Official Apology to my Beloved

A couple of weeks ago my little bro and his family came to visit. For their first evening here I cooked up a roast meal - the meat from our local butcher is just delicious and this roast was particularly tender and tasty.

There was some left over and I put it away in the freezer for a later date, having protected it from being eaten as seconds on the night itself.

A couple of days later, I pulled it out to be used as cold meat for lunches for the big crowd we had that week.

My Beloved was at work and wasn't able to attend lunches during weekdays.

Last week he commented on the fact that we still had that spectacular roast meat to finish off.

How much was left for him?

PS I'm sorry, my love.

10 years

Today we are ten.

And so my Beloved has taken two days off work, and we are going to an idyllic cabin beside a creek in the lovely country just to the south of us, where we shall have a real fire, and nothing we need to go and do...

... except for keeping each other from freezing, because it's supposed to get really, really cold on the weekend, and we will be in the surrounding countryside to Stanthorpe, the place in Queensland where it is most likely to snow.

And how much of a problem do I have with keeping each other warm on what is, after all, our wedding anniversary?

Precisely.

Saint Mumsy

Well, I'm not certain she's got to two miracles yet, but I'm still nominating her.

My Mum has offered me an hour or so a week on a Wednesday afternoon to help with housework...

For free...

This has a number of good outcomes.

1. I was "paying" myself to be my own cleaner for 2-3 hours on a Wednesday afternoon. It wasn't working because there is always something more urgent than housework. Now that Mum is coming, I am disciplined... or at least, I have been for the two weeks that she's been here!

2. There are the extra things I never get around to - like cleaning windows. I love being able to see through them, but I don't often have time. Today, while I wrestled with a really grungy shower, the windows at the front door and in my office magically became shiny!

3. She comes up with good ideas, then helps make them happen. We've had mice. They got into the linen cupboard. There was evidence... over sheets and blankets and I find the thought of pulling out "clean" sheets and hearing the ting of tiny pellets hitting the floor disgusting. So ALL the linen needed washing. Mum came up with the brilliant plan of dumping everything into the bathtub, cleaning all the shelves, then took one overloaded washing basket and two huge stripy bags home to wash for me. I've been working on the rest whenever I have a part of a morning at home.

The chance that I want to swap Mums with you?

So I would never have made it as a Wireless Operator

A very pertinent post for ANZAC day, I thought.

I'm dutifully studying my Greek.

I have an exam on Friday (not due til next week, but I don't trust Aussie Post to get it there in a short week) and also a tiny quiz to also submit the same day as it can be done online.

As I go through my exercises for this week, I begin to realise that I would have failed the course to become a Wireless Operator for the RAAF during the second world war.

What the?

Okay, some explanation for those who don't immediately follow where I'm going with this.

My Mum's Dad was, you probably have guessed (unless you're a family lurker and already know), a Wireless Operator during the second world war. He flew in the largely forgotten Halifax bombers from a tiny place in England for a couple of years.

He was lucky enough to get accepted as Aircrew, and because he wanted to be a navigator, the Airforce decided to send him to train as a Wireless Operator. (Ironically, on demobilisation they did aptitude testing to see what jobs he'd be good at back in the real world, and his scores were so good in one area that they supposed he must have been a navigator. No - that is something that he was interested in and had natural aptitude for - as if he'd get THAT job!!?!)

Anyway, to get back to the story, he had to learn Morse Code. In fact although there would be days when he would now struggle to remember my name, I bet you he could take a message in Morse Code just on reflex.

As he tells it, the trick in the examinations was to simply transcribe the letters as they came through. If you used your brain to make sense of it as it was coming, you'd suddenly find you weren't right and end up with the sort of mess that predictive text creates on mobile phones today, then you'd be lost and unable to catch up with the message. Then you failed the course and had to become an Air Gunner, taking a short sojourn in the kitchens because they didn't want everyone deliberately failing just to get through to the action more quickly and with less effort.

So, here I'm trying to do Greek to English translation exercises and I've just realised that where I am going wrong is when I take the first meaning I remember for a series of words and bung them together and then read the answer to see what it OUGHT to be and realise that my translation is not only seriously dodgy, but that if I took a little more time and didn't start presuming where the sentence is going before I am finished, I would probably do a whole heap better at it. And maybe it would approach sense in English.

And the chance that this post is not simple study avoidance?

Why I had to go to Donut King.

I celebrated the death of four kilos today.

You'd think that as a result I'd be bouyed up with resolve to hold onto it for the next week of plenty of opportunity to eat very badly indeed.

But no.

You see, I had to go to Donut King.

And they sell warm, cinnamony, sugary donuts there.

And I love warm, cinnamony, sugary donuts.

I avoid the shopping centre like the plague because they have a Donut King.

But today I just had to go.

Why? You may ask.

My Grandad likes thickshakes.

We usually buy him a voucher for Donut King so that he can get some when he goes up the street (he doesn't get out all that much anymore). The man who owns the shop knows him and has been known to make the thickshake so thick you can hardly suck it up through the straw. He's also happy to cross off part of the value of the voucher so that Grandad can have multiple trips. This is the beauty of living in a country town.

So I went to buy a voucher for my Grandad.

...and I smelled the doughyness of the cooking donuts.

And the chance that leaving the shopping centre my mouth didn't have that delightful doughy tongue-sticking-to-my-hard-palate post-donut sensation?

Welcome!

As of 11pm last night our niece Giggles has a new little sister!

Just over 3 kilos (7 pound 10 for the ancient among you). She even has a real name - but not a blog name just yet. I will need to work on that, but need to wait until I've actually met her and can come up with something suitable.

Giggles has been telling everyone that she is going to be such a good big sister. The baby can sleep in her room and she can look after her when she cries, and carry her into Mummy and Daddy... Chances?

Lessons from Lolly-Making

My Mum and I had a lolly-making working bee at our house today. It's the church's Spring Fair next Saturday. Together we made 5 trays of French Jellies, 1 of triple layer Marshmallow, and I made chocolate fudge after Mum left.

This was a pretty good day's work, lots of standing over pots and stirring involved (and one panicked call to my Grandmother seeking explanation of a weird thing that was happening).

The lessons for today involve:

1. The stove heats up the mixture best if it is turned on at the wall;
2. Avoid dropping the lid off the colour bottle into the jelly mixture;
3. It is easier to have two people working in a kitchen if one of them is NOT doing Zumba moves;
4. Marshmallow cut into dainty squares in the container will grow into mammoth squares once rolled in coconut;
5. If in doubt whether the chocolate fudge is up to standard, don't tell your husband that he'll have to eat it if it isn't before he's pronounced sentence.

How much chocolate fudge is going to make it to the Spring Fair?

A Letter From Grandma

In case you can't read Grandma's writing, this is what it says,

This is a funny story - Grandad was reading his paper and minding Peter,
and Peter climbed up on the end of the banana-bed. Grandad put his foot on
the top to stop it tipping up, then he had to put his other foot on the table to
stop him from tipping up, then he had to call for someone to grab
Peter.

How much do I care if this might be embarrassing to some of my 'lations?

P.S. Peter is my cousin. He is also now famous (well, maybe not internationally famous, but certainly around the regions wherer he's worked). I'm still claiming I have a famous cousin.

The Triumvirate of Terror

Pretty spectacular-sounding title, hey?

Might be a bit of an overkill.

...Maybe.

My Mum and her two sisters are having a week together this week. Mum's younger sister from Brisbane picked Mum up on Sunday and the two of them have flown to Victoria to spend the week with their older sister in the deep south.

Doesn't sound too scary when it's put like that, but it is enough to send my uncle fleeing the country.

Well, okay, he was leaving the country anyway which is why the girls decided to have the week together. But it sounds better the other way around.

What odds will I give you that Victoria will still be standing by this time next week?

... Approximately None.

Can Someone get the Feathers Out of My Jam?

In-keeping with yesterday's culinary post, I submit this post for your entertainment.

This one involves my Mum.

That means it should be quite amusing.

Earlier in the week I happened to look out our bedroom window over to what remains of our kitchen garden.

It's frosty at the moment, and there's not much left of the summer's growth, some strawberries struggling with the morning frost, the last of the spring onions and some leeks that have taken nine months to not really grow much at all. There's also the remnants of what once were verdant basil bushes that went to seed and then died. We haven't pulled them up yet.

I was delighted to see two gentle parrots quietly helping themselves to the seeds. My Beloved and I stood and watched them for a moment before I bethought myself of the camera.

Sorry about the quality of the image. It was a grey day and I took the picture through the fly screen on the window so that I didn't startle them.


We think they were rosellas.

Of course, in a quirky coincidence there is another sort of rosella commonly known in Australia. It is a fruit that is often used to make jam. Many people love rosella jam, but it is not commercially available. You have to know someone who grows rosellas, and not many people seem to grow rosellas because the fruit is only ever used to make jam.

Vicious circle, that.

So when I was talking to my mother on the phone and told her that we had rosellas on our basil bush she was a little confused.

In her experience rosellas are usually grown on a rosella bush.

How many parrots does it take to make jam?
... approximately none!

Remember This Time Last Year?

This weekend we're heading to the Coast for Giggles' birthday party.



She is three.



The chance that I'm sad about BUYING a present this year?



... Approximately None!

The $2 Post

Well, I haven't had time to post because I've had heaps of Easter Services to organise, and we're heading on our family jaunt at 00.50 tomorrow morning.

However, we're now sitting at gate 79 and there is an internet kiosk just next door, so I borrowed $2 in change from my perfect sister-in-law and am madly typing for the 20 minutes that I can spend here before the clock runs out.

It is amazing how a busy life can suddenly clear up when you're work is finished (with the second service this morning), you've packed, and you're in the car, so you can't finish all the heaps of housework that has been building up for a month or so while I've been crazy-busy because I am not at home to do it!

Our new minister has arrived in town, and by the time I get back, he'll be in full swing (great timing, hey?) - which means I can get back to closer to quarter time and maybe vacuum from time to time.

I'm hoping we've remembered everything, because it's terribly distracting to be finishing puppet costumes for the Easter puppet play (which went down really well) and making certain that the huge whoppin' cross fits in my Beloved's trailer for transport to the little town just down the road.

The dramatic entrance worked. The singing worked. The streamers were duly waved by all but the most staid of our congregants. We welcomed the visitors and talked with them. I got home, finished packing, ate the last of the eggs in the fridge for lunch, packed up the LBD to go to my Nan's for his holiday, put our ports in Mum and Dad's car and headed down here. We met up with Giggles, and her parents and now have a couple of hours to kill. It's so strange to have hours to kill. All I forgot was to take the last of the milk to Nan. It will possibly be off by the time we get back.

And how much time do I have left at this computer?

... approximately none!

Poor Mumsy

This post had many possible titles:

Emily Sue DON'T read this (you've been warned)

Exercise is bad for your health

My Rabid Mother

Did you bite him back?

My Mum, who has been walking to get fit for our overseas holiday was out on Wednesday afternoon when a dog jumped over a fence and bit her.

Thankfully she was walking with my Nan, who then fended the dog off when it tried to have another go. When I told my Nan that she was very brave for trying to scare off a dog that had a demonstrated ability to attack, she simply indicated that there really was no other choice.

They flagged down a passing car and got them to ring for the ambulance, and Mum was taken up to the hospital. Nan also borrowed a phone to call Dad to tell him what was happening, and he came down, picked up Nan and took her home and then went up to the hospital.

The first I knew about it was a late phone call from Dad. If I'd been looking out of my bedroom or family room windows I could have seen the whole incident.

The dog was taken straight on a one way visit to the vet.

Mum was told to keep her leg up for 48 hours, then to go back yesterday, then told to keep her leg up for an additional 48 hours (but she's allowed to have crutches now). We're off to my Grandmother's 90th birthday party in a park today, so that's going to be easy!

We're hoping that she'll be better for our trip overseas - but the doctor doesn't think she'll be able to put weight on it for a week. He reckons that it was quite a bad bite. We've all been praying that it will heal quickly and there will be no infection. When the doctor looked yesterday he said that there is no sign of infection yet and that it seems to be healing well. Strange, huh?

What I have learnt?
1. Exercise is bad for you.
2. Don't wear your good, comfortable (and expensive) shoes and orthotics walking, because when you get bitten by a dog, one shoe will fill with blood and will either be wrecked, or have to be cleaned out by your husband and/or daughter (and possibly still be wrecked because of the extreme measures needed to try to get them approaching clean).

The chance that we're not continuing to pray for a speedy recovery?

... APPROXIMATELY NONE!!!

PS for any overseas readers, rabies doesn't exist in the Australian dog population - so we're fine on that score.

Remembering Chair Grandma

I have been incredibly blessed in my life that I not only had a full set of 4 grandparents for most of my primary school years, but that I can remember three of my great-grandparents as well. Family is important to me, and I find the cross-generational stuff wonderful.

And given the fact that I had four Grandmas for my earliest years, it was not unexpected that I would have special names for each of them:

I had Horsey Grandma (my Dad's Mum) who used to bounce me on her leg and sing the "Horsey, Horsey clippety clop" rhyme for me. (Someone had to give the Hippomanic gene a start in life!) She used to object to being called that, until she heard that I used to call my other grandmother...

Cuckoo Grandma (my Mum's Mum) because she had a cuckoo clock. She was the one who sent me letters. She was not in anyway mentally unbalanced.

Then there was Little Grandma (my Mum's Mum's Mum) who was not precisely tall.
And there was Chair Grandma (my Dad's Mum's Mum) because she was pretty much chair bound when I knew her.

It is amazing that I remember Chair Grandma. Firstly, it's amazing that she lived long enough to marry and procreate (particularly as my Grandma was her youngest). Then it's amazing that she lived long enough to see her grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Then it is amazing that I have any memory of her, given the fact that she died a few months before my second birthday.

You see, she was from a reasonably well-to-do family on the Northern side of Sydney. As a single young lady she once went for a job, and stipulated that she would not be available on Thursday nights, because she wouldn't miss prayer meeting. The lady doing the interview laughed, because girls who went to prayer meetings didn't usually do the sort of evening work that was on offer. Innocence is not always bliss.

She (and her sisters) were devout in their expression of their Christian faith. They used to visit the slums as part of their charity work, and Chair Grandma contracted TB from exposure to this environment.

The good thing from my perspective was that she was sent to family in the country to get all the clean air, fresh food and all that (which was about all you could do for TB back then). This was where she met my great-grandfather. She was a good horse woman and they used to get lost together to enjoy more time with each other as they courted.

She had three children out of about (I think) 13 pregnancies. This must have been heart-breaking. My Grandmother was the post World War One bub (yet another chance for me not to exist if my great-grandad hadn't got through the war) and the end of the family.

Chair Grandma had really bad anaemia, and all that could be done for it at that time was for her to eat mushed up raw liver. Blerrchh!

But she was a survivor.

Mum and I used to visit her at the home very frequently when I was little. I remember her shadowy figure sitting in her armchair beside a window. I couldn't describe her features, but I remember her. Apparently, when we visited the staff had a game to see if they could distract me as I single-mindedly waddled towards her room, shrugging them off with "I'se busy".

The strange thing is that although I couldn't describe her features I remember taking my Grandma (Horsey Grandma, if you needed reminding) to visit her older sister in her nursing home. When I walked into the room, my aunt was sitting in an arm chair beside a window. I got goosebumps. When we left, I had to ask Grandma whether her sister looked like Chair Grandma, or was my memory faulty? Yep. Spitting image. No wonder I was freaked out.

I also remember her lying in her bed (on the other side of the window). This image is vaguely troubling to me. Mum says the only time that Chair Grandma was in her bed was the week she died. I was so troubled that Mum decided not to take me back, but how was she going to explain that to me? Chair Grandma died before it was time for our next visit.

When Chair Grandma died, my great-aunt suggested to my Grandmother that she should keep Chair Grandma's good watch for Jennifer. So the once I was all grown up Grandma had the watch cleaned and gave it to me. It is a lovely cheery ticking watch (you know, has to be wound up each morning) that I've worn for good ever since. And occasionally, when my other watch ran out of batteries or the strap broke, I'd wear all the time.






I like that it's delicate and elegant. Dainty. Classic. Timeless. I like it because it has a bright, cheery tick, even when life wasn't going well in one part of my life or another. And I like it because it reminds me of Chair Grandma.



The sad part of the story happened yesterday. A couple of weeks ago it stopped. I could coax it to start again temporarily by some gentle tapping, but the tick was loose, not the crisp, cheery tick it should have been. I took it down to the local watchmaker to get a quote to make it tick merrily once more.



Yesterday the girl at the shop told me that the balance is broken, and it is so old that they don't make them anymore. It can't be replaced.



I asked her if it was possible to get whatever it needed machined especially. She checked with the watchmaker, and yes, it could be done, but it would cost in excess of $400 because it would be a once off. It could cost even more.



So today I went down to the shop to pick it up. I felt a little like I was going to the Vet to pick up my dead pet for decent burial. It' s only a thing, and it doesn't mean my memories are gone. I couldn't put it in my handbag, I had to hold it as I walked back to the car.



And the chance I wasn't repeating, "it's only a thing, it's only a thing" to myself?



... mmm.

We didn't do too badly, really

Passport photos are notorious, aren't they?

My last passport I made the mistake of getting the photo taken while wearing a cream blouse, which resulted in beige background, cream blouse, washed-out pale skin with dark hair, eyebrows and irises the only relieving features. I should have worn brighter lippy. At least back

then you were permitted to smile.

We really haven't done too badly this time, though. Both appear to have colour in our faces and whilst I made certain I wore a coloured shirt this time it doesn't seem to matter so much these days, because you can hardly see any of it.

My Beloved looks like he's up to mischief, though. The chance they'll let him into a foreign country?

... Let's hope they do! Because how much would I like to go without him?

... Approximately None!

Dear Big Brother,

Very exciting things are planned for this year, one of which is that my Mum and Dad are taking my brother and I, our respective spice (spouses?), and my niece to Asia for a week's holiday. My sister-in-law is originally from Malaysia, so they're sticking around to catch up with her family and friends and we're going to add an extra week to our trip. I'm looking forward to it immensely.

One of the essential jobs to do was to put in our passport applications. Mine had been in my maiden name and expired years ago, and my Beloved has never had one, so I've been collecting his birth certificate, a registered marriage certificate and the photos we needed, got all the paperwork filled out and found a guarantor. Then we waited til my Beloved was on holidays and went last Monday to have our interview and lodge them. Exciting.

They say to expect it to take 7 weeks. That's fine, we've plenty of time.

You can imagine my surprise to receive an email last Thursday (i.e. three days later) to say that my Beloved's passport had been processed and was being sent via registered mail. I didn't think that Snail Mail could have got the application forms to Canberra in that amount of time! And Monday the postie rang the doorbell to get my signature to recieve one passport. It took a week. Howzat!?!*

So, my Beloved is definitely going on the family holiday.

Now, I was expecting to wait seven weeks to get our passports. I was happy to wait seven weeks to get out passports. The only problem now is that my Beloved has his that was lodged at the same place, on the same date, at the same time as mine.

The photos were taken at the same place by the same bloke, so surely if the Aussie government accepts his pic, mine should be fine too. (although I won't be able to explain to them the flat straight hair phenomenon whereby they don't need to take off very much hair to get to where my skull actually is - the photo is not too small).

I would have thought mine would be easier given the fact I've previously held a passport.

I'm just hoping that the chance that they've found my post about having an assassination list when I was at college is...

Approximately None!

I swear I didn't mean it. I wouldn't ever really do that!

*For my US readers 'Howzat!' is a jubilant exclamation and appeal to the umpire in cricket when you think you've just got a member of the opposing team out. In this case I'm jubilantly appealing to you, my readers, to compliment my government on extraordinarily efficient processing.

You can choose your friends, but...

you can't choose your family, so they say.

And more importantly, you can't choose the occupations that your family members take up.

I love my family, and this is really good because my Mum was one of 6 children and my Dad was one of 4. This means that I have a good helping of aunts and uncles and scores of cousins littered all over the place (Actually, they don't quite make a single score - but 19 is lots still, right?).

And while a couple of these cousins I might not recognise if I bumped into them up the street one day, most of them I have a reasonable amount of contact with from time to time. And even those I might not recognise I still keep up with the big events of their lives via the family telegraph.

But it was a bit of a shock to get a phone call from one of my cousins this morning. He's a producer for our regional ABC radio station. I had the privilege of being the only town planner that he knew (or at least had the phone number to get a hold of at 8am) when he was seeking a short interview about the Southeast Queensland Regional Plan (the new version of which was released last night) and how it might impact on the local area.

And I hadn't read any of it at all.

In fact, I hadn't even watched the news to get the dodgy media version of what changes had been made.

But that's okay, because he only wanted to do an interview at 8.30, so I had plenty of time to educate myself.

Fortunately it was a hospital morning, so I wasn't available to be on the air at that time.

Unfortunately he had the technology to pre-record it.

Fortunately he also had the technology to edit out my waffle as necessary (you might have noticed that I can tend to get a tad verbose at times? Particularly when I have lost my point, or am not exactly certain of my facts).

I know that I had an audience of at least my Beloved and my parents, so what is the chance that I've launched a new career in the media?

... Approximately None!

Character Analysis by Bilby

I realise that some people stray onto this blog from overseas, so I'd better start by explaining what a bilby is.

It's an Australian native marsupial (i.e. a mammal that has a pouch for her young - in this case a backwards pouch because they burrow) that lives in desert regions of Australia and is endangered because feral cats and foxes eat them and habitat is destroyed and the nasty feral rabbits compete with them. There is actually a $30,000 fine in Queensland if you get caught keeping rabbits. This sometimes startles new immigrants from overseas or other states of Australia, so I thought I'd better throw it in to warn you. I have trouble watching Dr Harry Cooper when he visits some kid's pet bunny because the whole way through I'm thinking, "there's a bounty on that thing's pelt, mate, what on earth are you doing making it better?"


There are some areas that have been fenced, de-predatored, de-rabbited and bilbies are being reintroduced. They are cute, and therefore I agree that we should preserve them.

I had the opportunity last year to visit the breeding centre in Charleville and there was merchandise (to help to save the little critters). I couldn't help but get the cute soft magnetic one to go on our fridge. But various people who see him tend to rearrange him according to their own psychological profile.

For example, this is what my Beloved has done to him. Neat and tidy, all his feet together, sitting straight and tall. The Bilby looks comfortable and happy. Just like my husband.

On the other hand, last time my brother visited the poor bilby ended up like this:-

Yes, poor bilby was splatted onto the fridge in an uncomfortable spreadeagled postion. This is the same little brother that used to dip his tiny teddy bickies into his coffee head-first making gurgling noises, then pulling them out and making panting noises before plunging them back into his coffee.

He is now a paramedic. Do you think his job might have effected the way he sees the world?

But then again, the chances that he hasn't been like that since his earliest days?

... Approximately None!

So it Appears We Are Certainly Moving...

... but I'll get back to that in a minute.

I've moved heaps of times in my life. My Dad worked for the government, and we spent time as a family in Bundaberg, Barcaldine, Brisbane - notice a theme developing, we started near the beginning of the alphabet (before moving onto the next letter) - Cloncurry - and then skipped a whole heap of letters because Mum and Dad were sick of moving and decided to settle down.

Unfortunately, my current location does not host a University at all, and certainly not one that offered Town Planning, so I had to move to Brisbane to study, and then work.

After a few years of work I desperately needed OUT of the city (and my job was headed nowhere), so I started applying for Local Government work in regional centres that would have more variety.

So I moved, all alone and knowing no-one, to the lovely coastal village of Yeppoon (near Rockhampton) and enjoyed some years there. And caught myself a man. Yes, ironically enough having had a wide variety of men around at uni and reasonably large church, I fell in love with the 1 (one, let's count it out... one) single man between 18 and 45 in the smaller church. Don't tell me that God doesn't have a sense of humour.

Eventually though a small Council didn't have anywhere for me to go, so we went off to seek greener pastures a bit closer to my family (okay, back here where my parents have stayed put ever since we first moved here as a family).

So during my life I have been moved, I have chosen to move myself, and then dragged my spouse along with me as I moved.

The thing is that I don't actually like moving.

So to get back to the point of this whole yarn - on Saturday we were doing some very necessary house cleaning and I got frustrated about the fact that I still had Kevin the Kenwood Kitchen Machine's box sitting around because I hadn't decided if I should keep it or throw it out. Original boxes are very useful if you ever move again, because the styrofoam holds them in just the right position so that they are less likely to be damaged. But you have to find a place to store a half-empty box of styrofoam for all the years until then.

In a moment of ruthlessness I cut up the box and recycled it.

And we all know that, according to the laws of the universe, the chances that we will now stay in this house forever are...

... Approximately None!

Dear Miss Manners...

My Mum doesn't have her own blog, but she certainly contributes ideas for mine from time to time.

She is particularly good value for a giggle when it has anything to do with computers.

You see, I'm very impressed with the fact she (who has almost entirely missed the computer age) can read emails and blogs and can buy stuff on eBay. That may be about all she can do, but it's pretty impressive for a woman whom I can remember getting excited about the fact that a personal computer will automatically put the whole word on the next line, without her worrying about how many characters are left and where the hyphen should go according to correct syllabilification (see, I don't even need to know the correct term for how to split up words correctly when you run out of characters in a line of type!)...

This afternoon we were talking about everything under the sun and she was telling a little story about wanting to respond to her sister's email, but that her sister had recently changed email address and Mum could no longer just click on her contact details and generate an email because Dad hadn't updated the contact list.

Apparently my Dad suggested that she could just click on the little button with the word "Reply" and it would go back to the new address from whence her sister's email message had been generated in the first place.

I thought that was entirely logical, but it was at this point that I learned a very important lesson in email etiquette.

According to the wacky world of my Mum it is just plain bad manners to send someone's email back to them with a reply message. In her view it is polite to generate a new, clean message to send back, with none of these strings of previous emailed interaction in the way contaminating it.

And her unregenerate daughter, who has been using email professionally for years, (as well as using the media for catching up with friends) laughed rather immoderately at her prejudice, followed by the request to please allow me to blog that.

How many people in cyberspace share this particular prejudice?

... I'm guessing, maybe, approximately none?

And what are the chances that we got to the point of her story about replying to my aunt's email?

... Approximately None!