Lemon break and entry, My dear Watson.
I'm proud and not sorry about this headline.
This week is about citrus fruit based shenanigans, being actually there, and chips almost as good as postmodern Irish literature.
The great property/lemon squeeze.
We all know about Australia’s ridiculous housing shortage. Go for a walk in the inner suburbs, look closely at quiet, sheltered spots outdoors like a shop alcove or an overpass, and there’s a good chance you’ll find little clues of people sleeping rough - a neatly wrapped towel here, a blanket there.
And thanks to housing activist, Purple Pingers (other people are saying it, but only he’s getting heard), we know that there are too many vacated houses in Australia. A university study last week told us that there’s at least 100,000 unoccupied houses just in Melbourne. One of the fantastic ideas he’s come up with is to publish the addresses of empty places to help people find them and squat at. We have laws that make squatting legal, so that’s cool.
There are three empty places within 100 metres from where I live. In fact, one of the first places PP published is one of them, and only a few days ago he was interviewed by Nine news in front of it. I wish I knew, because I’d give him some of my magic lemon cache. Huh?
Somewhere near our place, there’s a vacant block of land. The 70ish year old house that was on it was demolished months ago for a new place which won’t be built for years. This is what it looks like. The dirt is probably packed with asbestos from the demolition.
Zoom in, and what do you see?
Is that a lemon tree?
Yes, and guess what. The lemon tree you can see is in the backyard OF ANOTHER ABANDONED HOUSE. It’s the most beautifully packed lemon tree I’ve ever seen. Next to it is an orange tree which was full of Seville oranges a few weeks ago and a very old olive tree which I’ll pick next year.
So I’ve been naughty and broken through the gates to get lemons whenever I’ve needed some, and passed them onto neighbours. The cat (below), can’t help but watch my shenanigans. It’s okay. I’ve paid him off in chicken necks.
It’s one of my area’s many, many lemon trees that have been grown and lovingly looked after by the Greek families who’ve lived here since the boats came in the 1950s. I once heard a real estate agent at an auction claim that our area was “a veritable market garden” everything you need could be picked on your way to the 7/11.
I met an old bonsai artist recently who told me that keeping bonsai was one of the closest things you do to achieve immortality. You grow the tree, plan for it and care for it for the rest of your life, and when you die, it’s passed on to another generation to resume its care.
That’s an idea that is equal parts magic and sensible.
Where I live, there’s a lemon tree in every street, and as the older people (whose mums and dads grew those trees), are leaving us, the houses get worked on, and the lemon trees are first to go, as the younger generations sort out the paperwork for sale or demolition.
That’s immortality uprooted.
Meanwhile, while the calculations are made, plans approved, and the work is stalled because of high labor costs for another year or three, other people remain homeless.
If you want some lemons, ask me to bring some next time I visit. If you want to report a vacant home to Purple Pingers, fill out this form.
These are all real names.
What do you get when you fill a car up with other cars?
A babushkar!
(joke by Martha, aged 10)
What to watch.
You’ve probably seen an ad or heard about I Was Actually There on Channel 2 and iview. Like Snakes on a Plane and Murder on the Orient Express, I Was Actually There is what it says on the box. It’s a show about people who were actually there when things happened. Things like the Port Arthur massacre, the Boxing Day Tsunami and the Beatles coming to Adelaide.
Here’s a bit from the one episode I’ve seen.
In a similar format to You Can’t Ask That, we hear from: Nicky Winmar; the photographer who took THAT photo, Wayne Ludbey; the wonderful Gilbert McAdam (how he hasn’t been given a network TV show is one of TV’s great travesties); a few other players; and people in the crowd. Marlene, a pies supporter needs her own show too.
I was actually there too that day but I can’t say much more that this show doesn’t cover - the story telling is that good. Besides, it doesn’t matter what I saw, it’s better to listen to Nicky Winmar, Gilbert McAdam and Wayne Ludbey instead.
Talking sport, you gotta love these two Collingwoodies wearing oodies under their hoodies.
Friends you should hire.
This week I need to tell you about stupidly good copywriter and Creative Director, Mat Garbutt. Mat writes beautifully, makes great ads, and can crack a funny from any angle. For those who know Mat, all you need to know is that he’s available. Get hold of him quick. You know how rare this moment is.
I came into advertising (I write ads when I’m not doing this), relatively late - in my 30s - and he was one of my people who helped me get started. We’ve worked together a bit over the years since. His generosity spreads past work hours to some important side projects in community sport. Ask him about that when he starts working with you. Mat’s one of the good people out there. Hire him.
Compare the pair.
Why were KISS such a clean band?
Because every band meeting started with HI GENE!
(joke by me, aged 51)
Is this the best chip I’ve ever tasted?
It’s easier to write about the terrible than it is to write about the gorgeous.
These chips aren’t bad chips I would usually write about.
They were perfect, adeptly salted, just the right slight stench of truffle without being rude about it, all with rich butter humming underneath like a uilleann pipe on drone.
Before I had them, this from Ulysses was my favourite ever bit of food writing…
Mr Leopold Bloom ate with relish the inner organs of beasts and fowls. He liked thick giblet soup, nutty gizzards, a stuffed roast heart, liverslices fried with crustcrumbs, fried hencods’ roes. Most of all he liked grilled mutton kidneys which gave to his palate a fine tang of faintly scented urine.
Though the simple verse on my pack of Keogh’s Irish Potato Chips gives Joyce a fair shake…
“Truffle and real Irish butter. Thick cut with skins on. Grown cooked on our family farm.”
Says all we need to know.
Five stars, Margaret.
So many vacant blocks around my hood too. I hate how developers bulldoze first and don’t ask any questions later! My solution would be to use those portable tiny houses people pay $500 a night to holiday in, and set them up on vacant blocks for homeless people. Set up an ablution block and a couple of tiny homes on each block.