I was given a

"gadget" today. My sister found it. She is, as she puts it, "into that sort of stuff". I am not.
I am unlikely to use it. I rarely use "gadgets", those complicated objects which have replaced the simpler things which work well.
My maternal grandmother collected gadgets. She had all manner of them for the kitchen. They supposedly sliced, scooped, grated, cut, curled, poured, sprinkled, mixed and whizzed. Perhaps they did  other thngs as well. I do not know. My mother inherited all these things. Her brother did not want any of them.
As my parents were transferred from rural to city schools some months after my grandmother's death they moved into the house she had been living in. Everything was still there. My mother just added to the collection, even keeping some of the duplicates. She gave some to my brother when he left home. My sisters also got more duplicates when they left home. I escaped overseas for a while so I did not get any of them. 
This gadget arrived in a box. There is a note on the lid "similar as to seen on TV".  It is, of course, "made in China". Perhaps my sister did see it on television. She watches far more television than I do. I can understand the attraction for her. It is the sort of thing which would appeal to her quirky sense of humour.
From the picture on the box this gadget has three legs which come together at the top rather like a triangular Eiffel Tower. There is a black tube of some sort into which you apparently put four AA batteries.
Batteries? The need for batteries worries me. I am used to manually powered or mains powered gadgets. The grater is manually powered, so is the old rotary beater. Even the Senior Cat (who leaves the kitchen department to me) can use these things.
So, the batteries go in and, presumably, you switch the thing in. It wiggles and jiggles and (perhaps) jumps.
         "So what is it supposed to do?" the Senior Cat asked me.
         "I think it is supposed to stir things," I told him.
He looked at it some more and then asked,
         "Can't you just use a spoon or something?"

"I was wondering if you are

distantly related to me?"
I was asked this question yesterday as I was about to leave the library. I have often seen this woman sitting at one of the computers available there. Apparently she is an enthusiastic researcher of her family history.
Not content with immediate family she has apparently explored every branch she can find and then the spouses and their siblings, cousins, aunts, uncles and more. I am sure you know the sort of thing.
I could not imagine we were related - and we are not as she had actually discovered for herself. In her searching however she had come across two people with the same name. One of them is her relation and one of them is my maternal grandfather.
The name is not that common but there was a much smaller group of given names used here in that era so the two men had the same name.
It was not that however which was so curious. I had actually been aware of both men. The local council historian had come across both of them when researching the dairy business owned by the other man.
No, what was interesting was this woman's discovery about my maternal grandmother. My maternal grandmother was not a nice person. She was, to put it mildly, a difficult one. Part of the problem, we believe, was the fact that at about the age of two she was given to an aunt and uncle who then cared for her - she claimed it was for some years. It is something she deeply resented all her life. She claimed it was because her mother "could not afford" to keep all the children and "just gave" my grandmother away.
But yesterday I made a rather interesting discovery. We always believed that my grandmother had one brother (with whom she never had contact) and two sisters. Of those two sisters she really only had contact with one but we were, vaguely, aware that there was a second sister.
Yesterday I discovered she had a second brother, a younger brother. He was never mentioned. I doubt my mother knew she had a second brother. My mother's brother almost certainly never knew either. If they had cousins on the maternal side of their family then they never knew of them. They never knew their uncles and only knew one of their aunts. Both my grandmother and their aunt kept the knowledge of the younger brother to themselves.
My guess now is that my grandmother's mother was ill, perhaps bedridden, during the pregnancy and that all the children were given to relatives for the duration of the pregnancy. They were returned once the baby was born and their mother had recovered. I may be wrong but it seems very likely.
So, the story my mother was told and the story we were told is, in all possibility, quite wrong. My mother had an uncle she almost certainly knew nothing about. It is a strange, sad piece of family history.
It makes me very glad that my father had a very close relationship with both his father's family and his mother's family. His father's family is particularly close even now. Much of it has to do with the long letters my maternal great-grandmother wrote to all the family - so that they would know what each was doing.
The letter writers of the past did us a service in more ways than one.

"What are you going to

knit next?" my friend asks me.
She is folding the shawl I made her cousin. Her cousin is in hospital at present and has indicated she is feeling cold. They can put it around her shoulders rather than try to dress her. 
The shawls has been designed to stay on the shoulders without slipping off. It is not my idea but the clever idea of women who lived long ago in the Faroese islands. They needed something they could continue to work in. Cardigans were not really known then. Most women wore shawls - sometimes more than one shawl. They wore shawls with linings for double the warmth. The outer layer would be hard wearing heavier wool and the inner layer would be finer wool. There would be shaping at the shoulders and then long "wings" that could be tied behind their backs.
I doubt that these things were as comfortable or warm as a modern pullover but they were what was worn and they have progressed to being used by others as well. Some of them are beautiful. I have a pattern (given to me) for a beautiful shawl designed to look like a garden. I have never made it because I do not, normally, knit patterns designed by other people. My excuse is that I am too lazy.
Nevertheless it is a lovely pattern.
But I do make shawls. They are useful gifts to people like the woman now in hospital. I once made one for a man who had to spend weeks in hospital. People said "he won't wear that!" but he did because he could not get dressed. After a bit though he was well enough to go out into the hospital grounds and sit for a while.
I made his a sturdy, dull brown. It was plain apart from the border where I put a row of "fish hooks".  He still has it. He still uses it when reading in the evenings.
I have a list of things I want to knit this year. My goddaughter will be going to university. She needs a couple of garments. A friend needs a new cardigan with deep armholes to make it easy for her to dress. My father needs a new "gardening" jumper made from the leftovers. I actually need to make something for myself having reknitted the cuffs on two garments last year so that they will last a little longer.
But, I might just make another shawl or two. They are useful for people. I like to be able to think of them wrapping themselves in warmth when they need it.

Our Equal Opportunity Commission

has just ordered the Bowls Association (or whatever the call themselves) to stop running single sex matches and make arrangements for all games to be mixed. Apparently one person complained because she was not allowed to compete in the competition reserved for men. She has taken the matter up with the EOC and won. There has been an outcry over this.
I know a good many older (and indeed old) people who play bowls. It is not something I would want to do but they enjoy it. It gets them out of the house. They exercise (in a gentle sort of way). They socialise. Some of them play in competitions, others do not.
One of my maiden great-aunts played competition bowls almost until her death at something over 90 years of age. (She gave up competition tennis at 78 and competition golf at 80.)  One of the pleasure of bowls for her was the fact that it was "just women".  They could, apparently, relax in the company of other women. Other women have said the same thing to me. Men tell me, "It's a good way to get away from the women".
I have no doubt at all that the single sex social side of bowls has been much of the attraction for some people. There have been "mixed" matches at weekends for those who want to play that way. I believe it attracts some younger people - perhaps those who are still working during the week.
But, the EOC says this simple pleasure must stop. It is a breach of the Act as they read it.
I remember when I was on the Equal Opportunity Tribunal a similar issue came up. There were "golf camps" provided for boys but not girls. Someone put in a complaint that the girls were being discriminated against. Perhaps they were but the "camps" (sessions to teach young male teens the beginnings ofr that arcane game) were serving other purpses as well. There were also men willing to take on the role of teaching and mentoring boys.
The camps stopped because they could not, especially in the case of a residential weekend camp, safely provide for both boys and girls. Healthy exercise was curtailed because of a strict reading of the Act.  I know the judge who made the decision was not personally happy with it but that was the law.
I also know what will happen now. There will be people who simply stop playing bowls. They will not feel comfortable playing with the other sex. Some, like my great-aunt, will not feel comfortable socialising with the other sex.
There will be people who will say, "Too bad. That's up to them. They should learn to mix."
I do not believe it is as simple as that. The person who put in the complaint could have played in a mixed team - but perhaps not at a time of her choosing. As a result of her decision to take action the law has interfered in the way people can spend their leisure time. I do not understand the ins and outs but apparently the decision could end up doing even greater harm because, at national and international level, bowls is played largely on a single sex basis. (Yes, I know, some people will say "well, it is time that changed too".)
I think the real question however is, "How far should the law be able to interfere in the way we choose to spend our leisure time and with whom we spend it?"

There is a lovely (true) story

by Liz Lovick about a Christmas stranger over on Northern Lace.

http://northernlace.wordpress.com/It tells of how a young South African man experienced Christmas in England.
The story gave me "goose-bumps" because I can, just, remember something similar although I did not know the details until much later.
On Christmas Eve one year my grandfather had taken his car to the garage for some reason. He also needed to go into the city (probably for the Christmas shopping he always did at the very last moment!) He took the train.
At the main railway station in the city he was stopped by a young man who looked quite unlike anyone else. In those days anyone who was not white or aboriginal really stood out. Australia still had the appalling "white Australia" policy and, although we did not practice "apartheid" or make people from other cultures unwelcome it was unusual to see them.
But, the young man stopped him and asked for the correct platform for a train to a place which did not exist. He showed my grandfather the address he had been given. It was for a place that did not exist. It was supposed to be a boarding house where the young man could stay for several days. Nobody knew it.
My grandfather shook his head and told the young man to wait. He went to the bank of telephones that existed back then, 'phoned my grandmother and asked if he could bring the stranger home for a meal. He was a Bible student from Tonga. My grandfather would then find somewhere for him to stay. My grandmother promptly said she would put extra food on the table.
Being Christmas my grandmother already had a house full of people. There was no room for the stranger but my grandparents knew they would find something.  My grandfather was an elder in the local Presbyterian church. He knew there would be someone who would know of a bed somewhere.
The young man ate with my grandparents. My grandfather made another telephone call and the young man had a bed for the nights he needed it but the family was not able to take them with him for Christmas lunch. No, my grandfather said, he is coming to us for Christmas lunch - and tea.
So we had a stranger among us. I have, as a not quite two year old, a memory of a very big man swinging me up on his shoulders and carrying me. My grandmother told me later that he was "handy with a tea towel".
The relationship was maintained until his death via letters and cards. He worked as a missionary and a teacher. He came back to Australia once when I was twelve, too big to be swung on his shoulders but not too big to feel pride in knowing him.
My grandparents had not told us he was coming, keeping it as a surpise. I was told to take something into the kitchen and there he was doing something.
       "David!"
       "You remember?" he asked and hugged me.
Oh yes, how could I forget?

"1951", he says and looks around

at the gathering.
It is the year my sister's father in law came to Australia from Cyprus. He was sixteen and spoke no English. He travelled with a cousin not much older than himself. They were the advance party.
His first task was to find a job. His second was to learn English. After that he worked hard. He brought out his wife. He brought out each of his siblings. He helped to bring out his wife's siblings and, last of all, he brought out his parents.
There are four children. My sister is married to the engineer. His brother is a forensic chemist. One of the girls is an accountant and the other works in the court system. Their children, his grandchildren, have gone further still.
Papou, as the grandchildren call him, finished school at the end of primary school. His wife had three years of school. She cannot read or write English and her Greek is limited, becoming more so as Alzheimer's gains a greater hold on her mind. Their story is not uncommon, they did not have the same opportunities to continue their education but they made the most of their opportunities anyway. They were not given all the assistance migrants are given now.
Papou had surgery recently. He is much younger than my father but his body is almost as old. He is, quite simply, worn out. He has not, like many other men in his position, taken care of his health. You go to the doctor only if you feel really, really ill. Other than that he would still prefer to rely on the folk type medicine he was brought up to believe in. He does not really understand the Alzheimer's that is taking his wife from him - but does anyone really understand that?
But, despite all that, yesterday he was happy. He was happy to be where he was. He was happy to have his children and his grandchildren there. The last grandchild finished school this year.
Papou insisted on being Father Christmas. The cheap red outfit the family bought more than twenty years ago is growing threadbare in places. This year there was a new "beard" of cottonwool.  Adults and children alike posed "sitting" on his knee (actually on the arm of the chair). He handed out their gifts. There were cheers, laughter and demands of "wait" as multiple cameras caught the various moments.
Everyone is "much too old" for Father Christmas but - it's tradition.

The Harpcottle Carol

Years before there had been a group of carol singers in Harpcottle. They were students. As is the way with students they had made their way not from one house to another but from one public house to another. By the time they reached the last hostelry they were not really able to sing at all and they had been sent on their way across the road and along the river.


Of course one of them had fallen in. The others had rescued him. Nobody had drowned or died of pneumonia and it was generally considered they had been "lucky". It was not until the next day that anyone realised that the Harpcottle Carol had been lost, probably in the icy water of the Harpcottle River.

Ever since then people had searched for the carol but nobody had found it. The whole tune had simply disappeared. The old people remembered it existed but they did not remember the tune. The young people thought it was just the imaginings of the old people until....



It was Mouse who found the little music note just outside the cat flap. It was there when he went out into the first thin sliver of daylight. He knew instantly what it was. He had seen one before. The family of robins who lived in the Harpcottle Oak had told him what the first one was. That note had been bright and shiny like a newly whitewashed cottage with a black door. This one was different. It was lying on the step, barely there at all. Mouse could not do anything to help except wait for Lizzie to notice it. She might not notice it of course and, even if she did, she might not know what it was but Lizzie knew about music so Mouse was hopeful.

Mouse thought of a picture of Lizzie. He thought of a picture of Lizzie picking the note up. He thought of a picture of Lizzie singing to the note. It was very cold sitting on the back door step but he waited. Cats are patient.

At last he heard Lizzie in the kitchen and started making small, distressed mewling sounds. They had to be loud enough for Lizzie to hear and quiet enough not to distress the little note.

"Mouse! You silly cat! For goodness' sake, come back inside!"

Lizzie tried to open the back door to pick Mouse up. He just sat firmly in place and refused to move. All the while he kept mewling softly and anxiously as he looked down at his left paw.

No cat sits outside in the snow when they can be inside in the warm Lizzie thought to herself. Mouse had not even had his breakfast! By then her heart was beating a little too rapidly to feel comfortable. Surely Mouse could not be ill or injured?

Still in just her blue checked pyjamas, Lizzie let herself out the front door of the cottage and rushed as fast as the snow allowed around to the back door. Perhaps, she thought to herself, I can pick Mouse up that way or shoo him inside.

He was still waiting there and, if a cat could look relieved, Lizzie thought Mouse did. She stopped. She did not want to swoop on him if he was injured. She did not want to send him skittering across the garden. It was too cold for that. Lizzie thought it would snow soon.

Lizzie approached cautiously. Mouse looked down at his left paw again.

Lizzie looked carefully. There did not seem to be anything wrong with his paw. He appeared to be resting on it normally. She bent down to pick him up and, just as she did, the first faint gleam of sunshine reached the top step.

That was when she saw the little note of music. At first she did not believe it. There was a note of music, an actual note of music, leaning against Mouse's left paw?

It was a pale, almost translucent, pearl grey colour and, although faded, it seemed to be in the shape of a minim.

Lizzie stared at it. She had never seen anything quite like it before. She was not even sure what it was, just that the idea of "note" had come into her head. Mouse clearly knew it was something in need of help. All Lizzie could think was that they all needed get inside as quickly as possible.

"So that's why you were waiting - but how will I get it inside?"

Lizzie had no idea. She was sure it would just break if she tried to pick it up. Mouse did not shift, apart from a slight twitch of his whiskers.

It was so cold LIzzie's ears stung and her nose wanted to drip - if it did not ice up first. Her usually warm pyjamas felt like a sheet of ice across her back.

The little note of music had not moved. She was not sure it was even alive. Losing even a single note of music would be a dreadful thing! Mouse twitched one whisker in an encouraging sort of way. For some reason that made Lizzie think of sneezing and sneezing made her think of a paper tissue. She pulled the clean one from her pyjama pocket and knelt down.

The step felt colder than Artic ice. Lizzie thought she would have frostbite at very least. All this for a single note of music? She must be very foolish indeed.

She put the paper tissue on the palm of her hand and then, holding it level with the step, she very, very cautiously turned the note of music on its side. It fell slowly and softly onto the paper tissue. Lizzie wondered if she was imagining it or whether she heard the faintest of faint musical sighs.

"Trying to save yourself you poor little thing," Lizzie murmured.

It weighed so little she could not feel it.

Mouse gave an anxious miaou and rushed through the cat flap. Lizzie followed through the door and took the note of music into the kitchen.

"What do I do next?" she asked Mouse. He was shivering violently now. Lizzie hoped he would not be ill, "I'll get you some warm milk just as soon as I have done something with this."

Mouse just looked at her. He knew just what had to be done next but humans simply do not understand Feline. There was just one more thing Mouse could do right then. Mouse thought of a picture of Tom.

Tom, who was first harpist in the world renowned Harpcottle Orchestra, was still asleep. The Harpcottle Orchestra had been playing at the Royal Albert Hall the night before and they had been home very late.

Mouse thought of a picture of Tom getting out of bed, of Tom coming into the kitchen. He ran into Tom's room and pulled at the bedclothes.

"Oh go away Mouse!" Tom tried to turn over and pull the bedclothes up again.

No, it was too important for that. Mouse jumped up and pushed him.

"Go and ask Lizzie..."

Mouse sat on the pillow and licked Tom's ear. Tom sat up. He was really very fond of Mouse. Mouse did not usually do anything like this.

"Are you trying to tell me something?"

Mouse flicked his tail briskly, jumped from the bed and looked back at Tom. Tom sighed and got out of bed. It was much too early! Something must be wrong.

"Lizzie!"

Lizzie did not answer. She was still wondering what to do next. How do you save a little note of music which is almost not there at all?

Tom could not hear Lizzie in the kitchen. Had she gone outside and fallen in the snow? Was that what Mouse had been trying to tell him? He rushed out. No, there she was.

"I thought you must have...where did you get that?" he asked. The little note of music was lying on the bench, as close to the Aga as Lizzie had dared to put it. It was still barely there. Lizzie was looking as if she might cry.

"It was outside. Mouse was trying to keep it warm...I don't know what to do next..." Lizzie sounded as if she might cry too.

Tom looked at it. He was not properly awake. He wanted a cup of tea, well several cups of tea. He did not think you could feed tea to the thing Mouse and Lizzie had found.

"I think it's a note of music," Lizzie said.

"A note of music? Of course it's a note of music! It's a minim!" Tom was suddenly wide awake. Notes of music were a huge responsibility. Tom had to look after thousands of them every day.

He sang a middle C very softly. The little thing quivered very slightly, so slightly they were not sure whether it moved or note.

"You try too," Tom said.

They both sang a Middle C very softly. Yes, the little thing definitely quivered. It was alive.

"It needs to be fed music," Tom told Lizzie.

He turned on the radio but Lizzie hastily told him to turn it off again. The little thing had tried to scrunch itself up. Somehow Lizzie knew the radio was not right.

"Maybe it needs something else as well," Tom said. He went off to think about it while he put something more than his pyjamas on.

Lizzie sang Middle C again. Mouse twitched his whiskers approvingly but Lizzie did not notice. She could not see any difference this time. She hoped they had not killed it by turning the radio on. Perhaps the little thing had just gone to sleep?

Mouse ate breakfast. Tom and Lizzie ate breakfast. Every so often Mouse broke off to offer a little purr of encouragement to the minim. Tom and Lizze each tried singing Middle C in between bites of toast.

All during the day, while Tom was at orchestra practice and she was planning the orchestra's trip to Mongolia, Lizzie watched the little note of music. Sometimes it seemed to move a little - or was it just her imagination?

She did not know. She sang Middle C sometimes. She tried Bach and Mozart and the Beatles (but softly). The little note barely stirred. The Maranoa Lullaby (which Tom had brought back from Australia) seemed to soothe it and so did the Schubert Lullaby. It jiggled a little to Boccherini and Vivaldi. She tried humming a theme from Telemann's Water Music but that obviously upset the little note - so much so that Lizzie thought she had almost killed it again and was in tears herself.

Mouse tried to help by sitting there and purring to the little note. He purred so much his throat hurt.

Lizzie went back to lullabies and nursery rhymes. Perhaps it was just a baby?

She tried a High Andean folk song and a string of German, French and Italian folksongs. When Tom came home he brought his folk harp into the kitchen and played tunes by O'Carolan and some Gaelic lullabies. The little note slept, twitching slightly as if it was dreaming.

"It looks a little bit stronger," Tom said with relief.

This went on all week and Lizzie saw that the little note really was stronger. She talked to it and, when she could talk and sing no longer, she played Handel (but not his Water Music because that upset it too), Charpentier, more Mozart, all the Beethoven apart from the Requiem, folk songs from Africa and Russia, Wales and Samoa.

Tom kept disappearing all through the week. Mouse kept disappearing too. Lizzie wondered what was wrong with them. The weather was not really bad but it was not good either. Tom looked exhausted. Mouse would come back looking almost too tired to eat his favourite fresh fish. At night he would not sleep on the end of Lizzie's bed or on the end of Tom's bed. He just curled up next to the little note.

On the Saturday afternoon before Christmas the Harpcottle Orchestra was performing in the main shopping mall. Lizzie was singing in the choir.

(Mouse was staying home. He hated the shopping mall at any time and it was always worse at Christmas.)

"You can look after the minim Mouse," Lizzie told him.

Perhaps. I might, Mouse thought to himself, just have a cat-nap. The minim could look after itself. Mouse knew what was going to happen.

The area around the big Christmas tree in the atrium of the mall was always busy and nobody took much notice when Tom set his harp up by the tree. Nobody took much notice of the double bass player either.

Tom played a few notes, adjusted one string and then played a rippling wave of notes. The double bass player brushed some more notes carefully into the air and then there was the sound of flutes, of violins, violas, cellos, clarinets, oboes, the French horns and trumpets, blowing and brushing their notes into the air. A cloth was whisked off the percussion instruments and those players took up their place. Their notes bounced up and down as if on a trampoline.

The orchestra's conductor walked out from the bookshop and looked around. All the orchestra seemed to be in place.  People were beginning to notice. The conductor raised his baton and then brought it down in one gentle, graceful swoop gathering all the notes, scattering and catching them again.

People stopped. A crying baby quietened. An arguing couple shrugged and turned to look. Small children wriggled out of the grasp of their parents and went to stand by Tom and the double bass player. Three more young children stopped and then stood ready to "conduct".

Lizzie and her friend Anne had been sitting at the Harpcottle Cafe. Now they rose and, along with the other members of the choir, began to sing.

More people stopped. The orchestra went from one joyful piece to another, the opening of Bach's Christmas Oratorio, Handel's Hallelujah Chorus, Lizzie sang her Mozart solo.

It was as they finished that Lizzie noticed something poking out of Tom's pocket. She was not quite sure at first but then it moved a little further. The orchestra was playing the final notes of Beethoven's great Ode to Joy.

And Lizzie knew it was an even greater Ode to Joy than ever before. She knew what Tom and Mouse had been doing. They must have walked down every street in Harpcottle, right along the Harpcottle River, around Harpcottle Bay and anywhere else they could think of. They had found all the other lost notes of the Harpcottle Carol. She was sure she was right. Yes!

The little note was definitely there. It climbed up Tom's shirt and on to his shoulder. It seemed to be looking around. Lizzie looked around too. There was another little note, and another, and another. They were climbing from pockets, hats, collars, from under a scarf and along a red ribbon. There was an entire row of them now jigging around the children who were pretending to conduct.

She looked at Tom. He was smiling. She did not know how he had done it.

The orchestra had stopped. There was a roar of applause but the conductor held up his hand for silence.

"Our harpist Tom has been very busy. The very oldest of you will remember this."

Tom played the rippling notes on his harp and then picked out a tune. There was a gasp from somewhere and then, somewhere at the side, Henry Cottleton aged 103, began to sing. His voice was barely there.

"It's the Harpcottle Carol!" someone whispered.

"The Harpcottle Carol....the Harpcottle Carol..." Right around the mall the words echoed softly.

"Help him someone!" another voice said softly.

This time some members of the orchestra joined in. The choir hummed the tune in the second verse. The old people sang the half-remembered words. The television crew hidden on the upper level ignored the warning from their producer that they would be late for the evening carol service in the cathedral. They recorded it all. A young court reported took down the words and transcribed them and then rushed into the advertising room and threw them up onto the advertising screen so everyone could read them.

They sang it again - and again. The children danced to it. The little notes jigged. Lizzie was sure the little minim was grinning.

But, she was not sure anyone else except Tom, herself and Mouse could see it.