RMS Titanic refloated

And is moored at Williamstown near Point Gellibrand (about 3 metres/10 feet above sea level). The only way the Ship will go to the bottom again may be from Global warming or dodgy accounting.

Of course, this is not to denigrate the awfulness of the 1912 Titanic tragedy, I hasten to add.

It had been a blustery day, strong wind warnings poured forth from the Weather Bureau dugout. Ideally, a logical mind would dictate a day inside. Scrub the floors, catch up on the washing, vacuum the carpet, put the empty bottles of Bourbon in the recycling bin, and count the traffic. It was a day to wrestle with a book, more than I usually do. In this case a gift of poems written by the fine Australian Poet, A. D. Hope (1907-2000) beckoned thumbing. Though, I do not need to be indoors to read poetry. One of Hope's poems, dedicated to his late wife and written toward the end of his life is an example of his testament into the Australian canon:

Trees

for Penelope

Since you left me forever, I find my eyes
See things less clearly than they used to do.
All that I view lacks the hint of surprise
That I once shared with you.

They are merely looked at; they are not completely seen.
Only some evenings I sit on our terrace and turn
To watch our trees, rustling, vividly green,
Come fully alive. I discern

That we see them together with joy as once we did,
And wonder if it could possibly be true
That there still lives on, that in their foliage hid,
Those trees remember you.

Our fifty years together, I should have thought
Would have left great gaps and so they have for sure.
What I learn now is: moments of this sort
Are those that most endure.

Instead, I completely disregarded such domestic entertainments. As the previous evening, I received an e-mail from a local book supplier 'tempting' me to come along to their recently opened Warehouse for some bargains. How could I resist - I did not. Thus, dust levels will have to wait another twenty-four hours and that leaky downpipe that has surrendered to winter can drip until next week. I flung the mop, left the washing to search for its own washing powder. I kicked the vacuum cleaner for fun but the cleaner got revenge as I stubbed my toe. I left the breakfast dishes to drown in the kitchen sink and wished I had disposable plates, forks and knives and shut the House up with a flurry of dexterity. As I fled this domestic tyranny, I grabbed the backpack (the camera gear now always sits inside with the tripod clipped on the backpack itself courtesy a contorted piece of coat-hanger and twisted chamois). I rolled up to the Bus stop, rugged up in layers of cotton and wool fibres to endure the fiercest of any blizzards or ticket inspectors that may come along. "Daily ticket comrade", I requested from the bemused bus driver. I always call bus drivers, comrade, though few would know what a comrade is in this age of fat affluence. Yet, I would not be a bus driver for quids as they have to put up with so much ranging from drunken (or high) passengers, squabbling couples that bring their spat onto the Bus, patrons who pay for a $2:30 fare with a $100 note and DEMAND change. So, my comrade greeting is a sign of empathy and gratitude for what they do.

The Buses in Melbourne (the City in the State of Victoria, Australia) where I live, provide in my view, a modestly good network. It is improving by piecemeal increments usually given a spur when a State election is due (we have one coming up in November). Am I cynical? Nah! Although slower than the suburban trains (though of recent times this is debatable), they are considerably more reliable and if you like suburban sightseeing you cannot go wrong.

Arriving at the book Warehouse, I was near salivating in 'booky anticipation'. I passed through the automatic doors with the biggest grin my tooth gapped mouth could demonstrate and discovered heaven, as well as the prospect of racking up ruinous debt levels. The place was a goldmine! I wondered how I would be able to ever leave, let alone carry the expected dozens of books that I would amass. I ended up spending hours in the place, so long in fact that the kindly staff offered me temporary residency. There were books on everything that interests me and stuff that does not. "I'll have this one and that one and that one over there! Yes, that one too - do you have it hardcover, do I care if you do not? No matter, any cover will do", I gurgled with delight. "Sir, [me Sir, perhaps Cur is better but I will take Sir as it does not happen too often], we can home deliver for you if you like?" proffered the helpful salesperson. Jackpot, thinks me! "If that is the case, I will then take that one, and this one here and all of those poetry everyman titles". I am unreliably informed that the Reserve Bank of Australia issued an 'inflation alert' for the Australian Economy due to a sudden spending splurge and resultant increase in the money supply due to some nefarious book buying activities in Melbourne. 'Tis a happy lad is thine', I thought as I trundled out of the Warehouse, backpack stuffed with books that I just had to take with me immediately. The rest of the booty is to follow next week. I'll be at the window in the coming week, watching and waiting, sweating with anticipation.

But the day was not yet over. Despite the gales blowing, I still had a photo to snare and thought, 'Train to Williamstown' and have another go at the Timeball Tower (see blip of 12th May 2010) but this time I would also see Venus near a bright star called Regulus. As well, Saturn and Mars are in the cosmic neighbourhood, reclining along the ecliptic to the western horizon as a backdrop to the Timeball Tower. En-route was the obligatory stop over at Yarraville Village for some Saturday evening Salmon n' Chips from my favourite Fish n' Chip shop and a gabble with the friendly lads in the shop. It is a small treat for me, one that I never tire from enjoying, odd as it may appear.

Reaching Williamstown, I plodded down the familiar pathway to the Timeball Tower which is ensconced at a place beside Port Phillip Bay called Point Gellibrand. Wobbling out of step with the wind, I set up my camera despite the buffeting by the clearly annoyed wind slapping away from its northern lair. I took some photographs of the Tower by applying combinations of short and long exposures, high and low viewpoints, manual, aperture priority, shutter priority and some other functions that the camera was clearly not designed to do. I gossiped with an Old Timer who was fishing from the Breakwater near the Tower, "Only stupid buggers like us out on a night like this, hey?", I could not help but agree but I was not in agreement about the old bit, despite the stark reality of decades! Well, I assumed, I had my photo for the day (in this case, night) and I duly trooped off back into the glare of Williamstown proper for some cinnamon doughnuts (from another favourite haunt) along the way passing the Shipyards that Williamstown is noted. Half the Australian Navy was built here I chortled within and all, I suspect of New Zealand's (a dinghy or two I suspect). Sorry my Kiwi chums, just joking.

As I walked through the ageing evening I came across the RMS Titanic restaurant, beached on the site of an old Williamstown Hotel. It is one of the icons of Williamstown with its facade looking like a small section of that ill-fated Liner. I have dined there and the fare is quite good along with the boisterous theme based entertainment (they have a slogan, 'HMS Titanic restaurant - survival guaranteed'). Corny sure, but fun. There is a website if you are interested to look around -'Titanic' and 'restaurant' will be your search words. If the owners of the place are Blippers can they please send me some loot for giving them a plug? I do need the dosh to pay for all the books I had just purchased. As I had never taken a photo of the restaurant before, I thought this might be the more interesting image for today and duly rattled off half dozen or so Tv exposures (see I am getting camera techy too). However, I wanted to get a few more photos from a different angle, so I barrelled up a side street and set up for a photo of the funnels atop the restaurant. However, every time I pressed the shutter a car would pass into my field of view. I am not a fan of cars at the best of times but after six car mussed up shots I was convinced a conspiracy was unfolding. On the seventh attempt I was 5 seconds into a 15 second exposure when yet another bloody car came into view. So, in a fit of pique, I clipped the camera off the tripod and waved it about in absurd 'annoyance'. To my surprise, out came this photo which I envisage as the Liner departing the Docks amidst a cacophony of streamers. Imagination on the loose folks, so you have been 'warned'. Here I resolved was my photo. The more formal, set piece compositions of the restaurant, let alone of the Timeball Tower would have to go onto the hard-drive and wait for another trundle, when it is warmer too!