I was there,

Queen Elizabeth the 2nd has loomed large in Australia’s consciousness. In the past Australia was part of the British Empire. We were British Subjects. We were very much tied to the British Monarchy. We proclaimed ourselves proudly British.

But with the passage of time various changes have occurred and the Monarch has less influence.
 
We remain a Monarchy however despite various campaigns and one referendum. King Charles is King of Australia.

I have been in the presence of Queen Elizabeth on two occasions. One of these was planned. The other was totally unexpected.

I was at the Benalla Showgrounds when she did her tour of Australia in 1954. This was totally planned. Seemingly every primary schoolchild from Seymour to Wodonga was assembled in the Benalla Showgrounds. I had been brought in the back of a cattle truck along with all the other Meadow Creek Primary school students. We were picked up at school just as dawn was breaking. It wasn’t unusual for us to be transported in a cattle truck. One school parent had a cattle truck suitable for purpose. We were given a name tag and medallion to wear. For some reason all the children came together but we all went home separately with our parents. We seemed to find our parents easily. I did not hear of any child being lost or not able to find their parents.  


We had to wait some time for the Queen to appear. We probably had to wait for over an hour. Quite naturally children become restless and want to go exploring. There were several false rumours that she was about to enter the arena.

Finally her car entered. I believe it was a large Rolls Royce. It drove around the boundary of the football ground. I cannot remember if it was open or closed. Despite the car going faster than anticipated I had a good view of the Queen and Prince Phillip. If the car was closed it had a large interior and you could see into it. The upholstery was impressive.

The Queen did not appear to be looking. She was leaning back and looking at the sky and waggling her left wrist and hand in a way I had not seen before. She was not looking at anyone. Just waving her finger. It wasn’t a normal wave. Everyone was cheering. Prince Phillip was making eye contact and waving to all the children. I thought he was behind a car widow so it must have been a closed car. Very quickly the car was out of the Showgrounds.

Later on I learned that her father had taught her to acknowledge crowds this way,

It was all over by lunchtime. We went home for lunch.

The other time I saw the Queen was totally unexpected. This was in London. The Queen was going south east and I was going south west. Our paths intertwined. She was on horseback and I was on foot. I came across a party of horses. Suddenly there was a sort of traffic jam. Some horses were being led and had gotten loose. A crowd gathered. I was at the front of the crowd. Suddenly the Queen appeared in front of me. If I had wanted to touch her I probably could have and I certainly could have touched her horse. Indeed one child attempted to pat her horse but she wasn’t having any of it. She stood up in the saddle and looked around angrily to see what the trouble was. She may have barked some order to her security because 3 men dismounted and made a pathway with their horses for her to go through.

There were a number of things that struck  me. One was that she was so tiny. She was small. Another was that she was capable of showing anger in public. We hadn't seen this before. All in all the traffic jam took perhaps 2 minutes but this was enough to have a good look and to see the Queen was capable of a human reaction.

I was there.



Neville Gibb
​March 2026

​I have always been a dreamer.

As a child I dared to dream of what I could be.  I often had a full fantasy life  and sometimes my life was more fantasy than reality.

Of course I knew inside that nothing would ever come of my dreams. But I didn't stop dreaming.

When I reached adulthood I was granted a small window. This did not last long but for a short while I actually lived another life. I was able to organise another life where I was a journalist. A proper journalist if even a total amateur.

I was connected to a group of people who were interested in setting up a community radio station. We had a series of meetings where we organised ourselves into several groups. These groups gave themselves different jobs. Each group set itself a task that would have to be fulfilled if we were to be a genuine radio station. I was on an overall coordinating committee that attempted to hold everything together. Shortly we found ourselves applying to a government tribunal for a broadcasting licence. Miraculously this was granted. We quickly organised ourselves a benefactor who granted us premises within his hotel. The hotel was quite large and our benefactor was happy to let us virtually have the run of the place. We set up  studios in the basement. The hotel had plenty of rooms where we held meetings and organised things.

The station played continuous music, which is what it set out to do, and catered to a broad cross section of the community. Howeve, included in the licence agreement was a clause that said we had to provide 2 hours of non-music each week. This proved to be a bit of a problem. The tribunal may have meant 2 hours of news. We could not do that. Just what was non-music? We - or I - concluded that this could mean journalism or investigative journalism.

I decided to fulfil a long term desire and become a journalist. I fitted myself out with a proper kit and started planning what I would do.

My wife and I went to Holiday at Broken Hill and I took along my new tape recorder and lanyard that showed who I was. I discovered in Broken Hill there was a man who had had a job set up for him where he coordinated media interest in the town. I called on him. Of course he would help me. Who would I like to speak to? I mentioned the name Pro Hart. He phoned immediately and went into a begging mode with his friend Pro. Pro wasn’t too keen, but the media coordinator reminded Pro that this was  promoting Broken Hill and he would be doing the coordinator a favour. Pro said OK and I was given his address.

I went immediately to his house. Pro was in animated discussion with 2 men at his front gate and was not happy to see me . The two men left and Pro said he was very busy. I’m too bloody busy, he said. I said that was ok as I would just follow him around and talk to him as he did whatever he did.

I had long had an interest in Art and to talk to Pro Hart was something I could not resist.

Pro Hart -  real name Kevin Hart -  was a celebrity of sorts in central Australia. There were not many people who did not know either his name or his paintings.

We went into his workshop. I started with his name. Pro. He explained that it was a derogatory term given to him by his fellow underground miners. He didn't like mining and his fellow workers thought he had airs and graces trying to be a painter. They called him Pro to try and remind him of who he was.

Pro went to work sorting out seemingly many half started canvases with backgrounds and trees already painted in. He set about attaching canvasses to frames and I set about asking him questions. I referred to a painting he had in his own collection titled - Crucifixion at a Racetrack. The painting depicted  a person being crucified at the winning post and a large group of angry punters threatening him with their fists. I remarked that this was very different to his normal paintings and asked when it was painted.

I asked if he had once had a gambling problem. He said  no. He said he could hardly recall painting this painting. It was one of his early works and he had painted it before he had become a Christian. He didn't know why he painted it. He did it in stages which apparently is how he did most of his work. Hence the large number of unfinished canvasses hanging around the studio.

I referred to his practice of painting ants and ants wings. The colours were in stark contrast to his normal landscapes. Was there any reason for this. He said he didn't know. He was taken up almost to the point of obsession and knew that his ant paintings were not everyone’s cup of tea.

I said I thought that his Ant paintings often had the colours of  Gaugin's Pacific paintings and had he attended the recent Gaugin exhibition held in Sydney. He had to admit - yes. And he was in awe of Gaugin but don’t tell anyone.

The mention of a cup of tea must have set off something in his mind. It was time for a cup of tea, he said. By this time he was no longer angry with me. He could see that I was a fan. He liked talking to me. He wanted to talk about Gaugin. He took me into his house and introduced me to his wife and children.

Pro's wife got me a cup of tea and his children tried to get me interested in their attempts to draw comic books. Pro had to take a phone call and I took the opportunity to ask if Mrs Hart liked visiting heads of state. I knew that they had recently been the guests of the President of Israel and that Pro had arranged to donate one of his paintings to the State of Israel. This is what the current phone call was about. Mrs Hart said the didn’t much like it as she was really only a housewife. She much preferred if they came to her house - not her to theirs.

Pro came back into the room and said he was sorry but he had to take another phone call. He put it on speaker phone - he was an early supporter of high tech - and I recognised the voice of a well known media personality. He was asking if Pro had any painting he wanted to sell.

Pro said we would have to finish but before we did he would sign my prints. He had noticed that I had two prints of his paintings. He unrolled the prints and signed them. I later had them framed. I often wonder if anyone who comes to our house and takes an interest in them ever wonders what the writing on the prints means.

Pro Hart showed that there are times when people can warm to you.

And I showed that there are times when you can pretend to have another life.


Neville Gibb
February 2026

​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

I have long wanted to write about this subject. I welcome this opportunity.

I have to start with my mother. My mother was a well liked person within her family. She had a large extended family sometimes scattered but mostly confined within the North East area of Victoria. She was not one to travel except to visit relatives. She was not inclined to leave home. She was not one to make friends outside her family. Her older sister was her best friend. She was the second youngest of a large Irish Family and as things go her older siblings made most of the decisions within the family. Her father had died before she was a teenager. She completed Primary school. She did not attend High School. She never had a job. She lived with her family on the family farm with her mother and siblings. She married when she was 20 and her husband was immediately transferred overseas. He was away for the next 5 years. She continued to live with her family and receive an allowance from her husband. She did make some extra money by doing dressmaking at home. She had her own sewing machine. Although she got on well with her siblings and mother she was not entirely happy. She was allocate housekeeping duties within the family. She had to clean the house and make the beds. She had to wash the floors. She had to prepare the meals for cooking but wasn’t allowed to do any purchasing. She had to wash the dishes. She had to wash the clothes. All this was before electricity.  She resented this. She wanted to be out working in the paddocks. She wanted to drive tractors and cars. She wanted to sow the wheat. She always had a sense of unfairness.

When her husband returned from overseas they bought a dairy farm. She liked this but it took her away from easy reach of her mother. She felt the farm was in an isolated area too far away from what she was familiar with. If her husband deviated off the main road she always feared  they may get lost. She had never learned to drive a car. She had no telephone. Nevertheless she enjoyed milking cows but still felt she was forced into housework.

Her husband was not a well man. He did not have any specific war injury but suffered from what would now be called PTSD. He did have some periods where he had to receive treatment. Once he had to be confined for a longer than normal period in Melbourne. This provoked a response from the relatives. The family rallied round. An aged unmarried Aunt volunteered to come and live with us and keep house. An unemployed casual labourer was employed to help milk the cows. My mother enjoyed this time. She could work all day down the paddock. She could supervise the casual labourer. Her Aunt took good care of the house and the children. She was in her element running things on the farm.

Her husband - my father - recovered to full health. He aways said he wanted to increase the family. My mother did not want this. They had no more children. Life continued on until they came into contact with a nurse who was visiting the next door neighbour. This nurse worked at a Salvation Army children’s home. She mentioned that all the children in the home were to be allocated out to families who were thinking of fostering children. All children had been placed except for one little girl. My father immediately volunteered to take the little girl and so we came into contact with a person who had a lasting impact on us all.

She was nearly 3 and quite grown up. This little girl transformed my mother. She transformed everyone. She was a bright happy smart delightful child. She settled in immediately. She was wonderful company. My mother took her to a dress shop and bought clothes. She took her to a hairdressing salon. The little girl would welcome everyone good morning by coming into their bedroom and jumping onto them if they were still  in bed. Her happiness was infectious. She hugged everyone. She had a saying - sorry love.

She was only with us for 6 weeks. It went quickly but we all had a great time. Including her. But she had to return to the Home. The nurse came to pick her up. The little girl was taken to the car and as she got in most of us could not resist crying. The look of concern on the little girls face as she drove away has stayed with me. Why wouldn’t it. She had not been told she was leaving. It was thought better this way. She would only be getting into the car with the familiar nurse. When she saw us crying a look of great alarm came over face. Were we unhappy. What was happening? She waved furiously.

The Nurse arranged for us to have her over the next Easter. But she was not the same. The little girl seemed older and was much more guarded. She did not spontaneously hug you. She did not say - sorry love. She was not talkative. She was quiet. She knew she would be taken away again. When she left there was no crying this time.

Later on that year my parents visited the little girl's mother and suggested adoption. They saw the little girl and her 2 siblings and their mother. The little girls mother would not have it. She was returning the three to the Children’s Home but was not allowing fostering or adoption. She did not give reasons. My parents decided to not try and proceed any further. They both felt deeply about it and did not want any further distress.

I made several attempts to contact her over the years. I had no luck until the event of social media. 50 years later I tracked her down. When we met I did not recognise her. I thought she would look the same. I thought she would sound the same. I thought she would be the same little girl. She was not even the same person. She did not remotely look the same. So much had happened to her. But it was undoubtably her. She had been affected by lots of tragedy. It had scarred her. I had trouble dealing with her. I thought we would resume as we had left off. This wasn’t so.  I was a disappointment to her. I did not share a number of her beliefs. I was detached from the things that concerned her.

Still there was lots to talk about. Surprisingly our paths had nearly crossed several times. I regretted that I didnt find her sooner.  I might have made a difference in her life.

We were both shaped by childhood. She shaped me. Other things shaped her.


Neville Gibb
​October 2023

​

I've long harbored a desire to explore this particular topic, and I eagerly embrace this opportunity.
​
This story begins with my mother, a woman who was held in high regard within her own family. She hailed from a sprawling extended family, primarily centered in the North East region of Victoria. She was not one to venture far from home, except when visiting relatives. Straying too far from the nest did not suit her, nor did forming friendships beyond her familial circle. Her older sister was her closest companion. As the second youngest in a large Irish family, she often found her older siblings making most of the family decisions. Her father passed away before she reached her teenage years, and she completed only her primary education, never advancing to high school. She never held a job and continued to live on the family farm with her mother and siblings. At the age of 20, she married, but her husband was immediately transferred overseas for the next five years. During this time, she lived with her family and received an allowance from her husband. To supplement her income, she did dressmaking at home, having her own sewing machine. While she got along well with her family, a sense of discontent pervaded her. She was tasked with various housekeeping duties, including cleaning, bed-making, floor washing, meal preparation, and dishwashing. In addition to these responsibilities, she managed laundry, all in an era before electricity. She resented her role, longing to work in the fields, drive tractors, and cars. She yearned to sow wheat, burdened by a constant feeling of injustice.

When her husband returned from overseas, they acquired a dairy farm. Although she enjoyed it, this endeavour distanced her from her mother and the familiar surroundings she cherished. Whenever her husband deviated from the main road, she feared getting lost, as she had never learned to drive a car, and they had no telephone. Nonetheless, she took pleasure in milking cows, though she still felt compelled into domestic duties.

Her husband suffered from what is now known as PTSD, without specific war-related injuries. Periodically, he required treatment, even enduring a lengthy confinement in Melbourne. This prompted a response from relatives, with the family rallying around. An elderly, unmarried aunt volunteered to come live with them and oversee the household, while an unemployed casual laborer was hired to assist with milking the cows. During this time, my mother thrived, working all day in the fields and supervising the laborer, while her aunt managed the household and children. Her husband eventually recovered fully, expressing a desire to expand their family. However, my mother resisted this idea, and they did not have more children. Life continued until they encountered a nurse who worked at a Salvation Army children's home. This nurse mentioned that all the children had been placed in foster homes except for one little girl. My father immediately volunteered to take her in, and so we crossed paths with someone who would have a lasting impact on our lives.

The little girl was nearly three years old and remarkably mature for her age. Her presence had a transformative effect on my mother and everyone else in the household. She was bright, cheerful, intelligent, and a sheer delight to be around. She settled in effortlessly and became a wonderful companion. My mother took her shopping for new clothes and to a hairdressing salon. Each morning, she would enter the bedrooms, jumping onto the beds to wish everyone a good morning. Her infectious happiness radiated, and she was a constant source of hugs and affection. She had a special saying: "Sorry love."

However, her stay with us was short, lasting only six weeks. The day she had to return to the children's home, the nurse arrived to pick her up. As she climbed into the car, most of us couldn't hold back tears. Her expression betrayed her confusion and concern. She hadn't been told she was leaving, as it was deemed better this way. She recognized the nurse but didn't understand why we were crying. She waved frantically as they drove away.

The nurse arranged for us to have her over the next Easter, but she was no longer the same. The little girl had matured and grown guarded, no longer spontaneously offering hugs or saying, "Sorry love." She had become quiet and reserved, knowing that she would soon be taken away again. This time, there were no tears when she left.

Later that year, my parents visited the little girl's mother and proposed adoption. They met the little girl, her two siblings, and their mother. However, the mother rejected the idea of adoption or further fostering, opting to return the children to the children's home without providing any specific reasons. My parents decided not to pursue the matter any further, not wanting to cause any more distress to the parties involved.

Over the years, I made several attempts to contact the little girl, but it wasn't until the advent of social media, nearly 50 years later, that I finally tracked her down. When we met, I didn't recognize her. I expected her to look and sound the same, but she had undergone significant changes. Life had brought her considerable trials and left its scars. I struggled to relate to the person she had become, as I had anticipated a reconnection to the little girl I remembered. However, it wasn't to be, and I was a disappointment to her. Our beliefs and concerns no longer aligned, and we had grown apart.

Yet, we found much to talk about. Surprisingly, our paths had almost crossed on several occasions, and I lamented not finding her sooner. Perhaps, I could have made a difference in her life. Our childhood experiences had shaped both of us, but she had played a significant role in shaping my life as well. Life had taken her on a different journey, one that had profoundly impacted her.


Neville Gibb
October 2023

​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