Cartoon by Natasha Williams-Novak By Catherine Watson
Sunday November 1
For two years I’ve been trying to persuade Cate to walk at Cape Woolamai and she’s finally run out of excuses. You’d normally steer clear of the island on a Melbourne Cup weekend but San Remo is practically deserted. As we approach the bridge, Cate confesses she’s always avoided the island: the busloads of tourists and that bloody road through suburbia.
Half an hour after setting off, we spot our first wallaby, with a large joey in her pouch. She stands still and silent, watching us for a long time, before bounding off. As we come down the hill we catch a glimpse of the pink granite bay through the Moreton Bay figs. We have the bay to ourselves. It’s still and sunny. We sit on the pink boulders and paddle in the warm water. This must be what the island was like in the 1970s.
Sunday November 1
For two years I’ve been trying to persuade Cate to walk at Cape Woolamai and she’s finally run out of excuses. You’d normally steer clear of the island on a Melbourne Cup weekend but San Remo is practically deserted. As we approach the bridge, Cate confesses she’s always avoided the island: the busloads of tourists and that bloody road through suburbia.
Half an hour after setting off, we spot our first wallaby, with a large joey in her pouch. She stands still and silent, watching us for a long time, before bounding off. As we come down the hill we catch a glimpse of the pink granite bay through the Moreton Bay figs. We have the bay to ourselves. It’s still and sunny. We sit on the pink boulders and paddle in the warm water. This must be what the island was like in the 1970s.
Then the exhilaration of the view from the beacon, the Pinnacles. We see few people but many wallabies, one snake, one echidna and many mutton birds holes. Cate is won over. On the drive home, she talks about coming back to the island. But our time is running out: “they” will soon be back.
Tuesday November 3
Lying in bed drinking my coffee, I watch a blackbird land on the verandah rail trailing a long piece of straw. The bird has a quick look around then takes off. S/he’s back less than a minute later with another piece. Later I watch where she’s headed: a dense strawberry guava bush. Between fetching the straws, the blackbird heads for the gutter on my shed and returns with beakfuls of mud. No wonder blackbird nests are so messy. It’s a very rapid build. I’m tempted to peek into the bush. I’ve seen many blackbird nests in my time but never a work in progress. What does the first step look like?
Spring. Everywhere magpies are fighting or having sex, it’s hard to tell which.
I pull out all the clothes I bought on eBay during the lockdowns. Some were too long, some were too short, some were too narrow, some were too wide. Or I was. Some turned out to be pink. None was the lime green I wanted. I kept hoping that one day I would open a package and it would be just what I wanted. I did manage one successful pullover and one pair of jeans. Today I pack up the rest for the op shop.
Wednesday, November 4
D-day. We are becalmed as we wait on word from the US. Surely they couldn’t elect that buffoon again. And yet … An email from my friend Margaret in Massachussets: “Can’t bear to watch. We’re across the street with friends and I’m not watching the TV. I’m feeling scared.” Later: “It’s 11 pm EST and there is no landslide for Biden. We are going to bed. Everything seems surreal...”
Thursday, November 5
264 for Biden, 214 for Trump. First to 270. What a strange system. What a strange country. Further results will be announced any time now. Like billions around the world, I check. And check. And check ... What’s wrong with this damned computer?
Friday, November 6
264 for Biden, 214 for Trump. It’s a foregone conclusion but I can't relax. I refresh and refresh and the numbers don’t move.
In the old Wonthaggi Post Office, the VEC swings the wheel for preferences and announces the winners in our own Bass Coast Council election.
My NZ friend Jill emails a photo of her and her friends at a café outside Rotorua. They sit side by side, no masks, no social distancing, no worries. I am jealous.
Saturday, November 7
I wake to the news … no news. Still 264 for Biden, 214 for Trump. A result expected any time now. Come on guys! It can’t be that hard.
Sunday November 8
I wake to the news. 290 for Biden, 214 for Trump. Finally! The result hasn’t been called by an electoral commission but by the TV networks. Like Trump, I’m a little sceptical but what the hell. A collective exhalation of breath we didn’t know we were holding. Margaret emails: “I literally cried in relief. Phone calls were flying around, cars were honking, fireworks were going off and there was a spontaneous rally in Northampton which D went to. … We had dinner with friends and celebrated w/a lovely bottle of prosecco and watched Biden and Harris’ victory speech. For the first time in over 4 years, I felt a lightness inside me. I feel I can actually go back and just lead a normal life.”
Monday, November 9
Town’s buzzing. There are queues of traffic at every intersection and the car parks are full. We’ve been warned. They are coming! And this time it won’t just be for the holidays; they’ll want to live here and walk on the beaches and breathe the good air and work from home. And who can blame them? I’m torn between pity for people living in the burbs and a very selfish desire to keep this place to ourselves.
The new council is sworn in. The smartest kids in the top class, first day of school. The usual photo is of a close-knit group. This year the masked councillors are lined up across the width of the town hall, 1.5 metres apart. Will this be the official photo, I wonder, to stay on the wall for as long as Bass Coast shall last?
Tuesday, November 10
It’s been one of those weeks: vet, mechanic, dentist. At this rate, I can only afford to live another 18 months. Two fillings at the dentist. Rachel, the dentist, tells me:. “The cavity was very close to the nerve. If it starts to hurt, come back and I’ll do a root canal.” Um … thanks.
I cruise downhill into town on my bike to pick up the ute from the mechanic. Karl is keen to show me his handiwork. I try to look engaged but it’s too damned hot. I’m tempted to go for a swim but I am a child of the Pacific. I recall the first year we came to Wonthaggi – 1996. It was 30 degrees on the Melbourne Cup weekend so I went out to Cape and dived in – and the Southern Ocean was so icy my heart stopped beating. I died briefly. When I came to, I resolved never to try to swim before mid-December.
Tuesday November 3
Lying in bed drinking my coffee, I watch a blackbird land on the verandah rail trailing a long piece of straw. The bird has a quick look around then takes off. S/he’s back less than a minute later with another piece. Later I watch where she’s headed: a dense strawberry guava bush. Between fetching the straws, the blackbird heads for the gutter on my shed and returns with beakfuls of mud. No wonder blackbird nests are so messy. It’s a very rapid build. I’m tempted to peek into the bush. I’ve seen many blackbird nests in my time but never a work in progress. What does the first step look like?
Spring. Everywhere magpies are fighting or having sex, it’s hard to tell which.
I pull out all the clothes I bought on eBay during the lockdowns. Some were too long, some were too short, some were too narrow, some were too wide. Or I was. Some turned out to be pink. None was the lime green I wanted. I kept hoping that one day I would open a package and it would be just what I wanted. I did manage one successful pullover and one pair of jeans. Today I pack up the rest for the op shop.
Wednesday, November 4
D-day. We are becalmed as we wait on word from the US. Surely they couldn’t elect that buffoon again. And yet … An email from my friend Margaret in Massachussets: “Can’t bear to watch. We’re across the street with friends and I’m not watching the TV. I’m feeling scared.” Later: “It’s 11 pm EST and there is no landslide for Biden. We are going to bed. Everything seems surreal...”
Thursday, November 5
264 for Biden, 214 for Trump. First to 270. What a strange system. What a strange country. Further results will be announced any time now. Like billions around the world, I check. And check. And check ... What’s wrong with this damned computer?
Friday, November 6
264 for Biden, 214 for Trump. It’s a foregone conclusion but I can't relax. I refresh and refresh and the numbers don’t move.
In the old Wonthaggi Post Office, the VEC swings the wheel for preferences and announces the winners in our own Bass Coast Council election.
My NZ friend Jill emails a photo of her and her friends at a café outside Rotorua. They sit side by side, no masks, no social distancing, no worries. I am jealous.
Saturday, November 7
I wake to the news … no news. Still 264 for Biden, 214 for Trump. A result expected any time now. Come on guys! It can’t be that hard.
Sunday November 8
I wake to the news. 290 for Biden, 214 for Trump. Finally! The result hasn’t been called by an electoral commission but by the TV networks. Like Trump, I’m a little sceptical but what the hell. A collective exhalation of breath we didn’t know we were holding. Margaret emails: “I literally cried in relief. Phone calls were flying around, cars were honking, fireworks were going off and there was a spontaneous rally in Northampton which D went to. … We had dinner with friends and celebrated w/a lovely bottle of prosecco and watched Biden and Harris’ victory speech. For the first time in over 4 years, I felt a lightness inside me. I feel I can actually go back and just lead a normal life.”
Monday, November 9
Town’s buzzing. There are queues of traffic at every intersection and the car parks are full. We’ve been warned. They are coming! And this time it won’t just be for the holidays; they’ll want to live here and walk on the beaches and breathe the good air and work from home. And who can blame them? I’m torn between pity for people living in the burbs and a very selfish desire to keep this place to ourselves.
The new council is sworn in. The smartest kids in the top class, first day of school. The usual photo is of a close-knit group. This year the masked councillors are lined up across the width of the town hall, 1.5 metres apart. Will this be the official photo, I wonder, to stay on the wall for as long as Bass Coast shall last?
Tuesday, November 10
It’s been one of those weeks: vet, mechanic, dentist. At this rate, I can only afford to live another 18 months. Two fillings at the dentist. Rachel, the dentist, tells me:. “The cavity was very close to the nerve. If it starts to hurt, come back and I’ll do a root canal.” Um … thanks.
I cruise downhill into town on my bike to pick up the ute from the mechanic. Karl is keen to show me his handiwork. I try to look engaged but it’s too damned hot. I’m tempted to go for a swim but I am a child of the Pacific. I recall the first year we came to Wonthaggi – 1996. It was 30 degrees on the Melbourne Cup weekend so I went out to Cape and dived in – and the Southern Ocean was so icy my heart stopped beating. I died briefly. When I came to, I resolved never to try to swim before mid-December.
So I drag out the old lilo, put sticking plaster over the holes, pump it up and walk down to the dam. The top 10 centimetres is warm but underneath it’s cool and refreshing. I wade out through the duckweed and dragonflies, flop onto the lilo and float around, dive bombed by the wattle birds and with the yabbies nibbling my toes. It’s lovely!
Wednesday, November 11
An email from Anne, part of a group fighting to preserve the biolink between Lang Lang and Grantville. “I seem to have spent the entire year at the keyboard and feel exhausted just writing it all down. No sooner do I finish one submission than the next battle emerges. It just seems endless and I'm not sure whether any of it will make a difference but what else can I do?”
On the way home from a gardening job, I see John and Frank and stop the car in the middle of the road to talk to them. It’s a very Wonthaggi habit. Another car approaches and Lyn and Larry stop and join us. There’s only one possible subject. John is still anxious, convinced Trump is going to find a way back. We discuss the various permutations.
Some good news. The Wonthaggi cinema is re-opening, though Larry’s not sure when. Cinema is top of my list of missing/missed things. Life is returning to normal. He asks about the pumpkin competition. It’s the first year in 10 we haven’t awarded the Reed Crescent Cup. Partly COVID, partly bad seeds. As the 2019 champion, it was up to me to pick the variety for the 2020 competition. I chose a heritage variety called Blue Hubbard, ordered and distributed the very expensive seeds to the 10 growers – and not one sprouted. I lost interest – part COVID blues – and thought we might let the competition fade, but with four of the growers gathered in the street, we make a unilateral decision to revive it.
Vilya and Martin have gone to visit their family in Upwey – first visit for Martin for many months – and I’m in charge of their five new chooks and one old dog. In her prime, Lily was never still but these days she’s content to doze all day. I feed her at 5pm, give her a cuddle, and return at dusk to lock the chook house. Five very wide-awake chooks look at me. I grab one, throw her inside and go to grab another. By that time the first one is outside again. I give up and come back half an hour later to a contented gurgling from the henhouse. “Good night, girls.”
An email from Anne, part of a group fighting to preserve the biolink between Lang Lang and Grantville. “I seem to have spent the entire year at the keyboard and feel exhausted just writing it all down. No sooner do I finish one submission than the next battle emerges. It just seems endless and I'm not sure whether any of it will make a difference but what else can I do?”
On the way home from a gardening job, I see John and Frank and stop the car in the middle of the road to talk to them. It’s a very Wonthaggi habit. Another car approaches and Lyn and Larry stop and join us. There’s only one possible subject. John is still anxious, convinced Trump is going to find a way back. We discuss the various permutations.
Some good news. The Wonthaggi cinema is re-opening, though Larry’s not sure when. Cinema is top of my list of missing/missed things. Life is returning to normal. He asks about the pumpkin competition. It’s the first year in 10 we haven’t awarded the Reed Crescent Cup. Partly COVID, partly bad seeds. As the 2019 champion, it was up to me to pick the variety for the 2020 competition. I chose a heritage variety called Blue Hubbard, ordered and distributed the very expensive seeds to the 10 growers – and not one sprouted. I lost interest – part COVID blues – and thought we might let the competition fade, but with four of the growers gathered in the street, we make a unilateral decision to revive it.
Vilya and Martin have gone to visit their family in Upwey – first visit for Martin for many months – and I’m in charge of their five new chooks and one old dog. In her prime, Lily was never still but these days she’s content to doze all day. I feed her at 5pm, give her a cuddle, and return at dusk to lock the chook house. Five very wide-awake chooks look at me. I grab one, throw her inside and go to grab another. By that time the first one is outside again. I give up and come back half an hour later to a contented gurgling from the henhouse. “Good night, girls.”
Thursday November 12
Don’t forget the chooks! I had to write myself a note. I go across at 7.15am –before my coffee! – and as I approach I can hear the complaints: “Half the day’s gone!” I open the door and they tumble out over one another, ready for another day of … nothing much but all of it enjoyable. Chooks are so charming. These girls have only just started laying, sweet little brown eggs. Later Martin presents me with a big one, a double yolker for sure. “It was laid on your shift,” he says.
Etsuko sends her Post column and explains: “It's a kind of an ode to winged creatures as they have given me so much delight especially this year.”
Hair cut and colour. I have on a mask, a cap and hair steamer and look like I belong in a Saudi harem. Lynne photographs me for posterity. She’s collecting a box of COVID mementoes for her grandchildren. Masks, screening tags, instructions, photos. As a customer leaves the salon, she mentions she’s going away for a few days. Lynne jokes “Not a cruise?” and explains to me later. She and her partner were due to leave for a cruise in the Greek islands just after COVID struck. On top of everything, the airline they were booked on went broke and they lost their money. But not their spirit. Each night, at home in Wonthaggi, they cooked the cuisines of the countries they should have been visiting. They set up a virtual porthole – their dryer – and photographed pictures from the cruise line brochure of the scenery they should have been seeing. They even mastered the art of hotel towel folding. Of all the COVID stories I’ve heard, this is my favourite.
I meet Norma returning home from her first day back at the RACV after seven months away. A nine-hour day cooking and she’s exhausted. One good thing to come out of the lockdowns, she was able to spend the past few months in Melbourne caring for her father during his final illness. She would never have been able to do that except for COVID.
I grab Matilda and we head for Harmers. Yesterday there was an area at Wreck Beach roped off for a hooded plover nest. It’s not there today. Steve, the head hoodie, is erecting a new rope at the mouth of the creek nearby. He tells me there was only a single egg and it was taken, probably a magpie. The magpies never used to bother with the eggs but seem to have learned it from watching the ravens.
Don’t forget the chooks! I had to write myself a note. I go across at 7.15am –before my coffee! – and as I approach I can hear the complaints: “Half the day’s gone!” I open the door and they tumble out over one another, ready for another day of … nothing much but all of it enjoyable. Chooks are so charming. These girls have only just started laying, sweet little brown eggs. Later Martin presents me with a big one, a double yolker for sure. “It was laid on your shift,” he says.
Etsuko sends her Post column and explains: “It's a kind of an ode to winged creatures as they have given me so much delight especially this year.”
Hair cut and colour. I have on a mask, a cap and hair steamer and look like I belong in a Saudi harem. Lynne photographs me for posterity. She’s collecting a box of COVID mementoes for her grandchildren. Masks, screening tags, instructions, photos. As a customer leaves the salon, she mentions she’s going away for a few days. Lynne jokes “Not a cruise?” and explains to me later. She and her partner were due to leave for a cruise in the Greek islands just after COVID struck. On top of everything, the airline they were booked on went broke and they lost their money. But not their spirit. Each night, at home in Wonthaggi, they cooked the cuisines of the countries they should have been visiting. They set up a virtual porthole – their dryer – and photographed pictures from the cruise line brochure of the scenery they should have been seeing. They even mastered the art of hotel towel folding. Of all the COVID stories I’ve heard, this is my favourite.
I meet Norma returning home from her first day back at the RACV after seven months away. A nine-hour day cooking and she’s exhausted. One good thing to come out of the lockdowns, she was able to spend the past few months in Melbourne caring for her father during his final illness. She would never have been able to do that except for COVID.
I grab Matilda and we head for Harmers. Yesterday there was an area at Wreck Beach roped off for a hooded plover nest. It’s not there today. Steve, the head hoodie, is erecting a new rope at the mouth of the creek nearby. He tells me there was only a single egg and it was taken, probably a magpie. The magpies never used to bother with the eggs but seem to have learned it from watching the ravens.
Two more complications: Steve says they suspect foxes have begun to recognise the rope barricades as signalling a light supper. And the Inverloch hoodies face a new threat from the air: drones and paragliders, which look like big birds of prey. But he has one bit of good news. Eight chicks have already hatched on Phillip Island and four are close to fledging. The hoodies have prospered as the lockdown kept visitors away.
I swore I wouldn’t include any more photos of Harmers but the light this evening is so extraordinary. Last one, I promise.
Friday, November 13
That old windbag Trump is deflating before our eyes. Pfizer reckons it’s nailed a vaccine. The cinemas are opening. The hoodies are hatching. The pumpkin competition is back on track.
I’m done with you, COVID.
THE END
I swore I wouldn’t include any more photos of Harmers but the light this evening is so extraordinary. Last one, I promise.
Friday, November 13
That old windbag Trump is deflating before our eyes. Pfizer reckons it’s nailed a vaccine. The cinemas are opening. The hoodies are hatching. The pumpkin competition is back on track.
I’m done with you, COVID.
THE END