Mister Brisbane: That darn cat
The neighbour's pet is making itself at home at my place
This is becoming a common sight in my back yard. The neighbour’s cat has decided that it likes being near me — not close enough for me to touch him (her?) mind you.
The first I became aware of it was when my upstairs neighbour and her daughter came knocking asking me if I’d seen their cat. I, truthfully, said No. Neighbour: “That’s odd, we saw her (him?) jump over the fence.” So, I had another look to my tiny backyard, and there he (she?) was.
We couldn’t corral the cat that day — it jumped over the fence into the next yard — and I don’t know whether it ever goes home any more. But it is a regular visitor to my back yard, and I like that.
I’d love to have my own cat, but with my itinerant lifestyle, I’m not sure that I could commit to — or if I even actually have — the 15 to 20 years of attention that a pet deserves.
The cat’s appearance also reminded me of one of the cats we had when I was a child. Like many felines, it spread itself around a few backyards — usually in search of a morsel from the dinner table.
Have you ever shared a cat with others? I’d like to hear your story …
BEGINNING OF THE END?
I work unusual hours, so it’s not strange that I feel tired right now (the morning after a long day at work that began before the sun came up). But, in general, have we reached that time of the year when we all just want to wind down? It used to come some time in late November or early December, but has COVID fatigue brought that forward?
THE MATILDA MATTER
I used to be a judge of the Matilda Awards, the annual presenting of prizes to Brisbane theatre people. Heck, one year I basically ran the show, including paying for the stamps, stuffing the envelopes and mailing out the invitations. It’s been a long time since I’ve been intimately involved in the arts scene, though, so my opinion probably isn’t worth more than anybody else’s. But I’m going to give it anyway.
The awards have evolved over the years. When I joined the panel (in the second or third year of their existence, in the very late 1980s), the Matildas were awarded by critics from newspapers and radio. Inevitably, the roster of judges changed, and there were internal skirmishes regarding who should and shouldn’t be allowed on the panel. Over time, the Matildas became industry awards, decided by people within the tent, not those on the outside looking in. Less like the Golden Globes (and, yes, I realise that’s a problematic comparison) and more like the Oscars.
Over the past days, there’s been some chatter regarding proposed changes to the Matildas, including removing specific male and female awards, and to remove the word “best” in favour of “outstanding achievement”. According to the proposal, this “removes the element of hierarchy, mitigates the sense of competition [and] allows potential nominees to be considered on their own merit rather than pitted against other industry members”.
Some commentators are saying that this defeats the purpose. Why not just give everyone a prize and be done with it, or not have awards at all?
As I said, it’s nothing to do with me. The days of judging or being judged are pretty much behind me. At this point in my life, I’m unlikely to win anything. In fact, the last time I put my hand up for something — partly because I thought winning would be fun — I never heard back. (Which suggests total rejection, and that’s harder to take than not winning.)
What I will say is that being the judge of anything is always difficult. All you can do is your best. And, when working as one member of a committee, an individual judge is often required to support a decision that was not theirs.
What I do know is that, whatever decision is made regarding the Matildas, there will be people who’ll be absolutely delighted to receive an award, and many who will be very, very pissed off if they don’t. Whatever the semantics, it will be regarded as a competition. The winners will be lauded at a lavish ceremony and their names will be published. And, you can bet, those winners will add the achievement to their CVs. And anyone who says the whole shebang is not competitive will be disingenuous.
FEEDBACK
From Frank in Scotland: “Your piece on mangoes got me thinking about my Abu Dhabi days. I'd never really taken to the Costa Rican, Brazilian mangoes (mangos?) we got in Scottish supermarkets. Dull and either hard or disgustingly squishy. I hit AD in May 2012 and, about a month later, sub-continental mango season began. In the local Lulu's supermarket there was a massive array of at least 25 different mango varieties ranging from Dh10 a kilo to Dh100 a kilo [$A3.60-$36]. Sheer bliss. Perfectly ripe and easy to peel, delicious to eat. Mangoes for breakfast, mango desserts, mango lassi, mango kulfi. Made me a convert! Now, back in Glasgow, I use the local Pakistani family's greengrocer. They only stock Indian or Pakistani mangoes in season - so the only time I buy them.”
On the same subject, Cathy says: “In my opinion, the mangoes were dry and sour because they were picked too soon by a farmer who only cares about getting his crop to market early before there's a glut and prices go down. I don't blame the supermarkets in this instance. I do think, though, that you, being a man of great brains and experience of the world, should be able to tell, just by looking, whether a mango is mature or not.”
She adds: “And regarding zero vs oh, some years ago I realised that I had been reciting my number as ‘oh 4 1 zero’…”
Malcolm has this “small-town” story: “driving in traffic a few months ago ,next to Prince Charles Hospital, at the lights, I picked up a drawer full of stuff that fell out of a ute, as it was interfering with traffic. I dug thru it found a phone number, organised a pick up next weekend, they didn’t show, drove round with it in the car for a month, ended up they lived about 200 metres from where I grew up.” [Editor’s note: Malcolm’s boyhood home was directly opposite my boyhood home.”]
Nick says: “Had a mate who lived in a house at Red Hill. He moved away. Got a dinner invite a few years later and as we got closer realised it was in the same street as old mate's place. Got even closer when we realised it was the same house! They still got mail addressed to the old mate!”
Lee on emu parades: “When we moved to Brisbane I went into grade 2 & got so excited when they told us we were having an emu parade. I was SO disappointed to find out what it actually was.”
PHOTO FINISH
How last week’s downpour briefly turned a suburban park into a lake. It’s been a rainy old October, all right.
Living in Bangkok, I've adopted a street cat I first called Eric (in deference to Eric Clapton who called his black guitar 'Blackie'.) Then I realised Eric was actually an Erica (after she had kittens). My girlfriend has another name for this cat which is too rude to be posted here (she thinks I love the cat more than her - not true)...