Damage

I wonder what the decibel volume is, inside the cabin of a SAAB 340 turboprop?

I’d had a sleep, which happened between Sydney and Dubbo. I fell asleep pretty quickly after take off because the cloudy, rainy weather made the plane move in some interesting ways. My body went into auto-shutdown to prevent the other passengers hearing me up-chuck the whole way.

During the Dubbo – Broken Hill leg (yes, this flight sets down mid way to let off and pick up) I got to thinking about the propellers that keep us in the air and the almighty racket they make.

I’ll give you an example. When Tracey, the flight attendant asked me if I would like a snack, I had to ask her to repeat her question. She was standing less than a foot away from me. Finally on the third asking, I understood and nodded the affirmative.

So I ask again. How many decibels in the cabin? The flight attendant couldn’t answer the question, and neither could the crew, when I asked. All they could say was it was within legal limits. Incidently I had to ask a couple of times, even after Tracey had put her hand to her ear while saying, 'sorry, these planes make you a bit deaf'.

I had been seated in the single row of seats on the left of the plane. The ‘A’ row. The right hand side has two seats, and the seat markers look like a date line:

1BC 2BC 3BC and on upto 11BC

Tracey counts her passengers on and off.

Really it a bit like being on a school trip. Actually, thinking about it, and as you know I’ve been doing a bit of thinking lately, it’s a lot like being on a school trip. Only, instead of the noise being produced by a bunch of kids who really don’t want to see Fishbourne Roman Palace again, it’s the two, shiny, four bladed propellers on the outside.

PS. I really would be interested to know the answer to the decibel question if anyone knows.

Boarding Call

I arrived at the airport just after 8am this morning. By 8.15 I was supping a Boost Juice (Orange, Carrot and Ginger) and scoffing a Bacon and Egg McJodie in the airport lounge. I don’t like flying much. Turbulence makes me sick and I generally find the whole process a monumental waste of time.

Having said that, I do enjoy reading between the line of the announcements.

‘This is an urgent call for Mrs Jones (or whatever name it may be). Your plane is fully boarded and is awaiting your arrival for take off. Please make your way to gate lounge X immediately.’

You just know that the polite lady on the other end of the speaker wire is making faces and hand jestures as she really wants to say something along the lines of, ‘Oi, Mrs Jones. Stop shopping and get your arse in your seat. You’re holding everyone up!’

Collective Nouns

Written 20th June 2009

It’s not something you think about on a regular basis. You are taught that it’s a flock of birds, a herd of cows and a gaggle of school girls. If you are really lucky you have a parent or teacher that tells you about a murder of crows.

Yesterday I got to give this subject a closer examination as I drove at 110kph along the Hume Highway toward a looming black mass. As I got closer I saw it was, what it was could only be described as a ‘swarm’ of sparrows.

Yes, I know it’s supposed to be flock, but you know what, I saw a swarm. There were hundreds, moving as a single entity before dividing into two as the car passed through them. Not a single bird was damaged. To my left, wandering around in the paddock, was a flock of sheep.

How can that be? A flock of sheep, a flock of birds. Surely it should be a herd of sheep, after all they have four legs and no wings. How got to decide these collective nouns?

I’m pretty sure when Hitchcock started working on ‘The Birds’ he wasn’t thinking flock of seagulls, he was thinking murder of seagulls. Seagulls are so much more intimidating than crows, despite the latter being black, they sound so much nicer than seagulls with their ugly craw. You can bet Janet Leigh was screaming blue murder.

When you spend as much time alone in a car and in hotel rooms as I have lately, you get to thinking about this sort of pointless crap.

A Breath of Fresh Air

Written 15th June 2009

I’ve been driving around NSW for a couple of weeks now. Mostly I’ve been stuck in the car, foot to the floor and an eye on the speedo. I’ll confess to having strayed over the limit, but I pull it back pretty quick.

Last week I drove nearly 1400km in four days. My back aches and my concentration levels are dropping by the minute. I need to step back, Doris a bit and let some of the local air into my lungs. I was able to do just that yesterday.

I left home at 1030 to drive to Bega, the heart of cheese country. It took me six hours to complete the drive with a couple of stops to rest, stuff my face with fish and chips and take pictures. One such photo opportunity came as I was driving past the lakes about half an hour outside Bega. I was shooting along a winding road, rolling round corners and letting my eye drift over the lovely scenery around me. Around one such bend was a sight that caused me to do a quick rear view mirror check and then a hard slam on the breaks.

I knew his was a once in the life time chance to get this photo. The scene before me would never be the same again. The clouds would be different; the sun would be a tone lighter or darker. Every thing about it would change.

The car came to a halt with a small slide as I hit the gravel of the lay-by. I slammed the gear stick into P, grabbed the camera of the passenger seat and jumped out the car. The air surrounded me with a soothing chill, the scent of eucalyptus and cold soil filled my nose. I was sent back to my teens. I wasn’t sure why so I shook it off and took my photos.

I stood next to the Princes Highway, camera in hand, starring at nature displaying itself in all its glory. It was open, raw and stunning. I knew that no matter how many pictures I took, I would never be able to show the beauty of it. A car whoosing past reminded me where I was.



As I walked back to the car, I realised why the smell had triggered a memory trip. The cold air and smell reminded me of walking the dog with my Muv. During the winter months in the UK, Muv perpetually had a hankie with Olbus Oil on it.

I climbed back into the car with a smile on my face. I like that I can now think about Muv without it brining tears to my eyes.

Serena Vs Brian

Written 4th June 2009

I brought a Garmin Nuvi a few weeks ago and after a bit of a wrestle over updating via the internet with speed alerts and school zones it’s worked out well. It’s even providing me with a little entertainment on my journey.

I selected the female voice called Serena to narrate my trips, she tells me when to turn and can pronounce town and street names like Woolgooga.

The speeding and school alerts come with a default male voice. I’ve called him Brian. He sounds like a Brian.

The maps are not the most up to date and with all the recent road works on the Pacific Highway things are changing rapidly, so today Serena got a bit confused a couple of times today.

Near Maelstom a new, improved section of the Pacific Highway has recently opened up, it diverts slightly from the old route and it resulted in a string of Serena calling out…

‘Recalculating’

‘Recalculating’

After a couple of minutes of this I heard a male voice in my mind, it sounded an awful lot like Brian. I pictured Serena and Brian having a barny.

‘You silly bint, it’s over there. Can’t you even follow a map!?’

That Bloody Big Banana

Written 3rd June 2009

I’ve reached the third hotel at the end of the third day on my state tour to deliver training in a rather dry procedure. I driven over 500kilometres up the east coast from Sydney, past the Central Coast, the Nabiac Motorcycle museum and the Big Banana. I’ve delivered nearly twelve hours of training to more than 40 people. For the third time in three day I’ve just dined alone in a restaurant full of couple, salesmen and groups of ladies that dine. It feels a bit weird to be honest.

The first night I had a steak and ribs. It came with a side salad and some roasted sweet potato. Lone Star in Tuggerah delivered the goods as always. I arrived just after 5.30pm so there wasn’t much competition for a booth. I was gone by 6.15.

On the second night I needed a break between leaving Newcastle and arriving at Port Macquarie. I stopped in Buladulah at the Plough Inn Hotel for a quick bite. I ordered grilled barramundi with chips and a cuppa. It was cold in the dining room so I kept my cardigan on while I watched Country Music telly and Keno. My fish was dry when it arrived, but tartar gave it a bit of life. The chips where awesome.



My solo dining experience was earned after driving for more than three hours. I went for a walk. I fancied a drink, so driving to food was not an option. I ended up in a little place attached to a another motel called Zack’s on Bent. It was decorated in a simple way but that only highlighted the great art on the walls. There where linen table clothes and polished silverware, I too a seat at a table that gave me a view of a particularly fine example of colour use. I ordered a glass of Oxford Landing Sauvignon Blanc and sticky braised pork belly on brocolini with macadamia, nut crumbled sweet potato, mustard fruits and ribery jus. Sounds flash eh?

My dinner arrived at the same time as my second glass of wine. The waitress delivered it, then produced the biggest pepper grinder I have ever seen, after a giggle and an impromptu photo shoot, I started eating dinner. It was too sweet. I couldn’t taste any mustard on my fruits, which included glace cherries, pineapple, apricots and melon. The pork was good once I’d scraped the fruit off.

The Hotel Curse

Written 1st June 2009

I’m travelling about NSW for work. This is the first day of winter. This is the first night of many were I shall be staying away from home in a hotel.

After driving from home to Woy Woy on the Central Coast, then presenting one afternoon session of training, I drove to Newcastle.

I checked into Travel Lodge. It’s just around the corner from the office where I will be training tomorrow, so it’s perfect. I was given room 411. A nice low number, on the forth floor. I went out to the car to get my suitcase, camera bag and travelling electronics (iPod, GPS and laptop). I stepped out of the lift and started walking, looking at door numbers. The corridor stretched out before me, orange carpet, ecru walls interrupted by ecru doors with small silver numbers, halogen bulbs dropping pinpoints of light.

I realised after passing several doors I had been struck by the hotel curse.

Whenever I have stayed in a hotel, I am ALWAYS, without fail at the furthest point from the lift. It happens every time.

I console myself with the fact that clearly the best rooms are at the end of the corridor.

I can live to dream ;-)