Hieronymous the Anonymous

Easy days and sleep-ins

Image by harold.lloyd (won't somebody think of the bokeh?) via Flickr

If Christmas eve is a day that leaves me mainly indifferent then Boxing day is one of my favourite days of the year. Sandwiched in between is Christmas day, which is neither one nor the other for me - which is pretty appropriate really.

For me the period leading up to Christmas can be a frenzy of social activity. More often than not I find myself doing things because I think I should rather than from a real desire to do them. By the time Christmas comes around I am pretty well socially exhausted and generally over it. Boxing day though and everything starts again. You draw a deep breath and relax.

That's certainly my intention. I can recall this period 2 years ago, which lingers in my mind as the near perfect template for post-Christmas perambulations. I did nothing exciting. I hardly saw a soul outside of my occasional ventures to the shops or a local cafe, and that suited me fine. After a hectic few months - I had returned from Morocco a little more than a month before, and was in the middle of my Jennie phase - I wanted nothing more than to live quietly and within myself. Fortunately for me I had a pile of very good books, and amid the occasional break for a cup of tea or coffee, I read my way through them. I think I figured I read somewhere around 900 words in 4 days, a pretty good effort.

The other thing I did was let my mind ramble. Everyone needs me time, but everyone needs it for different things. Like most people I like to get back in touch with my true self, but unlike most that involves me following the labyrinthine path of my own curiosity. In part that was kicked along by my reading material, but the recent events in my life at that time added some extra spice - though my inquiries were never less than objective. It might seem odd, but it is at times like those when I feel myself most fully (which is different to 'most like myself', which generally is the case when I'm travelling).

This year I'm hoping for something similar. I have a bunch of books to read. I hope to do some writing. I'll do a bit of cooking. I may pop down to the MCG tomorrow to catch a bit of the test match; and on Monday I might trundle into town for an hour or so to check out the sales and get some fresh coffee. My ambitions extend no further than that - and that makes me perfectly happy.

Forever nights

Image by Mimi_K via Flickr

Like much of Melbourne I ended up at the beach last night. It was a hot day and a warm night, the second warmest on record for December according to the weather bureau. It was nice to be at the beach.

The yoga teacher had invited me over for dinner and a bottle of bubbles. I had driven over as the sun had headed towards the horizon. It was a good drive, little traffic, the sun roof open, another genius playlist pumping through the car - this one was labelled new wave: Devo and Big Country, The The, Tears for Fears and The Cars, plus many more. Great stuff. I had zipped along, at one with the vehicle as if I was controlling it by mind control, dodging the slow drivers in East St Kilda and avoiding the Elwood drivers who went through roundabouts without a sideways glance.

I was weary after what felt like weeks of socialising; but I was happy to. I knocked on the door with a bottle of sparkling shiraz and was let in.

Elwood is one of my favourite suburbs in Melbourne if only because it is one of the most distinctive. It's nicely situated by the beach and not far from the action of St Kilda, but with a nice villagey feel of its own. What really sets it apart though is its architecture, it's architecture and the trees and the streets whimsically named after poets, Tennyson, Keats and Byron, with Shakespeare and Dickens thrown in for good measure. The architecture is wonderful, great old art deco buildings right out of a thirties pulp novel. They've got style and attitude, and set amongst lush gardens they're just the thing.

The yoga teacher lives in such a building, though one of the less impressive ones. She has a small ground floor unit with an excellent L-shaped courtyard overflowing with an abundance of tropical plants left over from the jurassic age. The wall of the garden faces onto the street and is topped by fancy wrought iron stylings. We sat in that garden, drinking bubbles first, and then sharing a simple but very satisfying meal of lasagne and salad.

As we chatted I watched the goings on in the street. Over the road was an old apartment building, big windows and high ceilings with pretty cornices. The lights went on and off in those revealing the terracotta paintwork inside. The next door neighbours talked loudly, a family, and then all laughed together. Not long after they went down the street individually in their shorts, a towel over their shoulder and on their way to the beach. Then as it darkened further it became still. The yoga teacher went inside and I was left to ponder.

I took in the ambience. It felt good, like summer, a classic day, a classic night, our life, our times. I tried to explain when she got back. It's like in one of those movies I said, or in a book, you know, a balmy night when things happen and everything is so clear and particular as if its been engraved. You can see the night, how the breeze stirs the leaves just gently and the shadow of them shifting ever so slightly against the lit building while the conversation goes on, drinks are shared and glasses clinked and laughter tinkles into the still night watching and then the serious conversation starts and it's as if tomorrow is far away and another place and it's just now, all in these moments and she agreed the yoga teacher, that's what it's like.

Afterwards we went for a walk ourselves towards the beach. She gave me a stubby of beer to drink as we walked along. I feel very blokey now I said. Is it legal she asked. Who knows these days I answered.

It was cooler on the beach with the breeze soft coming in off the water and in the distance around the curve of the bay the city twinkling in the night. We walked along with her dog Kelpie on a lead. There were others with their dogs walking and others just walking. Here and there couples ate fish and chips sitting on the low bluestone wall facing out to see, and in the water people stood cooling off.

After a while we walked out onto the sand in a secluded spot. The yoga teacher found a piece of driftwood and threw it into the sea for Kelpie to fetch, and repeated that a dozen times or more. I slipped off my havaianas and walked into the water up to my knees. It was cool, and on the ground smooth, large pebbles. Then we sat together on the sand and talked about her plans.

Later we walked back. I felt good. My back felt fine and I was striding out so that she had to hurry to keep up with me. That felt good too. As we walked and discussed different things I remembered how everyone we passed had their own issues and hopes and things they have to deal with and throughout the country and the whole world thousands, millions more are just the same like I am and like the yoga teacher is, and occasionally and randomly we come into contact changing ever so slightly what the issues are and how we respond to them and that is the world.

I went home. It was late. She had given me a gift of shortbread and biscotti she had made and kissed me on the cheek by the car. I drove feeling content. The roads were emptier than before and my music played and I thought things through. I idly wondered if human consciousness had changed since cars came along. How many people drive along feeling all mellow while they figure things out. It's almost like you the driving sometimes to do the thinking. I do anyway, and I enjoy it. How did we manage before?

The cool air flowed in and before you knew it I was home, simple as that.

Christmas eve: what is it good for?

Even after all these years I don’t know what to make of Christmas Eve.
 
I don’t mind being at work on the day. There’s a festive air and while you work hard for a bit there comes a time when you lay down tools to enjoy the occasion. Some places I’ve been we’ve popped a bottle or two of bubbles, and almost invariably have a Kris Kringle involving a lot of laughter. We always knock off early. All in all it feels like a different, special day.
 
Outside it is all a frenzy as last minute shoppers scour the department stores for the gifts they’ve left too late. Christmas carols play as muzak, Santa’s are to be found all over town, and more than one person is walking around with a set of reindeer ears or red Santa’s hat on their head. It’s all happening but it’s not a bad vibe. Then, sometime in the afternoon it begins to tail off, the shoppers with their newly purchased and wrapped presents head home leaving only the diehards and truly disorganised to wander the increasingly deserted streets of the city.
 
This is the bit that I don’t like. At the risk of sounding a bit like Scrooge I find the evening of Christmas Eve boring verging on the depressing. I understand how many people want to spend it with their family, though it’s an urge I’ve never experienced. I do, but in the vacuum it creates is a kind of dead world where those of us more inclined to party find ourselves floundering. Left without options you flick on the TV to take in the viewing options: a variety of Christmas related films and the inevitable carols by candlelight.
 
Now carols by candlelight are a Melbourne institution. They’re always a very big deal at the Myer Music Bowl, a great venue, and generally the performers are pretty good to childish. It’s not my thing though. I find it hard to be critical, but the fact is that nothing is more certain of making me miserable than watching them. It’s strange because my Dad, a tough old boot if ever there was one, swears by them and wouldn’t miss them. For him it’s part of his Christmas tradition. For me avoiding them is a big part of my Christmas tradition.
 
I'm half inclined to venture into town and start the seasons celebrations with a backpacker or two, but chances are instead I'll be home with Rigby, just the two of us.  Maybe we’ll watch a slasher movie together.
 
Speaking of festive airs, this place where I’m working right now really gets into it. You have to admit that they’re a pretty generous and warm-hearted joint. A few days after I began everyone in the organisation got a beach themed hamper, worth a couple of hundred dollars I would tip – including me. In my time here they’ve had several themed presentations and get-togethers, and as I write this the kids of the people working here are in the cafe enjoying party pies, fruit and the entertainment provided by a few lissom Santa helpers in red outfits singing along to the brightly garish Christmas songs. And as I write Santa has just arrived to great acclaim. I’m not sure if that’s a job I’d fancy – I’d be frazzled in no time – but it’s great to see a corporation take the time to give something back to their staff and their families.

Better the butcher than the dragon

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I’ve been biting my tongue about this for a long time, but I’ve now been finally roused to comment. For the last couple of years there has been a kind of literary craze about the crime novels of Stieg Larsson. Now Larsson has a good personal story – he was a Swedish journalist who one day sat down to write a bunch of novels based on two divergent characters. And then he died, unexpectedly and suddenly, before the first of his novels, The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo, was released to almost hysterical acclaim. Good for him, sad he died, etc.
 
Now I’ve had a lifetime of resisting trends, occasionally for stupidly perverse reasons. I have, for example, refused to read any of the Harry Potter books despite having them pressed on me by all and sundry. I was in a bar in St Kilda the other week where an impassioned stranger insisted I start reading them now, such is the fervour with which they’re held. Mmm, not likely. Quite aside from considering them children’s fare I was put off when they first came out by the sight of every man and his literary dog reading the damn thing on every tram and train I caught like a kind of literary variation of Being John Malkovitch. Sure, maybe I’m a bit sniffy but I had no desire to become one of the drones following fashion, and have had no inclination since to join them.
 
I was a late-comer to Stieg Larsson pretty much for the same reason: fucked if I’m going to fall into line. It was only when the initial clamour died down that I bought his first book in a momentary impulse on a book buying spree in Albert Park. You know, it was an ok read, but definitely nothing more than that. Reviews and readers had commented on the tension, but I felt none of that. I thought the eponymous girl, Lisbeth Salander, was in fact a great and interesting creation, as all the blurbs said. Unfortunately Blomkvist, her crime fighting compadre and clearly Larssons alter ego, is a dull and pretentious character. I didn’t care a whit about him, which is fatal, and finished the book without any desire to read any more – which is strange because the books continued to be published and continue to be literary sensations (though more than one person has whispered to me that they don’t know what the big deal is all about: sacrilege, I know).
 
In contrast I read a book over the weekend I couldn’t put down: the fact that I read it in a single weekend speaks volumes. The Butcher’s Boy was released to great acclaim also, but that was nearly 30 years ago. It has been re-released recently with an introduction by the great American crime writer Michael Connelly. Now this is a good book, written by Thomas Perry, a fascinating plot involving a resourceful hitman, a department of justice agent, and the mafia it fairly races along. It’s sharply written with clearly defined characters and no fat on the frame, just as novels of this ilk should be written. Reading it you can’t help be caught up in the action and finding yourself hoping that the hitman gets away with it as the plot convolutes away. This is a book I will recommend: forget Larsson, check out Perry.

Riding the 57

At about 6.30 last night I hopped on board a tram in Elizabeth Street in the city and headed back towards North Melbourne. This was my old tram, the number 57, that I would catch daily for over a year heading into and out from work. I sat there as the tram went its familiar way. In the way of these things it triggered memories that radiated out from where I sat. It brought to mind those easy and satisfying days at work and all that was associated with that. I recalled Jennie quite particularly, and to a lesser degree Paige. And then as the tram turned into Victoria Street I peered around me remembering this area as it was my neighbourhood once upon a time. I marked the things that had changed, though there were few, and craned my head to take in the old shopping strip in Errol Street as the tram chugged along.

I got off there. It was bright and pleasantly warm. Everything looked the same. A blonde woman I had caught the eye of in the tram went ahead of me, and I followed her across the road. I veered from her to enter the Court House, my old and very fondly remembered local. It was noisy and crowded inside with what seemed like the residue of an office Christmas party. I leaned on the bar and spoke to one of the familiar bartenders, getting his take on the latest batch of beers on tap, before choosing one.

The party cleared, off upstairs for dinner, and soon the bar was magically sparse. I moved to a table by the window, the same table I had sat myriad times before sipping on a beer or supping on one of the dishes from the excellent bar menu. I looked out the window. The declining sun glinted through the wooden slats of the blind at that particular summery angle. I sipped my beer and took in my surroundings and once more felt a flood of memories return to me.

I have not visited North Melbourne since I left, though I have often thought to. I miss the breakfasts and the casual vibe and the proximity to the city and, of course, the Court House. I recalled moments I was here or there, moments that perhaps seemed small at the time but had somehow been captured in my memory and preserved until this moment. I remembered, for example, venturing to this same pub almost 2 years ago to the day, finished with work before Christmas, the sun shining and waiting for a friend to join me. I waited sipping on a beer and received a call from Tim who I happily chatted to. I remember no more than that, not the meal afterwards – one blurs into another – or what was said or done. I remember that fragment, and then my mind moves onto the next fragment, as the mind does.

Once more I felt an association of memories, as if one memory is linked to another like dominoes in a chain. Unsurprisingly many of my memories were of women. I have a varied and interesting life and no complaints, but really what is most important to me are the relationships I have forged, and the relationships that bite deepest are those with the women I have met, befriended, and then somehow lost.

It sounds melancholy perhaps, but is not. Ultimately when you look at the ledger you come out in front. Things could have been different perhaps, but no regrets – it is better to have experienced these things high and low, have met these people, than to have had nothing at all.

My mind ticked over, Jennie again, and Paige, and then Amy to my surprise. Why do I remember these people I asked myself? Does it mean anything? But no, not really. They are just memories, brought to the front of your mind by the association of your surroundings, much like coming across a box of old photo’s during a spring clean. For a moment you pause to look at them and recall the times they represent. Then you put them away again for another time.

That’s how it was for me. My date arrived, we exchanged gifts and got something to drink, once familiar though through repetition this time, wine and conversation and a good duck curry and a taxi home after 10. Another day, another memory.

Son of Tim

Image by Getty Images via Daylife

It’s the footy off-season, committed footy-heads scour the newspapers for news of their club. They contribute to online forums, debate draft picks and the direction the club is taking, and some pop along to pre-season training. Being Melbourne there is always some footy news, but being summer it is also cricket season and so the other great Australian sport has the upper hand for the moment.

I love my cricket, but like it or not I am also a footy head. Following a football team of any code anywhere in the world is all about hope. You dream you fantasise, you rant and rave and one day you may actually see your dreams come true. In a local AFL competition of 16 teams winning the top prize is a tough gig, but that never stops anyone from hankering after it. Whether in season or out of it to follow a footy team is all about the perpetual striving to improve even by the most minute of degrees, and everyone has an opinion. Like day following night, this is something that will never end.

I’m more fortunate than most. Being a partisan supporter I like to claim my team – Essendon – is the greatest in the competition. In all reality and based on results alone there is some justification for that, with few to rival us and none with a better record. In that 16 team competition it’s nice to be winning ahead of the curve to keep you happy and give some spine to your hope – we average a flag about every 7 years. Pity the supporters of those clubs who have won no more than one or two over the journey, and who persist. The epitome of the footy fan I guess, though perhaps the triumph of indomitable hope over wretched experience.

In my world greatness is not just about success. Sure, the raison d’être to compete in any sporting competition is to win, but it’s a bit sad when that is all there is. I dare say those supporters of the less successful clubs are sustained by a belief in the club and what it stands for as much as any hope of success. There’s a difference between winning well and winning badly after all, and inequities in opportunity that in many competitions tilt the table unfairly to the benefit of a few against the many, but to maintain the faith and to continue to strive regardless of odds brings out the best in us.

I’m proud of my club in ways that go beyond the barnstorming success I have witnessed. I’m very privileged to have seen that, but I’m proud in another way. We’re a club feared by most opponents and hated by many fans, largely on the back of our success. That’s water off a ducks back. I’ve followed them all my life and been a close supporter for the last 30 years. I’ve been thrilled by the way we’ve played, and watched some superstars take the field in the red and black of Essendon’s colours.

One of the greats was Tim Watson. He was a champion footballer who played over 300 games, played in three premierships and captained the club. He was foremost in a team of champion players, and a champion person on top of that. One of his claims to fame was that he was just about the youngest player to ever make a debut for an AFL club – just 15 when he took the field. Timmy Watson as he was known grew into a truly formidable footballer, 6’2” of dynamic muscle, too quick for anyone big enough to stop him, too strong for anyone quick enough to catch him. Back in the day he was my favourite footballer, and not just because he was so great. He became a good looking, charming man, intelligent and with a sharp, clever wit and the personal charisma you hope for from a club leader. He became a legend of the club and in some way another personification of it.

I’m a great believer that while an organisation is made of the people who constitute it, the great organisations put their stamp on the people who represent it. Club culture is a term bandied around pretty widely, but it’s hard to dispute that it is real. Just this morning there are news reports of a couple of Carlton players getting in a brawl at Crown Casino, the latest in a long litany of misconduct by Carlton players. That’s a great club gone off the rails, a club culture that has gone sour because too much was let go by weak leadership. They have lost their way.

That’s a risk any organisation faces, but I tend to think it is less likely at a club like Essendon. We’ve had flamboyant coaches and players, but the club as a whole has been progressively conservative. By that I mean we’ve been at the forefront of many advances – a pioneer with indigenous footballers, the first club to have a woman on the board, and generally going its own way, but quietly. You’d like to think as a footy team that there is a certain level of arrogance, and certainly our supporters are often described thus. Not the club though. Throughout my history of support the club has been prudently and confidently led, and let the results on the field speak for themselves.

And so players come into this environment and become Essendon. Our leaders have epitomised those qualities – brilliant, confident, intelligent and always humble: Watson, Thompson, O’Donnell, Hird, Lloyd – and now the son of Tim, Jobe Watson, as of yesterday.

In many ways Jobe is very much like his father. He’s not nearly a dynamic a footballer as his dad, but he has the same down to earth decency about him. Since coming into the team in his father’s shadow he has quietly carved his own niche, and found his own game – that of the ball winner and distributor in the middle, the heartbeat of the team. Not for him the barnstorming runs and spectacular goals of his dad, rather he is the steady accumulator and shrewd disposer of the ball. He’ll win games for us, but unobtrusively almost.

Like his dad Jobe speaks well with a natural humility and self-deprecating humour. You sense about him a real gentleness which is very manly. He is the type who commands respect in his person without demanding, or even expecting it. He is who he is. Clearly he is good people, come from a good family. It’s an appointment I applaud not just because he is a good player becoming great, but because he has the personal qualities I see representative of the club, and by his example I think he can inspire those coming into the club and take them top again – where we belong.

Overcoming and overcoming

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When this year closes next week I’ll look back and be glad that it’s over. In fact I can date many of my recent travails back to the moment were I moved out of my comfortable home in North Melbourne and unexpectedly found myself at a loose end. It was all downhill from there and, despite the odd peak here or there, has continued that trend since.

You like to believe that something positive will come out of all this. Often that’s the last forlorn hope remaining. If it doesn’t kill you it makes you stronger, right? And you learn from it, about yourself, about the world. Isn’t that true also? Well I guess it is, but it’s a bitter lesson sometimes. Still when all is collapsing around you you need something positive to latch onto.

I’ve always been a positive person, and have long thought that I am a resilient character. That’s proven to be the case over this period despite the occasional troughs. I’ve managed because I’ve looked ahead knowing things always turn, because I maintained belief in myself, and mostly because I had to. When the choice is between despair and hope then what are you going to do?

Perhaps one day I’ll write of all I’ve had to deal with over the period.

Occasionally I look back over what I have written throughout and I marvel at the mindset I’ve displayed. For whatever reason – pride mainly – I’ve only ever touched lightly and indirectly upon my troubles, if at all. I suspect there will come a time when I will examine it in this more public forum. I hope that in time I’ll be in a position to look back over this time of my life and be grateful that I got through it with no more than a few bruises and perhaps a good deal more wisdom. Do these things happen for a reason? No, but it’s not a bad thing to find a reason to justify the pain. I have learned to let go, because I had to, hard as that was, and perhaps for now I put that down as one of the reasons.

There have been other elements of this period where there has been nothing positive. Some things happen and you just have to deal with it in any way you can. Among all the challenges I’ve had to deal with over the period it is my health that has been the most persistent concern. There is not a day goes by now when I don’t think back to the relative fitness I had 2 years ago travelling through North Africa. It seems amazing to consider that I could take my health and fitness for granted even given the extremities of exertion and heat I put myself through then. I did it day after day and felt myself strong and supple and ever-enduring, and returned trim and in a state of supreme fitness. How things have changed.

I am now in the situation where even simple things become difficult. This has been the case for much of the last 18 months. At times it has almost seemed like a conspiracy against me, that the ailments have been lining up to get at me: no sooner one is put away than the next one steps up. Besides the pain and inconvenience caused by this there is the great frustration at never being able to get myself right. I wonder if this is my destiny now, but refuse to accept it; in the meantime it’s impossible to deny: I have felt less a man because I can’t do what I once did without thought.

As it stands right now I’ve managed to get by many of the issues dogging me. Though I am not always convinced, and though the cause remains a mystery, the DVT is hopefully of the past – though my calf remains swollen. The planar fasciitus and tennis elbow seem to have settled down, touch wood. I’m hopeful that the gastric problem I had is now cured, and the other smaller complaints part of the past.

Unfortunately my back is now the big concern. I had tests a few weeks ago to get to the bottom of the latest round of symptoms. It turns out I have a badly bulging disc – L4 – which pings on the nerve, which creates an almost electric pain and incredible stiffness in my back and shooting down my buttock and leg. At it’s worse it is very painful and quite incapacitating.

Most mornings I get up and I’m bent over like a very old man. With every step I feel it; even in bed and still it troubles me. I’m seeing both a physio and an osteopath to get it right. I’m doing exercises to cure the core muscles, and have learned some interesting things along the way – that, like a lot of footballers, my obliques are so strong that they have taken over and the core muscles beneath wasted away – a variation on OP. Ever since I was a kid I’ve been told about posture: well it turns out I’m too upright, that literally and possibly figuratively I look down my nose. I’ve been told to loosen it up.

All this I am doing but there seems no improvement, and as anyone who has ever suffered from lower back pain will tell you this is difficult to live with. I trust I will overcome this, though I don’t think it will be soon. I’m tired of all this, but there is little I can do beyond what I am already. I just want to get to where I was, and to have trust again in my body and the confidence to live life on my terms, without constraint.

Faith: What Australians believe in

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NEXT weekend the nation's churches will be filled to overflowing. But then, Christmas and Easter are the exceptions to the great Australian indifference to worship. Belief for most Australians is about values far more than devotion. It's belief without belonging.

via www.theage.com.au

I read this article in the The Age this morning and was surprised at the findings. In actual fact I'm sceptical given my own experience of life here, and let's face it, surveys and polls like this are easily skewed depending on the sample of the population surveyed and the way the question is phrased.

That said I belong to the demographic probably least likely to be deemed as 'believers'. Certainly if I glance around my circle of friends and acquaintances I can pick out 2 out of about 50 who are church goers, and not many more than that I would consider as being spiritual, let alone religious.

In any case, let me respond:

Do I believe in a god? No.
Life after death? I waver on this, largely because I'd like to believe it is true. And there is enough in stories of odd near-death experiences and discussions to believe it may not be black and white. On balance probably no, but I'll keep my options open.
Heaven? No.
Hell? No.
Devil? Would be interesting, but no.
Angels? Are you kidding me?
Witches? Depends on your definition of this. Do I believe there are crooked nosed women casting spells? No.
Astrology? Not really. I certainly don't believe in horoscopes, but I think there is some fact to support the belief that personality can be influenced by the time of year one is born. I don't think it's anything magic though, and whether it has anything to do with the planets I would have no idea.
Psychic powers? Strangely yes, to some degree.
Miracles? No, not as they are commonly thought to be anyway. Extraordinary things can and will be achieved sometimes, but that isn't magic either.
The Bible? As a good read and a rough history, yes. As the word of god? No.
Literally true? No.
The un-ambiguity of religious teaching?No.
Evolution? Yes. Shocked at this result, and very sceptical of it.Ultimately I agree

Ultimately I agree that for most Australians religion is a very casual belief. Pressed to answer they may come down one side or the other of the question, but for most I think it plays only a remote role in their daily life. You can question the good of that, but for me I am glad that we are free from the narrow focus religion often brings with it, and true to nature are anything but dogmatic when it comes to belief in higher matters.

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• Where have all believers gone? | Andrew Brown (guardian.co.uk)

My best ever Aussie cricket team

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For some reason I lay in bed post-midnight last night and contemplated who would be in my best ever Australian cricket team. Speculations like that are always fun, especially for a man. Men will happily debate the likes of this for hours on end while their girlfriends roll their eyes; and most men are inveterate and informal listmakers. We may not put them on paper, but we're always ranking things.

Anyway, here's my team:

• Matthew Hayden
• Bill Ponsford
• Don Bradman
• Ricky Ponting
• Greg Chappell
• Adam Gilchrist
• Keith Miller
• Alan Davidson
• Shane Warne
• Dennis Lillee
• Glen McGrath

The first thing to note is that it has an extra bowler. I ummed and aahed over this as I lay in my cot, but reasoned eventually that the great all-round talents of Miller and Davidson made up for the deficiency. It's a great bowling attack. Miller is a romantic choice maybe, the dashing, glamorous ex fighter pilot, he had serious chops as a fast bowler and is the best all-rounder Australia has produced. Davidson is possibly the most contentious choice but he was selected largely on the basis of being a left-armer, and occasional match-winner. He was the stalwart of the Australian bowling attack for many years, and was also a damaging batsman. Warne picks himself. There have been great spinners play for Australia, but Warne is the greatest of all from any country, and quite possibly the best bowler of any type of all time. Handy batsman, great competitor, shrewd cricket brain and larger than life character, he's impossible to overlook.

D K Lillee is similar in his own way. He is the best fast bowler I have ever seen and I grew up devoted to his deeds, as were most of my contemporaries. Like Warne he combined great skill with a magnetic personality mixed in with a dash of flamboyance. I loved Dennis. McGrath gets a gig not because he's took more wickets than any other Australian bowler, and I wonder on the balance of things whether he is one of the best five Australian bowlers of all time. He gets the nod for the balance of the bowling attack. Lillee and Miller both started as tearaways before maturing into canny operators. Davidson is the left-armer, Warne the spinner, and McGrath the line and length bowler who will winkle you out. He's a great bowler, but great bowlers have missed out: Lindwall, Spofforth, O'Reilly, Benaud and so on.

Batting is tough too, and a lot of greats missed out. The toughest call were the openers. I considered Morris, Lawry, Woodfull, Simpson, but eventually plumped for Ponsford and Hayden. They are similar in that they were capable of compiling huge scores. Ponsford had his flaws, but his record for Australia is pretty good. Hayden is simply one of the most intimidating batsmen the world has seen. And he's a left-hander, which counts for him in this team.

Bradman picks himself obviously. The biggest name in cricket still years after his death, by far and away the greatest batsman ever, a once in a millennium cricketer who averaged 40 runs better than the next serious contender. He's the captain too, a position I thought long and hard on. Counting against him was his puritan streak, but he was also a very canny skipper and a man of superior intelligence. Next in is the current Aussie captain, Ricky Ponting. He's scored more runs and more centuries than any other Australian. He's a great batsman capable of ripping teams apart, and of batting for hours to save a situation. Cometh the hour cometh the man - that's Ponting. Just about the toughest cricketer I've seen.

Greg Chappell was one of the great stylists of the game. A fluid driver through the covers and owner of a famous and ever graceful flick off his pads to the mid-wicket boundary. Also a very handy medium pace bowler who would complement the attack well.

He was great to watch. Great batsmen to miss out : Neil Harvey, Allan Border, Steve Waugh, Ian Chappell, Stan McCabe, Victor Trumper.

There have been some great Australian keepers and great names - Grout, Tallon, Marsh, Healy. In the end though it's an easy selection. Adam Gilchrist may not be the best pure keeper of them all, but he didn't miss much. As a batting keeper though he was unsurpassed. One of the most exhilarating players to watch in full flight, he was also one of the most destructive. He's personal favourite of just about everyone, not just for his great cricket but for the style of the man. This was a no-brainer.

So that's it. Match it against the best ever from other countries and it would win 3 out of 4 such has been the pedigree and dominance of Australia over the journey.Of that team there are two who would be first selections in a world team - Bradman and Warne. I think Lillee and Gilchrist would likely make it too, and Ponting, Hayden and McGrath would be considered closely.

Funnily enough the West Indian team might be the most likely to challenge in a heavenly match-up: (my estimate) Greenidge, Haynes, Richards, Lara, Walcott (c), Sobers, Dujon, Roberts, Hall, Garner, Gibbs. That's a great team too and leaves out greats like Worrell, Weekes, Headley, Lloyd, Marshall, Ambrose, Holding. They would be great contests.

England? Well you're really testing my knowledge of cricket history, but I'll take a punt regardless: Hobbs, Sutcliffe, Barrington, Hammond, Hutton, Knott, Botham, Bedser, Trueman, Snow, Underwood. Hobbs and Sutcliffe are probably openers for the World XI such was their partnership, and it's full of great players, but easy to discern the difference in styles - maybe because the bulk of their players come in the period around the war. There are exceptions - Botham and Snow for example, but generally they are more craftsmen in the traditional English way, less aggressive and attacking, more methodical, Barrington was a grafter as was Hutton to some degree, Bedser a great bowler with unerring control, likewise Underwood. Just missed out: May, Compton, Gooch, Gower, Paynter, Evans.

This is fun, and I haven't even looked at half the teams.

Practising my scales

Over lunch today I read an article by Christopher Hitchens about Arthur Koestler. It was an interesting read, but what struck me as I read was how much I enjoyed taking the time to sit and read about different people, different times, how much fun it was to learn and to continually investigate. I realised this was my ideal life, to live amid these lives, that history. It seemed so much more real to me even if the likes of Koestler are now long dead. He added his two-bob’s worth after all, and it’s his contribution and the multitude of others that has made the culture we live in. It’s important because we are contained within that culture and are perpetually carried forward within its silent onward progress – whether we know it or not.

Hitchens lives amid that world. If he is not an active participant in the doing then he is a prolific commentator on it. He is a writer of great authority and erudition, given to comment on a wide spectrum of topics and people. He has his controversial moments, but then anyone with a skerrick of passion has those. I don’t agree with everything he writes, but that is largely unimportant. What is important is that there is foment of opinion and attitude, left and right. Hitchens is a significant part of the cultural and intellectual discourse in our time.

I read and I am fascinated. I am drawn in and wish to know more. For a little while I am consumed by these things and delude myself into believing that I am part of a world where these things are important, and not just scattered remnants of another time. Sometimes I indulge myself by jotting down my passionately held but much less erudite opinions in these pages – but that’s as near as I get to being more than a passive spectator. I return to my designated role, the stuff I am deemed to be good at and which I get paid for – right now cost centre accounting, asset management and system architecture.

I sigh. I read the article on Koestler – another man in the thick of it in his time – chewing on my burger. I close the paper and push out my stool. For a little while I have been transported, the opera buff who wishes he could sing an aria himself. Then I return to earth with a thud. That is not my world nor my life. I return to my spreadsheets, and to my feeble words of frustrated purpose...

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• An Annotated Ode To Hitch (andrewsullivan.theatlantic.com)
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