Photo: I took this photo late this afternoon. It shows the tidal swimming pool at Tambourine Bay. Later, I will be uploading several photos of Tambourine Bay to the photoblog. The new pictures were taken in a different area to previous photosIn Sydney at this time of year, it is always difficult to tell what season it is. Some say it is summer or early summer, while others claim it is late spring. To me, it is a bit of both with a touch of winter thrown in now and then for good measure. One thing is for certain, even though our clocks don't go forward until the end of the month, the daylight hours are definitely getting longer.
For some reason, the late afternoon light reminds me of my childhood in Wales. I have no idea why as the scenery is quite different to that of Wales - but the "feel" of childhood summer is there. Most of the time it was incredibly happy and family oriented, but it did have its moments!
I was eleven when we moved from the "city to the country". A brand new development to the west of Cardiff, promoted as an "executive estate" and all that word entails in wannabe, middle-class Britain.
Sunday morning was the day to be seen. The compulsory Rover 2000s with the required white engineers safety helmet prominently displayed in the back window, were parked in the driveway ready to be washed. You didn't have to be an engineer to have a helmet, they merely served as an accessory - like having ski-racks attached to your car all year round, padded cocktail cabinets - or in some cases, the required number of children.
The actual washing of the car was not important either, the essential element was to be seen - and to be heard. If you could be seen and heard standing with your hands on your hips, talking to your next door neighbour and his wife, (who invariably possessed a fake sun-tan, loud fake gold jewellery and equally loud and fake laugh) - that was the name of the game. It meant you were in with "the set".
And heaven help those who weren't.
If you put two Welsh people together, they will invariably form a committee. Adorned in navy blue Marks and Sparks blazers and silver-rimmed spectacles, their three core functions are to make decisions no one can understand, make sure everyone knows they are committee members, and enusre sure their chums are well looked after. It was therefore inevitable that the "executive estate" had a Resident's Committee, (would readers please stand and bow their heads in respect. Thank you. You may now be seated).
We were pretty much left free from the driveway gossip until my parents took exception to the goings on of, "The Committee". In other words, they committed social-suicide.
The estate was still being built and the builders would leave their equipment and materials on-site over-night. Members of the committee took this to mean that anyone who wanted cement, sand, timber or tools, were free to go along and help themselves. Of course, if anyone from the nearby street of terraced houses had done the same thing, they would have been asking "What are the police doing about it?" and demanded the reintroduction of capital punishment, corporal punishment and National Service.
Things came to a head the year Lizzie and Phil's dim-witted sprog was made Prince of Wales. To mark the occasion, every child on the estate was given a little medal with the image of Charlie embossed on it and invited to the "Estate Party," which of course had plenty of balloons and hand-painted banners to show how patriotic the residents were. What's the point in being patriotic if you don't tell anyone!
Sorry, the above paragraph is not quite accurate. Every child was given a medal and invited to the party except - guess who. To be fair, one mother did feel sorry for me and a few weeks later I was offered her son's medal as he, "no longer wanted it".
Rover 2000s have one thing in common with other cars. Their paintwork scratches just as easily - at least, so I am told. Not that I would ever do anything like that of course.
Wherever you may be - be safe!
