​Neville decided to share this version of his story in class, however he explained that he had edited this story using ChatGPT.  He appeared quite bemused by the result...  "How did it know about, and why did it include, the dead parrot sketch?" 

It's an interesting version as the context and prompt he used clearly gave ChatGPT scope to be creative.  It's always useful to see what it produces if you ask it, for example, "to edit the following story keeping as much of the original wording and tone as possible".  

Here is the original version of Neville's story... written in the writing style the As Time Goes By class have grown to know and love - rarely if ever with a comma, but, as having what ChatGPT elsewhere assessed as having "the heart of good writing: a strong personal voice, vivid detail, and emotional truth."  This has been a feature of Neville's writing over the years and is respected and valued by the class. 

​Bev Lee, ATGB convenor.

Have you ever been lost?

When I was a child I had a great fear of getting lost. I inherited this fear from my Mother. She was constantly fearful of getting lost. If my father drove along a road she was not familiar with she was always concerned as to where this road would take us. Did he know where he was going? She absolutely hated going to Melbourne because she had heard people were always getting lost. Her own mother had once got lost in Melbourne. She refused to allow my father to drive her around Melbourne - she always insisted that someone else drive her when she was in Melbourne. She had grown up in the north east beside a railway line. She liked railways. She trusted railways because they always told you where they were going. She had no trouble traveling around Melbourne by train. You always knew where the train was going she would say. Once you got off the train and left the station was where trouble started. . You didn’t know where you were.

She had a dislike of being away from home. But she wasn’t frightened of railways.

One day I did get lost. It remains fixed in my mind. I must have been 3 or 4. It happened in Wangaratta. It was in the afternoon.

I was in Wangaratta with my parents. They were always stopping to talk to people in the street. I was with my mother. I had to wait while she talked to someone she knew.

Suddenly I was on my own. I could not see my mother. I looked around concerned. There were groups of people but she wasn’t in any of them. I felt  myself panicking. I was lost. What was I to do?

I saw someone on the other side of the road. Was that my mother? Some people were going across the road so I went with them. This was before there were traffic lights or pedestrian crossings in Wangaratta. Halfway across the road I could see that my mother was not in the group of people waiting on the other side of the road. This only increased my feeling of panic. I really was lost.

Somehow I made it back to the side of the road I was originally on. I saw a woman I thought was my mother and I ran to her. But when I got to her it wasn’t her.

By this time I felt utterly alone. I stopped walking.

Suddenly my mother came from behind me and appeared in front of me. I did nor know where she had been. She indicated with her hand I should walk with her. She didn’t know I had been lost.

My relief was palpable.


A few years later my brother went missing.  This was much more important and much more potentially dangerous. Suddenly he was nowhere to be found. He was nowhere.

He was lost for about 5 minutes. But it seemed like hours. This time he was really lost.

We lived on a farm in the country. Our house was on the bank of an ancient river system. There were lots of waterholes close to the house.

My brother was a toddler. He wasn’t in the house. He wasn’t in the Dairy. He wasn’t in the cattle yards. He  was nowhere to be found.

My mother was on the verge of being hysterical. How could he go missing so quickly?

Luckily we had some casual workers on the farm and they quickly fanned out to search the area. Maybe he had gotten into one of the waterholes. They literally ran to look. My mother was extremely worried and could not stop crying. Where is he! Where is He!

A yell came from one of the men who were by this time out of sight. We’ve found him he called.

The man was about 300 metres from us. He had found  my brother at the bottom of a gully. He came up from the gully holding my brother.My brother was crying at being held by an adult he had never seen before. He was very distressed at being taken by this stranger.

The relief was palpable.

My brother had somehow got through several fences. He had skirted two water holes and had walked along a gully. He was at least 300 metres away from the house. And out of sight.

We lived on an ancient river system and had lots of waterholes within reach. Luckily he wasn’t drawn to water.


Neville Gibb
​August 2025

In life we are confronted with a number of dilemmas. Some are things we want to stop doing.

One important confrontation I had in my life was -  How Can I Stop Smoking?

Easier said than done.

I was familiar with smoking from a young age. Both my parents smoked. And enjoyed it. Especially my mother.

I had a large extended family which included a number of youths older than me. All of whom who smoked. It seemed so normal. I wanted nothing more than to be accepted by them. These youths were admired by every adult. I wanted to be admired. They already seemed to have successful lives. They were grown up even though they were still teenagers. They were heroes. I wanted to be like them. They all smoked and I would ask them to give me a cigarette. They did. This is how I started smoking.

By the time I was 17 I was smoking in secret. I continued into my adult life and became an addict. I couldn’t stop. I always had the yearn to smoke.

When I had children I thought I should stop. I did not want them to see me smoking.

I tried various ways experimenting to see if I could stop. I would ration my smoking knowing that I would enjoy it more. I would go days without smoking but always would relapse on the weekend. If I drove the car I felt like smoking.  When my children saw me smoking they looked surprised.


I like to say that it took me 10 years to give up smoking. This statement could very well be true. The government had a campaign that encouraged people to give up smoking. I decided to try it. I wanted to give up and I was happy to try the governments policy.

I tried to follow the campaign. I was able to cut down smoking. I slowly got to the point where I went for a week without smoking. My seat at the football was in the smoking area and I couldn’t resist having several cigarettes when watching the football.


I was never a heavy smoker. But if I overindulged I would feel affected. Damaged. If I went to a hotel and drank and smoked I would feel bad the next day. It would take me at least one day to get over the hangover. Drinking and smoking can be seductive. But it was always damaging to my health. I knew this.

I had a close friend who was a heavy smoker who gave up cold turkey on a Thursday. He just said I decided on Wednesday not to smoke any more. Thursday was as good a day as any to give up. So I did, he said.

This worried me. How did he do it. I wanted to emulate him. Why couldn’t I emulate him?

In Russel Braddens memoir The Naked Island he describes the joys of smoking. He relates how everyone  would be on work parties all day. They would come home at night for a meagre meal, but then they would have an hour to themselves to indulge in the wonder of nicotine. Roll your cigarettes. Line them up for consumption. Light up. Draw in the smoke and escape into pleasure. Bask in the joys of nicotine.

This was in Changhi Gaol. How did tobacco make its way into a Japanese Prisoner of War camp? What hope do modern authorities have of banning narcotics if the Japanese Army couldn’t prevent the import of Tobacco through an occupied Island into a stockaded Japanese Prison.

By the age of twenty one I was addicted. Like most people I have an addictive personality. I was confronted with the problem of what to do about it. I liked to think that I enjoyed smoking. I would celebrate something by having a smoke. I smoked at family gatherings. I liked to say I was a social smoker but I wasn’t. I was an addict.

I slowly cut down by using the celibacy method. I deliberately did not smoke at home. I would deliberately go all week without smoking. Within a short time I was celibate. But like all celibates I had the urge to smoke. The addiction meant the desire was always there.  Always lurking in the background. And easily given into.

One morning at work I had the occasion to walk from my office to the warehouse and back. A distance of about 300 metres. By the time I got back to the office I realized that I had given up smoking. During the walk something happened inside my body. There was some change in the flow of bodily fluid. Some  chemical change occurred.  I felt different.

I no longer had the urge to smoke. My body felt as if it was regenerating. I had got over the hump. From now on my life will be easy. I realised it would be different. Better..


I am obliged to ask the obvious question? Can we compare smoking to climate change?  

Have we accepted that climate change is hazardous to our health? Have we accepted that climate change is something we should be concerned with. I think the jury is still out unfortunately. Refer to recent National Party Policy.

 If we had surveyed everyone in 1956 how many people would have agreed that smoking was hazardous to your health? Likely answer - no one. It was not obviously hazardous so why should we be concerned?

Some people lived to an old age without getting ill from smoking. This settled the argument. Smoking was so prevalent in society. It was unthinkable that there would be sanctions against it.

Ditto Climate change.


Neville Gibb
​June 2025

I was there at lots of things. When I was young it seemed that lots of things happened and I was there to watch.

I want to relate as to how I was there before indoor plumbing.

My first memories are from the late 40’s. People were still recovering from the war and the depression. They were more or less still living under depression standards.

All during the 30’s unemployed men had walked up and down the roads between towns looking for work or charity. My extended family had managed to keep house and hearth intact but some of them lived pretty rough. Not all had running water. Living conditions for the most part were hard. Money was scarce.

We sometimes visited my mother's sister. She and her family lived in a rented house that could be called primitive. It had no running water. The house was not lined and some of the weatherboards had spaces between the boards so you could see through. It had no hot water. It had a bathroom with a primitive bath. It had a copper for heating water and washing clothes. Water was used several times. Clothes were washed first. Then dishes. Then people. All heated up in the copper. Of course water was added when needed by bringing buckets from the tank outside and put into the copper.

For many men their first full time job was when they joined the Army.

My father joined up at the first opportunity. He married my mother when in uniform. She lived with her family and received a portion of his Army pay when he was away. When he returned from the war he joined several organisations - RSL - ex POW - British Legion - Masonic Lodge. He always held some official position in all these organisations.


But all this is but background.

My father and a colleague had convinced another ex serviceman to move from his camp on the river to a hut that was near another ex serviceman's farm. This ex serviceman had lived rough before the war but had seen action several times and was well respected by his fellow ex servicemen. It was said he was mentioned in Dispatches. After the war he had gone back to living rough in a camp isolated near the head of the river. He was persuaded to come back and live where they could keep an eye on him.

My father took me with him when he and the colleague visited the man to see how he was getting on. The man said he wasn't better off at all. He didn't know if he would stay or move back to his camp. He spoke in a firm tone. He said he didn't like the bloke who owned the place. They shouldnt interfere.

I had never seen another man talk to my father in this manner and I was intrigued. My father and his friend went off to talk by themselves. I stayed and watched the man. He said he was getting ready for a funeral. He pointedly said he could not stop what he was doing to look after me. But I was intrigued and just stayed to watch him without saying anything.

I stood at the door looking in. He had a primitive stove with a kettle. He had what appeared to be a babies bath half filled with water. He brought the kettle to the babies bath and poured the hot water in. He took off his shirt and started to shave. He had a mug and  a small mirror in his hand. He walked to the door and threw the waste from the razor out the door after he scraped his face. I had to get out of way. The man didn't seem to care. He then put a flannel in the water and soaped it up. He vigorously wiped all his head and face with the soapy flannel. He then leant down and put his head in the babies bath and put his face and head under the water. He then wiped his head clean of soap and water with a separate towel.

He then told me he was shutting the door as he was taking off his clothes. I heard him step into the babies bath. I heard him rub his flannel in the water. He made noises as he rubbed himself down. I could hear the rubbing of the flannel.  I heard water dripping back into the babies bath. `I could hear water dripping on  the floor. I imagined water to be going everywhere.

Shortly he opened the door.

I hardly recognised it was the same bloke.

He was wearing a suit and tie and he was combing his hair. He looked very different. He looked normal - even smart. His suit was blue and resembled the suit my uncle wore. He had put on shoes and socks. The shoes were a shiny dark brown and looked expensive.

He then carried the babies bath outside and threw the water on the garden.

I watched the whole time until my father came back. Of course I was intrigued. This man must have lived like this every day.

I was there when people lived without indoor plumbing.


Neville Gibb
​February 2025

​In a way we are always starting over. Most of us are constantly confronted with having to start over. We sometimes start over by moving jobs. Sometimes we start over by moving house. Sometimes we are forced to start over.

This is a report on a woman who had to start over several times. Big time. Maybe it didn't seem like a big time, because she did not make a fuss. But it was. How she did it without showing any adverse reaction I do not know. She did it in each case without complaint or explanation.

In my youth I had an extended family, but I have to admit, I wasn't blessed with popularity. However, I had an Aunt I knew liked me. She said so. She was my father’s Aunt and therefore my great Aunt. The interesting thing was that two brothers had married two sisters, so my father was related to her on both sides. I was her husband’s great nephew.  I was also her sister’s grandchild. She effectively took me under her wing. She encouraged me in everything I did, and she encouraged her children to look out for me and help me where they could. Not all of them did, for one reason or another. They were much older, being contemporaries of my father. They had their own busy lives, so were not in constant contact with me.
​
However, one of her children did help me, the youngest daughter who lived at home with her mother. She was slightly younger than my father, who was her first cousin. Because she was the youngest in the family she was always treated as being the baby. She had an active social life in the town, but she did not marry at the usual age. She had what was considered a responsible job and was well known in the town. All her siblings had moved out of home, but she continued to live at home - presumably to take care of her mother - my Aunt. This was never specified or even spoken about. It was just assumed.

My Aunt directed her daughter to help me whenever she could. I admit that I was lucky she did what her mother asked, but she didn't resent helping me. I enjoyed her help. For instance, her mother directed that she loaned me her car whenever I wanted it. This wasn't too often, but at times I did take advantage. I was barely 18. Not that I advertised the fact, because I knew I was taking advantage. This would not be judged to be socially acceptable by the extended family. We kept it secret from my father for instance. My Aunt did not spread it around either, but she did direct her daughter to loan me her car and whatever else she could do.

This daughter is the person who had to start over. Several times.  This became obvious to me after the fact, when many years had passed. Starting over can be a big thing.

The daughter lived at home looking after her mother until her mother became old and frail. This took a long time. My Aunt’s mind remained intact, however she resented the fact that her body gave out. She often begged me to help - sometimes tearfully. We had always been close, and I always kept in contact with her. Once she begged me to take her out of hospital. She offered me money. I felt at that point that I was not a real man. After all she did for me, I should have broken all the rules to help her and caused absolute chaos. But I did nothing. I merely told her daughter what she had asked. Her daughter was always there for her. And her daughter never complained. Well, never to me.

Finally, my Aunt died. The terms of her husband’s will specified that my Aunt could live in the house as long as she was alive, but on her death the house was to be divided among the family. The house was put up for sale even before the funeral. This meant that her daughter had to immediately move out. In effect, the daughter who had looked after her mother was out of house and home. She had to start over.

She did this in a big way. She went away on a cruise of the Pacific Islands. When she came home, she had a breathtaking surprise for everyone. She came home with a friend she had met on the boat. This friend was an older female. She immediately moved in with her new friend. She did this without explanation or comment. This was indeed starting over. It was shocking for most of the family, and some never recovered.

She lived happily with her friend for 10 years, but then tragedy struck. Her friend was struck down with Alzheimer’s. This was quite a rapid and brutal process through which she lost all comprehension. Her face seemed to suddenly melt, and she quickly became almost unrecognisable.

Her friend died, and it was discovered that she had no interest in the property they lived in. Her friend’s family immediately sold the property, and she had to immediately move out.

She had to start over again.

And she did it without complaint. Well not to me.

She started over once again in an Aged Care Facility. This was big time. This time she was left with almost no personal items. For instance, 30000 slides were dispensed with. An extensive record collection disappeared.

Again she endured without complaint. Well, not to me.
 
Neville Gibb
October 2024

​(An unforgettable story written originally for the topic 'Running with Scissors' in late 2016, this slightly edited version relates to Neville's 'Gap Years' in London c 1969.  It features a 'gap' in more ways than one!)

I wonder if the well-known fictional character Edward Scissorhands ever ran recklessly. Would we have run with him? Encouraged him to run?
In real life we do not want to take risks.
How many risks do we really take in life? And how many choices do we have that involve risks?
We could argue that each time we drive a car we take risks. But self-preservation rules out really taking risks. We do not want to take risks.
But when we do take a risk we will remember it.

In my life I have only on two occasions taken risks that were death defying, one when I was 18, involving a car. ....

The other time I have taken a risk knowing it was life threatening was when I was living in Earls Court in London
.
A work colleague invited me to a music and drinks get together at his flat. I got talking to his flatmate. The dialogue went like this:-

Flatmate: Where do you live?
Me: Earls Court.
Flatmate: Whats the address?
Me: 75 Eardley Crescent.
Flatmate: Really! You are kidding. What floor?
Me; The third.
Flatmate: I know that flat. My brother used to live in that flat.
Me. What a coincidence. Where is your brother now? I have never heard you mention him.
Flatmate: I don’t mention him probably because he is dead.       (Steve was a bit of a wit)
Me: Really. What happened?
Flatmate. He was killed trying to get in through the window of your flat when he was drunk. He didn’t have his key and was trying to open the lounge window. You know the one that looks out onto the Exhibition Building.
Me(Very interested). Wow what happened?
Flatmate. He came home drunk. Didn’t have his key and proceed to climb up the drainpipe to get to the top of the building next door. You know the gap between to window and the next building?
Me. Yes
Flatmate: Yes well he slipped and fell. Apparently there was frost on the window sill. He was killed immediately.
 
Not a lot more could have been said.  The musical party proceeded. We went on with our lives.
 
But of course the inevitable happened. On Good Friday 1970 I came home after a nice night at our local and to my horror discovered I had no key. It being Easter everyone else in the flat was away elsewhere for all of the long break. I was locked out.
 
But I knew that it was possible to get in through the lounge window. It was possible. Dangerous but possible. I think it helped that I was slightly drunk.
Of course I was very cool about it all. I would take it in steps. I would go slowly to lessen the danger.
It was surprisingly easy to go up the drain pipe. It was almost as if the footholds were put there for me.  And yes there was quite a gap between the building I was on and our lounge room window. And the gap was three stories deep. But I didn’t look down too much. I concentrated on the window. I looked across the gap. I could almost touch the window. If I was to lean across I could hold onto the window frame. I made a bridge across with my body. I held on to the window sill. I put one hand under the window frame. The window opened easily. I tested if the window sill was frosty. I put my hands inside the flat. It felt warm and comforting. But I still had to get across a gap of about one metre.
 
This was running with scissors. It really was.
 
I took a risk and almost dived across into the window. It ended up being done very quickly. There was a cold spot as I passed over the gap. I ended up on the floor. As I said I was very cool about it. I carefully closed the window. I had a passing look at how far down the gap went.
I went to bed and slept the sleep of a relieved person. I had a nice Easter all by myself. It might have been this weekend I watched the very first Monty Python.
But I was changed forever. I had taken a big risk.  I was not aloof about  it. I had risked my life. The feeling stayed with me for some time.

Neville Gibb
Presented in August 2024, a slighlty edited version of a story originally presented in 2016.

​During my working life I always gave more to my job than it gave to me. Mind you, I never overdid it. I always ran my own show. I worked at my own speed. I always rationed my energy. I could always stop when I wanted to and I always did. In reality I  did a job that no one else wanted. I felt that my employees only gave me a grudging respect. They would have rather employed someone else if they could have got people willing to do the job. I kept my employers at arms length and they had to put up with it. But, I did have a conscience. I was responsible. I did the job properly. I always put more into the job than was written on the job description.

Since my retirement I have been plagued by dreams about work. Nightmares even.

These dream do not have the normal nightmare quality, such as falling down holes or falling off roofs. But you can call them  nightmares. They are always deeply disturbing and they do not vary much. They always have the same overall deep sense of foreboding. I always have a deep sense of guilt. I am always behind in my work - sometimes weeks behind - even months. I am always being asked to do tasks that I don't want to do. If I have a workstation, it has work on it I don't want to do. Mostly I have trouble finding a workstation. I do not know what to do. I have a deep sense of foreboding.

I do not have a permanent place of work. I turn up at the office in Moorabbin and I am asked to go to Frankston.  I get to Frankston and I don't have a desk or even a telephone. There is no Aged Trial Balance for me to work on. I have to arrange for a new printout to be produced. Nor is there a computer available for me to use. If I find one, I have forgotten how to set the computer up to print one out, so I have to call Head Office in Sydney. This involves an hour long telephone call to people who are resentful I have bothered them. I am told I will have to wait for a full day before someone will do what I am asking. .

I am asked to deal with the public as there is a long queue outside. I always draw an innocent plain looking young girl who is weeping uncontrollably as she has been threatened with legal action. Either that or I get a middle aged woman trying to pay for her husband's gambling debts and she shows me the bruises she has received when he has knocked her about - as if I could do something about it. I do not know what to do.

I do not  know if I should show sympathy in either case.

I finally get a printout and I am asked to move again to Prahran, as there is a shortage of staff. I know I have to do a reconciliation of the Office Bank Account and allocate cash payments which cannot be done by computer. Again I do not have a copy of the Bank Statement. I only have a written copy of what has gone through the Cash Register.

I am never spoken to by other staff members. No one is remotely welcoming. No one is remotely interested in me. I am never offered a work station. Girls entering data ignore me completely and claim no knowledge if I ask them a question. They answer in monosyllables and always negatively. If I do ask them to do something they ignore me.

On one desk I find an old book containing all firms in a particular industry. I am expected to transfer the contents of every firm in this book into a new data base and compile a complete record  of the industry. The book is several years out of date and I know it cannot be useful. Nevertheless, I am instructed to do this duty. No one will listen when I say this does not make sense.

On occasion I get lost travelling from one office to another. If I have to travel by public transport, I do not know the tram routes. If I have a car, I only know the direction of the office and go way out of my area. I end up forgetting where I have parked. I cannot find the car weeks later and the Office have asked me to return it.

The atmosphere in all these offices is dark. No one speaks. There are no available work stations. I am never able to get down to work and this worries me. I am full of guilt and foreboding.

I always wake up with a deep sense guilt. I am filled with a deep sense of despair. My adrenalin rate is through the roof.

Did Kafka experience similar dreams?


Neville Gibb
​May/June 2024

​When I was young Easter was always considered a good break. I always looked forward to it. "Four days of Holidays", I thought. Plus, as I worked in a Bank, I also had the Tuesday off as well. Not that I could really enjoy it, because everyone I knew and wanted to hang out with worked on the Tuesday. I was always alone on this day.

My father always insisted that we go to church on both Friday and Sunday. This was a definite minus for me. Did I ever hear an enjoyable or even interesting sermon?

Also, since I was always home with my parents, there was a downside. I had to help with the milking. I could put up with helping in the afternoon, but I always found getting up for the morning milking to be hard - even painful. Getting up early - mostly before dawn - always interfered with my digestion. I always felt strange in the stomach for most of the day. I always had a deep sense of tiredness or even exhaustion that took a long time to recover from.  I was tired and wanted to sleep in. But no, it never happened. If I ever did sleep in, I had an overwhelming sense of guilt.  My father would guarantee it by saying - "I waited for you, but I had to get your mother up to help with the milking".

My father was pretty good at appealing to my conscience. "How about giving your mother a break", was one of his favourites. In fact this had always been his preferred way of running things. I wanted to take advantage of the situation and wanted to go places. I wanted to visit people. I wanted to go to dances--sometimes two in a night. I wanted to borrow my father's large car.  I wanted to go out and sing and play the guitar until late at night.  My father always appealed to my good nature. "Do you need to go out? Your Mother doesn't see you that often" was one of his favourites.  "We will worry if you are out all night.  We cannot sleep until you come home" was another.

The traffic on Thursday night coming out of Melbourne was enormous. You can give it any kind of label and you would always be right. Enormous - amazing - heavy - dangerous - unbelievable. Cars literally drove bumper to bumper. The Hume Highway changed from two lanes to one at the Ford Broadmeadows Factory. Traffic became either stop and start or just plain jammed at this point. Some cars always tried to drive on the right hand side of the road trying to pass the miles of cars in the traffic jam. Some cars tried to drive on the left hand verge to do the same. It took some time for the traffic to clear. It was normally bumper to bumper to Seymour. In fact, it was unrelenting. It was hard driving. This was before the freeway and before daylight saving.

If you look at the traffic accident rate for that period you will be surprised. It was normal for 14 people to be killed on the roads each weekend. Easter was worse.

Nevertheless, I dutifully did it year after year. I wasn't alone though. Pretty well all my relatives went home for Easter. It was a time when families came together. We always went to my Mother's sister for Easter Sunday. This sister had a fairly crude kitchen but she was always able to cook poultry enough to feed at least 15 people with some left over for tomorrow.  It was a genuine feast. How she did it I do not know. It was always mouth wateringly delicious.  After lunch was a time for relaxation for the men. They sat round after lunch to talk while the women cleaned up. My father liked talking to his sister-in-law's husband. He had slightly different political views than my father and he never went to church. But he had a recording of Winston Churchill's "This was their Finest Hour" and he would play it for my father.

The break always went quickly. Men always visited my father on Easter Monday. They did not stay for lunch and my father always talked to them outside in private. They spoke with serious faces.  I took it to be about either RSL matters or Masonic matters.

I didn't have to drive back to Melbourne until Tuesday when the traffic was better. I drove alone. I always had passengers on Thursday night, but they arranged to be passengers with people who returned to Melbourne on Monday.

It was always a relief to get back to the Essendon flat and relax.


Neville Gibb
May 2024

Postscript!!

When I was 9 years old my father sent me on a holiday to Sydney for 10 days.

I was to stay with his Aunt. This was unusual because I didn’t know her. I couldn’t put a face to her name. This Aunt was the oldest child in his father’s family. There were four boys and two girls. When the boys grew up, they mostly bought farms in close proximity to each other, but this elder sister had gone to Sydney early in her marriage. Gossip had it, somewhat under a cloud.

My father’s own father had died when he was 9 and, as was fairly common in those days, my father was farmed out to relatives. He never lived with his own mother again until he was an adult. His father had died owing more on the mortgage than the farm was worth, so his wife had no option other than to live with her relatives and for my father and his brother to live with his father’s relatives. My father never saw this particular Aunt as she was already in Sydney, but she always took a particular interest in him. They kept in touch by letter.

My father never mentioned the gossip that was always attached to her. This gossip would surface from time to time from various relatives. It was alluded that she did not marry well. There was an incident when she had stood at the side of the road with a baby in her arms and people had driven past without stopping. At one public gathering some people had publicly ignored her. Cut her completely. Some people did speak about her, but some relatives never ever mentioned her name.


Why my Father and his Aunt arranged for me to go on Holidays I do not know.

I travelled by train from Albury to Central Station. My father put me on the train early in the morning before it was light. I enjoyed the journey.  I had lots to look at. I noted with surprise that the land was fairly green all the way from Albury to Sydney. The land in the King Valley was always dry at this time of year. It was nighttime when I arrived at Central Station. It was a large building. Quite atmospheric. I could smell burnt coal. My great Aunt had no trouble finding me. She hugged and kissed me.  This was an unusual thing for me because no one in my family ever kissed anyone else. We were soon on our way to her place. We had to travel by train, then bus and then walk for a fair while.

When I arrived at her house I found she had two of her grandchildren staying with her. One was an exceptionally beautiful 16-year old girl. The other was a Down syndrome girl my age. I gave my Aunt a letter from my father and when she opened it I could see it had money in it. “He shouldn’t have done this”, she said. I had never seen a Down syndrome child before. I was alarmed and concerned. I did not know how to treat her. Her elder sister understood what she said and spoke to her as if she was normal. I only tried speaking to her once and she didn’t reply. She did not look at me. I did not know if she understood. She spoke in mumbles and grunts. My Aunt never explained her situation. She just treated the situation as normal. I did not know how to act.

Whenever we were out, I could see people looking at us. We attracted stares and occasionally children would come and look closely at the Down syndrome girl. Some even tried to touch her face. I always felt ashamed verging on humiliation at the attraction, but my Aunt never wavered in taking everything as normal. Nothing bothered her.

My 16-year old cousin was exceptionally good looking and also attracted interest from men who often whistled. I had never seen this behaviour before. She was blond and had long hair. She was tall and always dressed stylishly. She was the best-looking girl I had ever met. Of course, I was happy to be seen with her.

When I think of it, we did a lot in the week I was in Sydney. My Aunt’s other two grand children were from Central NSW and had never been to Sydney before. She took us to several places. The Zoo. The Aquarium. Manly Beach. We went to a kind of museum with lots of old entertainment machines. I looked into a machine and saw flash cards which showed an Edwardian lady getting ready for bed. I had never seen anything like this before and was shocked. I recorded myself on a primitive tape recorder. I sang, I thought very well, a song we had learned in school. Before I had finished the song, it suddenly started playing back something that I slowly realised was me. I was mortified. I sounded terrible. The joke was - it was broadcast over the public address system for everyone to hear. People actually laughed. Thankfully, it did not go on for long, but I was struck dumb with the humiliation. I wanted to shrink into nothingness. My 16-year old cousin said nothing.

My Aunt lived at one end of her house. Her husband lived at the other end. He was a Tram Driver and a ‘Union Official’, although I did not know what this meant. Trams didn’t run during the day and only started in the afternoon. If her husband came out of his room in the morning, he went straight to the racetrack. It was inferred by my Aunt that he liked to drink too much. She never touched the stuff she said. They didn’t have much to do with each other. He told me he had a special job at the racetrack and offered to show me, but My Aunt said no.

One disturbing thing happened. We were robbed on the train coming home. We were in a train that did not have a corridor but had a door to every compartment in the carriage. As we came into the station a man stood up and seemed to be looking at all the bags on the overhead rack. He selected my Aunt’s knapsack and picked it up. My Aunt demanded - what are you doing? My Aunt said - someone stop him. I did not know what to do. My 16-year old cousin stood up and grabbed hold of his arm. The man put his hand on her face and pushed hard. She went sprawling into the corner of the compartment. I stood up but did not know what to do. I was transfixed. I froze. My Down syndrome cousin started screaming. Her screams were not normal screams but were guttural sounds of utter terror. And loud. The man simply put the knapsack on his back and walked out. My 16-year old cousin also started screaming, “Catch him, catch him” and went to the door of the train and called for help. Quickly a uniformed man came into the carriage. But he became increasingly agitated with the noise my Down syndrome cousin was making and ended up yelling – “Can you shut the mongoloid up”. When he said this there was silence. My Aunt said “” and clasped my cousin in a hug to comfort her.  I was still frozen to the floor. When we got home and my Aunt’s husband heard what had happened, he was angry and became violent. “Why did you let this happen? How much money did you lose?”, he yelled. Then he stormed out.

When it came time for me to leave, my Aunt arranged for one of her sons to take me to Central Station. He was late in coming. This turned into really late. Then there was panic. There would not be any time to get to the Station. But suddenly he was outside, and I had to grab my bag and get into his truck. The truck didn’t even stop moving. There was no opportunity to say goodbye. My Aunt stood at the front door and waved goodbye. I waved back. I thought she looked sorry I was leaving. I genuinely wanted to hug her. I found myself suppressing sobs. I turned my face aside and tried not to let my Aunt’s son see I was crying.

​
My Aunt was by no means the only black sheep in the family. There was a brother who was a genuine black sheep. He was always known as ‘young Albert’ if he was ever mentioned. Information about him only came out in small spurts. His name was persona non grata. He had more-or-less been removed from family history. He had impregnated a girl when he was quite young - he was forced to marry her - but he abandoned her soon after the marriage and departed for areas unknown. She stayed in the area, much to everyone’s regret. Unfortunately, she had a stroke when she was 30 from which she never really recovered.  But she was guilty by association.  No one in the family really spoke to her - except for my father and this particular Aunt who now lived in Sydney. This poor woman, who had to live with the slights of her husband’s family, always wore an excess of rouge on her cheeks and always had trouble with her lipstick. Her teeth were always smudged bright red. She would sit on the public seat in the main street and was always pleased to recognise my father. When I was with my father, I would look at her makeup and teeth and not know how to act. She always mentioned that she had recently received a letter from my father’s Aunt in Sydney.
 
Neville Gibb
February 2024

​When I was young I could only read about retired men. I didn't know any personally. Sometimes there would be photos in the newspaper. They would be older men - thin - wizened - and the photograph would show them standing or kneeling in front of the flowers in their front garden. They would explain that they devoted their time to their garden. Sometimes the photo would show both husband and wife. Both would be beaming happily. They did look happy and contented.  They were not beset with worries about money. Retirement was an exciting and pleasurable thing. It was something to look forward to. I could only dream about it though.

I did have some relatives in Melbourne - men - who were retired. One was an official high up in the Police Force who claimed that he went back to work the day after he retired. He didn't last long in retirement because he died within a few months. I did have one other relative - a man - who survived Gallipoli and was supposed to have health problems.  He also seemed to die quickly.

I lived in an area where men didn't retire. They normally died in office. They were farmers mostly. No males in my family lived past 60. The normal thing was to die in your 50’s.

In my life I never  overburdened myself with hard work and stayed fairly healthy. But I had the concept conditioned in me. I imagined that when I turned 70 I would retire and die soon after.

This hasn’t happened.

When I did retire I had not planned it. I did not expect to retire. What happened was that my wife retired. She was offered a retirement window and she had to take up the offer straight away. Even she didn't want to retire at that particular time. Because she retired she thought it would be a good idea to move immediately to Benalla.  I had to make several decisions. One of which was that I had to completely retire.

We moved to Benalla. I made several attempts to gain employment in Benalla. I don’t know if I was serious. But I did make enquiries. I didn't want to work in an Accountants office. I only wanted to work in Benalla. I did not manage to gain employment.

I planned to keep myself busy and purchased Pepys Diary with the intention of carefully reading it in full. It turned out I only read it when having breakfast. It did provoke an interest in Pepys however. He wrote it in code. He knew that if the authorities were informed as to what he wrote he would be in deep trouble. He did live through some interesting times. The fire. The death of Charles 1st. He once saw Shakespeare's Hamlet and was impressed with the to be or not to be soliloquy.  He did an enormous amount of refurbishing inside his house. He did not keep a diary all his life. He discontinued it several times and twice took it up again after a vacant space.

Even his editors censored his writing. He lusted after most women and was not afraid to make sexual advances. He always thought of sex when he saw women. He would start each month with the news that his wife was menstruating and the editors deleted this from the published diary.

After 2 months my previous work phoned and asked if I could come back to work. I didn't even think about it. I said "Yes" before they could explain why.

This led to another career. I was able to commute to Melbourne every week and boarded with friends for 3 nights a week. Later on our house became vacant and I was able to move back in and work full time. Some things had changed. There was a niche for me. I took on a higher management role in production. I continued with sales also. After some time The company was taken over by a larger firm and I was asked to stay on. As as salesman.

I enjoyed the feeling of having this extra time added on to my working life. It meant I could retire when I wanted to.

The downside was I had to drive to Melbourne each week. And drive home. I had to watch for Kangaroos on the road.  It was a worrisome thing.  I saw a delivery Van in Bonnie Doon deliberately drive over a young Kangaroo. This type of image stays with us. I cannot fathom the mentality of some people.  The two people in the van had smiles on their faces as they drove deliberately at the animal.

Eventually it did not suit me to work in a large corporation whose head office was in Brisbane. I was offered a job in Brisbane and it was hinted that I might go to Malaysia. The company was expanding into Asia. They had a large printing plant in Vietnam. Employees came and went to gain experience. But they also had simple rules. You had to attend sales meetings every Monday morning. If people didn't conform they were quickly disposed of. An out of date computer system had to be coped with. The firm who took us over had people with preconceived ideas as to who was important.

I retired a second time. This time I enjoyed it. I discovered an organisation called U3A and immersed myself in it.
​

Neville Gibb
September 2023

There have not been many instances where I have said “ I QUIT”

One was in the middle of a 100 metre sprint. I had just discovered that I was good at running but I went into the race exhausted. I had not trained for the event. I had taken part in several other shorter sprint races and  some long distance races earlier in the day and they had had an effect. I had pulled up sore and by the final sprint which was the 100 metre I was very sore.  I had pulled several muscles in my legs. I was in pain. Some muscles in my body were screaming with pain. Real pain. I had little reserve strength. I could hardly breath. I had little inner strength to call on. I could not exert myself without experiencing great pain. I felt exhausted.

I went through the first 50 metres attempting to strive as best I could but at 50 metres when I would normally make exertions for greater  speed I made a decision. The pain was not worth it. I felt that I should withdraw from the world. The pain was too much.  Did I care about how people felt about me. I said I quit. I slackened off and took the last 50 metres slowing down. I finished in 4th place.

I have regretted it ever since.

Once was when I was 22 and my life fell apart. To be more precise it could be said it virtually came to an end. A dead end. I had no future. I had destroyed my past. My private life had become none existent. I had destroyed my private life. I did not know it but I was immature. I could not understand where I was going. I could not understand what was happening. I did not know how fortunate I had been In the life I had previously had.  I seemingly went out of my way to make things worse. I almost felt the need to go the whole way and destroy my life. I thought that I could fix my private life by being destructive. I had the urge be overly honest with my work.  I talked myself out of two jobs in quick succession. I lived by myself and actually felt lonely. I was alienated from my family. I had taken a job in local government. The job had no depth to it. I was someone's assistant. I spent most of the day sitting doing nothing.  I knew I had no future.

I said to myself "I quit". And I really did quit. There and then.  I instinctively burnt my bridges behind me. I quit everything.

I have never regretted it ever since.


Neville Gibb
​June 2023

​We are obviously shaped by childhood. Lots of things happen in childhood. We remember them. Some things are indelibly written into our memories.  We watch our parents and maybe try and do what they did. We try to live up to our parents expectations of us. Their beliefs are imprinted on us.

My parents were both hard working.

My father felt he had achieved something by owning a dairy farm.  He felt he was privileged to own a farm. He was willing to do whatever it took to improve it, willing to play by the rules. He always worked hard without any complaints. Nothing interfered with his work. He was as regular as clockwork and was willing to work through illness. He sometimes suffered from malaria, but it never stopped him working. He did not like to be away from the farm.

My mother was much the same. She didn't like housework, however, preferring to work outdoors. She always said she would have liked to have been a boy and regretted that she was not shown how to do certain things when she was a child because she was a girl. She came from a large Irish family and she was the second youngest. There were several older brothers and then there was a gap of several years before three younger children were born of which two were girls. The two younger girls were kept separate from the others. My mother always claimed that they were never let do anything outside the house. It was her constant sorrow that she was never able to do certain things on the farm. She often said she was never allowed to assist at the forced birth of a poddy calf. She often said she was never shown how to work a posthole digger. She never learned to drive a car or a tractor.

My mother and father had known each other as young people. They lived in the same valley.

Both my parents mostly led lives within their own family group, my mother more so than my father. Neither had many friends outside the extended family. My mother never really strayed outside her extended family group and her closest confident was her sister. My mother had lots of relatives that she liked and enjoyed their company. She often met female relatives when she was shopping and this gave her great delight. She enjoyed visiting her relatives socially and she was never happier than when they visited in masse at Christmas or on birthdays.

My father was a sociable man and was quite popular. He did not restrict himself entirely to his relatives. He belonged to several community groups, but it was obvious that family members were the most important people in his life.  My father also had a large extended family. Quite often distant relatives of his would turn up and they would treat him with a lot of affection. He had been in the war and was treated as a war hero. Especially by some aged relatives.

I have been imprinted with my parents work ethic. I have always felt obliged to do my best. I have always worked hard in whatever job I have had. I have always given more to the job than was  required.

So much so that since retirement I have nightmares about not working. I have been constantly plagued by a continuing nightmare.

I am at a loss because I have nothing to do and I am not sure about what I should do. I dream that I am in a job where my work is not specified. I am in a job where I have no computer print out and I don’t know where to get a new one. I am in a job where I have been sent to a new office and there is nothing to do and I have to look for work. I am in a new job and there are no desks and certainly not one for me.


Neville Gibb
May 2023

When I was young the seasons seemed to be more pronounced. This was because the years were longer than they are now. In late middle age we go from Christmas to Christmas and they seem to be about two months apart.

​In my childhood we had winter each year. It rained more than now. We had a flood every year. The river always flooded and we would have water up to our back door. The actual river was approximately a mile from the house but when it flooded it was obvious that in previous times the river had changed its course a number of times. There were three ancient rivers between us and the river. When it flooded the river resumed its old ways. The river itself flowed close to a large hill and when it flooded you could see that it burst through the narrowing as it ran into the hill. The water took on a life of its own.

I liked the fact that we had a flood every year. We were sometimes surrounded by water and we were cut off.  School was off for a day or two. But life hardly changed. It only became more  interesting. The cows would congregate on a temporary island surrounded by water. They were never in any danger. They knew what to do and still came home to be milked. They would walk through water to do this. Water holes would all fill up when the creeks and ancient water courses flowed with water. Rabbits would be trapped out of their burrows and were easy targets for dogs. They were easily caught if they attempted to swim away.

I can only remember it being cold once. We had a neighbour visiting us and my mother had prepared a hot water bottle for bed. The neighbour made fun of me for having to have a hot water bottle. What was I - a man or a mouse. Of course it must have been cold. The puddles on the road froze up. If you were skilled you could skid your bike across the ice. Your back wheel.

Undoubtedly we had summers but I cannot remember being hot. We once had a bush fire but I didn't feel unsafe. The fire came towards us and it was like watching water flowing from tree to tree. It didn't seem to move very quickly. I watched from a distance. I had no sense of it being hot. I do remember the noise of cicadas on overcast muggy days. They made a loud noise that went on for some days. They were probably there because the winters flood had made conditions that suited them. Alas we no longer have the pleasure of hearing cicadas.

As we grew up we enjoyed the summer more. You could go swimming every day. We had large water holes full of water we could play in. One hole was rumoured to be bottomless. It never dried up. I built a raft for this hole. I remember the sweat pouring off me as I worked in the corrugated iron shed attaching the four gallon drums to the wooden slats.

My cousin  - recently deceased - would come to visit. I liked it when he came. We did lots of good things. We spent a lot of time on the raft. He was once on the raft in the middle of the water hole when he spied a large very dangerous looking insect in the water. It frightened him and he came out immediately.

Later on when we were in our early teens I was able to stay at his place one wonderful summer. He had been given a Jersey heifer as a pet and he had trained this heifer to act like a horse. He rode it everywhere. We rode it everywhere. It could carry more than one child. He lived near the river as well and the heifer would take us to the river and when asked carry us into the river. This was great fun. I cannot recall it ever being oppressively hot.

One notable thing happened when I was there. I rebelled against my mother.  I had a haircut. My cousin's father took us to the barber and I was asked if I would like a haircut. I said yes please. I was always asking for a certain type of popular haircut but my mother would never allow it. When it came time to go home and my mother came to get me I had the popular haircut and she was not happy. I wasn’t allowed to stay there again.

In adult life the seasons have changed. For the past twenty years or so we have lived with an extended drought. In drought times we go from a dry winter to a dry summer. There is no spring or autumn. This is disappointing. I do enjoy the winter more than the summer however. We have a winter house that has proper insulation in the walls and the windows are all double glazed. We have a large wood heater that spreads a comfortable warmth through the whole house.


Neville Gibb
February 2023