Easter Monday. A life saver watches the surf, just down the beach from Station Pier and the Spirit of Tasmania.

PS. Footy tipping. 7 out of 8. Can’t complain about that.

Back in my childhood years, there was only one band I really loved: The Beatles. Somehow I found them fascinating through the 70s and 80s, to the point where my mother got sick of hearing my almost-worn-out Sgt Pepper cassette.

Then in my late teens, a friend brought over a music video to try and grab some stills off: The Who - Who’s Better, Who’s Best. I soon got into them myself in a big way, and managed to acquire an enormous number of Who CDs, which remain in my CD collection to this day.

Better still this new-found variety opened my eyes to a whole new world of music (one that had been there all along). Slowly my musical tastes widened to include all sorts of stuff, thankfully not just 1960s has-beens.

In fact I’m delighted to say that my tastes now include many bands and artists who have not disbanded, died or joined the nostalgia music circuit. Of course the Beatles and the Who and connected artists are still there in my collection, but they no longer dominate.

The Who had fallen into the back of my mind, but the horrendous events of September 11th 2001 brought them back, by way of the Concert For NYC, which I found late one night on Channel 9. Goodness. They still rocked. They could still pump out great tunes. It was fantastic. I got hold of their Albert Hall DVD and watched that, too. Fantastic. Just goes to show, the old blokes can still rock.

And now I’ve just heard that what’s left of The Who (only Roger and Pete are still in the land of the living, alas) are playing Melbourne in August. Fifteen years ago I’d have given anything to see them play live. Now my interest in them has diminished somewhat. The CDs don’t get played very often. The t-shirt I had long ago got worn out and was not replaced. Even my video of Quadrophenia rarely graces the VCR. But given this is their only tour to Australia since 1968 (and that one was prematurely halted), this could be my only chance ever to see them play.

(PS: Apparently they’ll be supported by You Am I, who I’d also like to see live)

The Age’s freebie Tropfest DVD arrived during the week, and we watched it on Friday night. 16 short films, the finalists. All good, some excellent, one (”For Every Year”) heartwrenching, most funny, some (”The Money”, “Sold Out”, “Confessions of an Animation”) hilarious.

Ah, Easter. The time when — as one relative once clumsily described it — we celebrate the death of Christ.

The sun is shining down between the buildings. I leave a batch run going on the computer at work, and walk up a block to my mother’s favourite book shop, to buy a gift voucher. Not very imaginative, but she would give me no further clues on possible birthday presents and I, to be frank, have no idea. After that I go another half-block to the bank machine. I walk back via the mall, listening to the tram drivers frantically dinging their bells, watching those few pedestrians with apparent death-wishes running out in front of them. Yet after they have dashed across the road, they don’t seem in a hurry.

I cut through the Royal Arcade. “Daniel!” It’s a bloke I speak to occasionally, and have met once before. He’s been doing his Easter shopping. We chat for a block as I walk back to the office. We pass Haigh’s along the way — of course it looks crowded, so I make plans to return later. He crosses Collins Street, so I keep on going back to work.

Two women missed crossing at the lights. They decide to walk along the road for some reason, a courier van leading a crawling line of traffic behind them. One nudges to the other to get off the road, but she takes no notice. Thanks to the courier van driver’s patience (who’d have thought?) they manage to avoid getting run over.

Later I go back to Haigh’s. It’s still crowded, and a security guard is there too. Can’t say I’ve ever seen security in place for chocolate before, but thinking about it there a few more worthy substances. I negotiate the crowds to buy some chocolate goodies. And I must find myself some hot cross buns. Yum.

Happy Easter.

Part I.

Many years ago I had a Ren And Stimpy CD. It’s the kind of CD you buy because for a couple of weeks in 1993 you were kinda amused by the TV series. So you coughed up $25 and listen to it maybe once all the way through, and maybe another track or two might have got played twice. Then years later you realise it was always crap and you try and sell it on eBay and the winning bidder turns out to be in South America even though you specified you’d ship to Australia only, and he never sends any money even though he claims he did, and so it sits in the bookshelf for another year or two before you try and sell it on eBay again and finally someone in the right country wins the bidding (nowhere near what it cost you, but better than nothing) and off it goes, no longer taking up valuable space in your life, gone at last.

But even years later you might remember a catchphrase or two from it, and one that I do recall is where they’re claiming to be different languages, and the sample of “New York-ese” is someone shouting abusively “Hey, can’t you see I’m WALKING here?”

I think of this charming little soundbite every time I’m walking around the city and nearly bump into somebody. It’s usually nobody’s fault, but generally both of us will say “sorry” and keep walking. No blame, no shouting, no footpath rage, just an apology and maybe a smile and we keep on going.

Part II.

This morning I parked my car in Brighton, on a side street near the station. I’ve parked there for a year or two during school holidays, when a couple of days a week my routine changes so I drop the kids at my mum’s, then drive to the nearest zone 1 station to go into work. In the past I’ve copied everyone else and parked with the left two wheels up on the grass verge, so the narrow street still has enough space for people to drive along. It’s a spot used by a few people heading in late to work when the station carparks are full. The grass doesn’t seem any the worse for it, and there’s no footpath on that side that people are getting blocked from using.

So I’d parked my car and hopped out. Across the street a guy in a white Honda had parked too. We both started walking to the station, him about 20 metres ahead of me. Then he stopped and turned around and came up to me. He explained that people had stopped parking with their wheels up on the verge because recently the joyful officers of Bayside council had booked a whole bunch of people for doing so, so it might not be a good idea. Ah. I thanked him, and moved my car.

From now on the gap in that street will be much narrower. Until one day when the garbage trucks can’t fit down there and the council decide to go all out and ban parking on one side.

White Honda man didn’t have to do that. He could have just kept walking. Sometimes, people aren’t so bad.

We’ve been going out for six months now.

Naturally I don’t want to jinx it, but it seems to get better and better.

And yes, everything I said in December still applies.

Michael Grade has been appointed chairman of the BBC. Doctor Who fans must be wondering if Grade — the only enemy of the Doctor that managed to kill him completely by getting the series cancelled — will be up to his old tricks. Perhaps he’ll squeeze the production budget so tightly that they can’t even afford a proper TARDIS.

London Metropolitan Police Post, circa 1964.
From The Boys’ Book of Scotland Yard. I’ve kept this book for decades, hoping to use this picture for something.

Footy tips not too good. Only 3 out of 8. Bah. I don’t like this anymore.

On my way out to the west on Friday night, suddenly realised apart from my shoes and socks, I was entirely dressed in blue.

Spent a substantial amount of Saturday daytime lazing. And a substantial amount of Saturday nighttime feeling very very very damn seedy. I suspect vast numbers of people in surrounding suburbs heard me chucking my guts up in the night.

Sunday more lazying between doing household errands. Including washing the car. With buckets, of course. Been about six months since the last time, so apart from the marks left by the apparently diarrhoea-suffering birds in the tree above where it was parked on Friday night, it was definitely due for a wash.