1. Growing old..well, older
Russell Grenning
Mandy Rice-Davies, the English tart at the centre of the Profumo political scandal that
brought down a Cabinet Minister and ultimately the Government, once described her
life as “one slow descent into respectability.”
I must confess that my life has been somewhat in the other direction. I am now a
complete curmudgeon, utterly intolerant of just about everything that is not even
vaguely to my taste and preference and I make no secret of it. In fact, I have been
described by a chum as “a complete old asshole”.
Imagine what people who don’t like me – I’ve never met any actually – might say!
And, what maybe even worse to people like you, I revel in that description. Having
retired, I no longer have to pretend to be nice to people I always secretly detested and
I don’t have to accept invitations to places I know I would loathe. It is very liberating
I can tell you!
Our first teacher is our mother and my mummy continues to be a role model.
She is now resident in what used to be called a Home but which now - for some silly
bureaucratic politically acceptable reason - is an Aged Care Facility. This Facility is
staffed by people who are called “carers”. In the 21st
century you can get paid to care.
Mummy, like most women I have encountered along the way, holds firmly to the
view that there are two ways of doing anything – her way and the wrong way. Now I
am so liberated, my feminine side is emerging and I am following her shining
example.
She still has her marbles, more or less. Prior to the last election, she expressed the
hope that Mr Fraser would win but is now up to speed vis-à-vis the Abbott regime.
When it was mentioned to her that there was only one female Cabinet member she
retorted to the effect that women have got a lot more important things to do than be
Cabinet Ministers. I somehow doubt she would qualify for Emily’s List.
She has been fiercely anti-Socialist all of her life and cannot abide the Labor Party.
Indeed, she still mentions that her father warned her that no good would come of
Ramsay McDonald’s election as the first British Labor PM and that was in 1924.
Feminism in its modern outwardly form is not her cup of tea.
While she liked Maggie Thatcher who, she decided, was “respectable”, she couldn’t
abide Julie Gillard whom she used to describe as “that woman”. The last female to be
so described as “that woman” was Mrs Wallis Simpson who, according to mummy,
got her fangs into the nice Prince of Wales in 1937 and then forced him to abdicate as
King. Although firmly of the monarchist view, she describes the ex-King as “weak-
willed like so many other men and who went just silly over some chit of a girl.”

2. So far, so good in my truly liberated view. Remember, I don’t care any more what
people think.
Mummy particularly disapproved of Ms Gillard’s domestic arrangements but then
again that didn’t come as any surprise to her because Ms Gillard is a socialist and they
have no moral standards at all or even a veneer of civilisation.
Mummy liked to think – well, it was more of a pretence in my view than an actual
firm opinion – that the man should be head of the house and that he should be
deferred to in everything. A splendid view you would have to agree.
When my little brother and I were considered old enough, we attended formal family
conferences where significant issues were discussed – like holidays, for example.
She would open proceedings with the announcement that, “Your father and I have
decided that this year we are going to (fill in the space), haven’t we dear?” Father’s
invariable response was a sort of grunt from behind billowing clouds of cigarette
smoke. That was the full extent of the discussion – she had done the necessary
research and told father where and how he should make the necessary bookings. After
all, those sorts of things were the head of the household’s responsibility.
Mummy has always been concerned about outward appearances – concerned about
what the neighbours might think. When I was a kiddie, there were variable flag fall
rates for the different taxi companies so we never ever rode in a Yellow Taxi – the
cheapest company. I once idly inquired why and was promptly told, “The neighbours
might think that your father isn’t doing very well and, in any case, you never know
who sat in one of them last.”
Once when I answered the front door to greet a woman visitor and I ran down the
corridor calling out that there was a lady here to see her. “I’m not expecting a lady
dear, just the new cleaning woman,” mummy replied.
When I was a grown-up with my own house and everything, she would - when
visiting – rearrange the washing on the line so they the socks were in proper pairs and
so on. Once when I inadvertently got the wrong (and cheaper) brand of tonic for her G
and T, she solicitously asked if I was doing all right and did I need a cheque.
Now at the Aged Care Facility, she rules the place with a rod of iron. If she had been
in charge of Stalag Luft 111 there wouldn’t have been any mass escape.
The “carers” all seem to be Fijian Indians, people of charm and grace, and mummy
concedes that they can be quite nice for “coloured people”. Her family was really in
its heyday when they were running bits and pieces of the old Empire and she has
carried on acknowledging the White Man’s Burden.
Her opinion of individual carers can wildly change from week to week. One who
might have been a “lovely girl” one week can suddenly – for no clear reason – be
referred to as “sly.”
“If you only knew the half of what goes on here” is the explanation.

3. When my partner and I visited once she expressed a gripe that there was a new doctor.
“He’s Chinese,” she said in a rather dismissive way adding, after a furtive glance at
my partner who is of the Asian persuasion, “Not that there’s anything wrong with
that.” And I don’t think she was ever a fan of Seinfeld.
She has exacting standards when it comes to her food and how it should be prepared
and served. She’s mentioned more than once that the boiled egg that morning was
“as hard as a rock” damming me with faint praise by adding that “Doing a boiled
egg properly isn’t all that difficult – even you can do it.”
It doesn’t occur to her that the egg might be perfectly all right if she went downstairs
to the dining room like everybody else and didn’t demand that she be served breakfast
in her room.
But she has always liked to think that she has moved with the times. In 1970 when
they held my 21st
birthday party, she made a point of inviting Neville Bonner and his
wife who were pals of mine – Bonner the following year became the first indigenous
member of Federal Parliament. When they duly arrived, somewhat late, she grandly
welcomed them by announcing, “We are so glad you could come and we don’t care
what the neighbours think.”
Father almost choked on his scotch and cigarette.
Each year at this time of year, mummy starts saying how she is looking forward to
spending Christmas with us – she gets the hair done specially and already is fretting
about what outfits to bring.
My partner and I exchange wry looks and she always adds, with a mournful sigh and
a tight brave smile, “This could be my last Christmas.” I’ve been hearing that since
the McMahon Government was sort of running the country but mummy is
indisputably and supremely confident that one day she will be right.
No doubt about it – mummy remains my hero; although she would insist on
“heroine”.