens I had owned forever, so that says all that needs saying about my taste in clothing and its associated accouterments.
On that subject - and admitting that this is hardly the place or time for the conversation - I do have rather a lot to offer on the matter of footwear; so please do ask me again some time when our dance card is not already completely filled, as I am certain you will enjoy that conversation.
Back to the diplomat from Czechoslovakia - he was the socially-awkward sort that one often encounters at that sort of event, and I by no means intend that to be either a judgement of any sort or aspersions on the Eastern European diplomatic corps - though come to think upon it Czechoslovakia no longer exists, does it?
Perhaps that is partly the fault of its diplomats? I seem to remember something about a hyphen-war connected to that unfortunate nation from the history books at university but that was so long ago.
In any event this particular diplocrat was clearly not long out of the Department of Political Science at Masaryk University -- I have heard that Czechoslovaks is an ethnicity and I am reasonably certain that he was either a Czechoslovaks or an idiot.
I also speculate that he was either demonstrably lazy during English lessons and couldn't be bothered to pay attention to the class on deportment and social conversation, and perhaps was absent the day that they discussed suitable topics for mixer convos...
That conversation began with an observation that having summer in the middle of winter was rather inconvenient and inconsiderate of Australia.
He related the burden of needing to purchase an all new wardrobe because the moderate-weight clothing that he brought with him from home with an expectation for warmer weather than actually turned out to be the case had been selected based upon the assumption that, as Canberra was in the south of Australia, it would naturally follow that it would be in a warmer zone.
He then observed that everywhere else in the civilized world (he emphasized that word) one found that when one traveled in a generally southerly direction considerate weather tended to grow warmer, and when one traveled in a northerly direction, the weather agreed to grow cooler - but he found that just the opposite appeared to assert itself in this wild and unpredictable nation!
Because none of the clothing he brought with him was suited to the cooler weather obtained - and just as he found a reasonable sartorial comfort level the weather turns very cold suddenly, a matter that he found particularly annoying and inconsiderate and clearly Australia's fault.
My older brother helpfully pointed out by way of observation that he would have been far better off just packing a single bag with a pair if swimmers, some flange gaskets, joggers and comfortable - that being a relative term - work shoes for whatever qualified by way of that noun, and anything he simply cannot live without or obtain in Oz.
For me that would have to include my collection of Peaches Corner T-Shirts, my anniversary edition wife-beater from the Crown Casino, and my favorite trackies from ANU but YMMV.
That way all he had to bring with was a carry-on and as he had to replace his wardrobe here anyway that would have saved him the time and aggro he inevitably experienced anyway! But again I digress.
My mother - being the very strictly polite person that she is, couldn't say what she was actually thinking when she was asked what turned out to be a rather rude question -- you will recall that I made it very clear that the gentleman in question was slightly challenged by polite conversation being clearly in the deep-end of the pool.
When this dunderhead inquired about what it was that my mother did to earn her living -- phrasing the question so that it was very clear that what he really meant was what did the husband of this well-turned-out hausfrau who stood before him in conversation do to earn his living -- and by inference just how was that connected to the presence of herself, her husband, and children at this annual pre-holiday soirée?
Upon being asked the question - giving the gentleman the benefit of the doubt - and taking his interest at face value, my mother politely replied.
She revealed that she was an adherent to the practice and philosophy of pastoralism; she then enlarged the subject by observing that when she was not occupied by paperwork, updating records, and filling in government forms, she regularly corresponded with a group of academics and other station owners on matters related to the breeding of the experimental Australian Merino called MNQL17.
This particular wool-producing specially-engineered type
of sheep -- in addition to sporting both a genetic resistance and resilience to Nematode
parasites and offering a very durable wool ideal for commercial
applications -- also happened to be particularly adept at thriving in mixed range situations.
It was at this point that her reply tapered off, as she realised that she had mistakenly accepted his inquiry as a sincere question soliciting a response when, in fact, it was actually just a polite noise the diplocrat made with his facial sphincter muscles.
Getting into the spirit of her realization she then segued without missing a beat or indicating in any way that the general thrust or sincerity of the conversation had altered, offering him the news that she was active in the promotion of the new bylaw she enthusiastically supported to grant suffrage to MNQL17 - but only MNQL17.
When I heard this transition I freely admit that his reaction was of interest to me - and being the curios child that I was I paid inordinate attention to his facial expressions as the conversation continued.
I was thus in the ideal position to witness the outward signs that he not only fully grasped what was being said - more to the point could appreciate the sentiment expressed regarding the intricacies of granting suffrage to a mammal of limited intellect who my mother correctly likened to the typical political constituent.
I could literally detect the synapses firing as he came to a complete and more full apprciation for what she was saying.
The Importance of Le Salle de Bain
While what we like to call "The Master Suite" at the station house technically has its own bathroom which is situated in what one can get away with calling en suite, it is in fact what one might think of as the typical but fully-functional idea of a bathroom when that springs to mind.
Still the bathroom that connects off of the Master Bedroom of the station house is a joke in every single interpretation of the word when it is compared and contrasted with the actual shared accomodation that we politely refer to as "the bathroom" - or as we prefer to say it, une salle de bain commune.
Now that I think upon it -- and in the reflection of my worldly experiences -- the bathroom in the station house has a closer resemblance to a Spa than it does the typical image of a residential bathroom.
I make that observation after considering facts and perspective having paid a visit to my Mind Palace and then re-examined the matter through the eyes of myself as a child, as a teenager, and as an adult, before reverting back to my current form as a jaded but somehow younger now...
This whole matter is down to relative priorities and personal values - this I firmly believe.
As a child I was ill-equipped to appreciate the wonders of a well-apportioned residential bathroom.
As a teenager my appreciation went only so far as taking notice of heated seats, the presence of a sufficient quantity of bog roll, and an adequate supply of both wash clothes and towels.
As an adult, what seemed only minutes ago to be the rather trivial luxuries like the bidet, a walk-in shower, deep tub, and well-lit counter area... all of these when considered as an adult have now come to take on the role of bare minimum facilities measured in terms of comfort and convenience.
You see as an adult -- an adult who has traveled the world, who has visited all seven continents and who has dipped feet into every sea and through no fault of my own was required to direct large amounts of conventional munitions in Somalia, a nation that might arguably be described as one very large bathroom.
Anyway what I meant to tell you...
It has been my experience - for whatever that is worth to you - that you
never can tell at the start of a new hobby whether it will be a good
thing, or a bad thing...
At the tender age of 8-years-old I eagerly assisted my father with the planning, design, installation and construction of an in-wall shelf in the wall right beside the toilet but above the bog-roll dispenser for the bathroom off the main first-floor hallway.
This is, of course, not to be confused with the bathroom directly below the boy's room but on the Ground Floor, which is one floor below the First Floor but NOT in the basement (which it would be if we were having that conversation in America) and that was generally considered to be the designated guest bathroom for visitors to the house.
I eagerly assisted with its installation and construction without actually knowing its purpose, which turned out to be the designated home for a slightly-battered but genuine used edition of the Oxford English Dictionary.
My father placed the OED there so that, when otherwise occupied with the necessary biological functions that ordinmarily took place in that location, we had on-hand reading material of an educational and self-improving nature.
By design the presence of the OED had precisely the effect that my father was seeking: it helped to create a family of sons with very broad and correct vocabularies.
That one small addition to the structure of the wall in our bathroom of the house in Byron Bay seems to me to be a nearly perfect example of the unintended consequences of small gestures and collections of a sort similar to the notion expressed at the start of this shaggy dog story.
The fact that it happens to be entirely and factually correct notwithstanding, often times what seems like a good idea at the time really was.
I hope that you enjoyed this trip down the garden path - I certainly did - and the thought stream that provoked this meandering collection of recollections could not have come at a better or more opportune moment for me for a reason I will now explain...
You see, considering the most recent examples of the creative use of English by my daughter - and her unfortunate over-reliance upon bridging words that are far from socially acceptable -- I am now firmly convinced that our bathroom needs an in-wall shelf about the size of the OED...
I am just saying.
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