01 March 2007

Koalawrangler blog

For the koala-related posts, see Diary of a Koalawrangler.

18 February 2007

Fishing at Dunbogan

Fishing at Dunbogan
Originally uploaded by koalawrangler.
D___ and I went fishing in Dunbogan today. Dunbogan is so peaceful. It's the sleepy town that Dunbogan Val, one of the koalas at the Koala Hospital hailed from.

I should clarify: when I say D___ and I went fishing, well she went fishing while I:

* read Cloudstreet
* ate mango
* drank Japanese green tea
* took photos

Although I was frequently called into service as first mate (read: lackey), fetching fishing nets here, bait there, hooks here again.

We set up fold-up chairs on a little jetty thing which allowed me to read and D___ to fish, side-by-side. We could see the cloud rolling in over the mountain (North Brother, I think) which brough the rain, followed by sun.

D____ caught two bream in quick succession, both keepers, but I made her throw them back since we wouldn't get a chance to eat them. You should have seen the mutinous look in her eyes, as if to say: "I caught it so I'm sure as hell gonna kill it and eat it!". Not the kind of barbarity I would expect from an executive, but there you go. Fortunately, she finally came around to my way of thinking on the matter.

Fishing at Dunbogan
After a bit, we moved up the river and then drove to a place called Trevor's Corner. It's where the river meets the ocean. Just as we arrived there, we were afforded the gorgeous vista of a pod of dolphins arcing through the water towards the sea. They were merely a stone's throw from us. It all happened too fast too take a photo. It was magical.

Fishing at Dunbogan

15 February 2007

Pandora's box

one of my beads: amethystI got quite the Valentine's surprise yesterday... D___ presented me with a swank jewellery box with "Pandora" written on it. Inside was a pinkish muslin draw-string bag, and inside that, a funky charm bracelet from/by Pandora.

Pandora Charm Bracelets are an American phenomemon that I was till yesterday unaware of. You choose a base bracelet and then add individual beads chosen from a vast selection. There are beads adorned with Murano glass, jewel-encrusted beads, ornate silver beads, and, yes if you like, dorky beads in the shape of mobile phones or teddy bears or handbags...

The American site has a bracelet builder that allows you to choose the beads you want and see them strung on your bracelet.

The ones that D___ chose for me were all silver, my favourite. There was a bead for each of our star signs, and beads with Chinese symbols for love and eternity, commemorating our trip to China. There were also a couple of beads bedecked in amethyst...

D___ knew that I had a charm bracelet as a child; my parents collected charms for me from their travels around the world. This bracelet is a modern gesture to that. Wow, it's really beautiful, and so personal...and something I can continue to add to over time.

14 February 2007

Right on

I love the term "right on". It's so 70s...and yet so functional.

I also love Joanna Newsom's (no relation to Debbie) "The Book of Right-On" from her debut album The Milk-Eyed Mender. She accompanies herself with a harp of all things. There's a something of a Manson Family throwback about her. Check it out.

She asks me why I'm just a Hairy guy...

Lynda at Remote Control wrote a recent post about her love of the soundtrack to the "American Tribal Love Rock Musical", Hair. I have the very same LP she has, the original Broadway cast recording. My parents purchased it around the year I was born so it was something I listened to growing up.

Then, when I was about 11, a groovy family friend took me to see the film version of Hair (starring a very hairy Treat Williams and Beverley D'Angelo in snoot mode -- bizarrely, they later also starred together as Stanley and Stella in the 1984 made-for-TV remake of Streetcar Named Desire).

Anyhoo, for me, the film's soundtrack is the definitive one, just like the Broadway version of the Rocky Horror Show soundtrack pales against the Rocky Horror Picture Show soundtrack. I had the double-LP of the Hair film soundtrack for about 20 years and only recently upgraded to CD, which always feels somehow less authentic than the vinyl. I felt the same way about Grease.

As a young teenager, I was suitably shocked and titillated by "Donna", "Colored Spade" and "Sodomy". I was also confronted by the scene in the movie when a prison psychiatrist asks Woof (the character played by Donnie Dacus from the band Chicago) if he is sexually attracted to men. (Long hair was naturally equated with effeminacy, and male effeminacy with homosexuality. It was an era sorely in need of Judith Butler). Woof responds with the delightful:

"I wouldn't kick Mick Jagger out of my bed, but uh, I'm not a homosexual, no."
But as an adult, I can laugh at the tragically hip way the music in Hair attempts to capture the right-on vibe of the 1960s. For me, Hair always felt like a 70s contrivance of the 60s, much like Happy Days sought to reconstruct the 50s in the 70s. I now also flinch a little at the casual use of the word "pederasty" in the song "Sodomy" (used simply because it rhymes with "nasty"). They're probably claiming the sexual rights of consenting free-lovin' hippie teenagers but this flippant usage trivialises its more serious implications of child sexual abuse.

11 February 2007

Marie Antionette

We saw Sophia Coppola's Marie Antionette last night. Lavish costume design, sumptuous scene composition, thoughtful cinematography, even delicious-looking cakey things (let them eat...). There is a beautiful shot taken at ground level of the women walking from behind, their skirts being buffetted by long grass. But the story was naff. There are constraints when telling a 'true' story but this film's favouring of style over substance is to blame for its limp portrayal of Marie A.

A coupla weeks ago D___ and I saw a doco on Marie Antionette that was more compelling and produced more drama that this shallow offering did with all its big-budget mise-en-scene (Sophia's Dad is exec producer). The screenplay was crap and the characters were flat. Coppola perpetuates the construction of Marie A as a vacuous party girl who never truly develops beyond a sort of C18 Paris Hilton wannabe. Then suddenly we were obliged to feel sorry for her when she was arrested during the French revolution. Is it adding value to depict her as obsessed with shoes and cake and all the while oblivious to the diminished lives of her subject. As D___ rightly pointed out, it would have been useful to juxtapose the palace opulence that dominated every scene with the abject poverty of life beyond the palace walls. And perhaps to develop a bit of self-awareness in Marie A during the course of the film to encourage us to identify with her...or give a toss whether she got the axe or not.

I thought Aussie Rose Byrne did a good job though.

I didn't mind the inclusion of modern music (esp. Siouxie and the Banshee's "Hong Kong Garden" during a ball scene), but Bow Wow Wow's "Fools Rush In" felt clunky and out-of-place.

A yawn. 1.5 stars.

08 February 2007

City cats

I'm always drawn to cats in cities...the way they can transform whatever's beneath them into a lounge. The stresses of city life don't seem to bother them.

This cat belongs to the Newtown bookshop, Books on King, where books are just another interesting thing to lie about on.

I saw this blue beauty on Brown Street. I liked the way her fur is coloured from the same palette as the blue-grey street and walls.

Finally, these are cats that live on the periphery of the city -- out in Hornsby. They are kept in a wire enclosure to prevent their attacking the wildlife.

Eucalyptus, Eucaschmyptus

I should write a post about Murray Bail's Eucalyptus, which I finished reading a while back. My adverse feelings towards it did not change. I was disappointed by the way Bail developed Ellen's character. Of course, he was knowingly borrowing from the romantic fairytale genre. This meant that Ellen (the "heroine") remained placid and powerless as to the fate her father had devised for her, to the point of becoming listless and bedridden. A passive sleeping beauty who awaits the prince's kiss, or in this case, his story, to awaken her. As far as the romance went, it didn't transcend the story that bound it.

I've not read any of Bail's other work (except his short story, The Drover's Wife), but felt that a modern audience would prefer a fairytail heroine with a bit more gumption. Oh, and the prince's stories were a little naff. As a narrative device, I found their inclusion somewhat stilted. The twist at the end was clever, but this didn't redeem what had gone before.

06 February 2007


Is "winningest" a real word? I heard it on the TV the other night, albeit American TV where English is a second language. I was staying at my cousin's place and her hubby, Darryl, was watching the Superbowl on Fox. It was the final few minutes of the match and Darryl was explaining a few of the rules (like why they wear those big macho shoulder pad thingeys). He has a knack of explaining sportipants stuff in an economical and non-yobbo fashion. He takes on the neutral tone of a learned outsider who might be explaining how a barbecue operates or some scientific law. Like he's not committed to the sport thing; it just is.

So the game ends and the Indianapolis Colts have won. It's pissing down raining and the suited hot-shots are standing out there getting drenched in their wools suits while handing out trophies. It must smell like wet dog out there. I'm not really paying attention until one of the commentators says something about them being the "winningest" team or their coach is the "winningest" coach.

I've never heard this word before. Is it a word? He said it like it was perfectly reasonable, but I wonder if it could be like the Springfield motto on The Simpsons:

A noble spirit embiggens the smallest man
in which the 'word' "embiggens" is a wacky Simpsonism.

Still, "winningest" is all over the internet and even has a dictionary entry on Merriam-Webster. So perhaps it's an Americanism or even a sportism (given that I magically tune out during the sport segment on the news and so might have missed the emergence of the term).

So I was grudgingly willing to accept the neologism until I encountered the following:

Who is the most winningest collegiate coach of all time?
That's got to be one of the depressingest things I've seen in the most longest time.

05 February 2007

Bloody greenie

I'm in Sydney at the mo'; catching up with friends, checking out second-hand bookshops, doing clutch aerobics in crazy Sydney traffic.

Today I was driving along the Pacific Highway, listening to Joni Mitchell's Big Yellow Taxi on the radio. You get so much thinking time while stuck in traffic: I found myself realising how much Sydney has become a paved paradise. I probably heard the song a thousand times while I lived here and always interpreted it in a much more abstract way, like, in relation to an American city such as LA, but never here. Now, with a little distance (like 12 months and 420km), I've begun to perceive something of the first city's decay.

It's made me realise how rural I've become. When I first moved to Port I felt overwhelmed by how much nature seemed to envelop the town and dulled any possibility of city gloss. I missed my coffee shops and cinemas and theatres and bookshops and 'ethnic' restaurants. I still do. But now that I've settled in a bit I find myself (wank, wank) in harmony with nature, no longer fearful of it. I like the way that Port feels like a little outcrop in the wilderness, like its urbanisation has still left the natural environment mostly intact (although the existence of the Koala Hospital might dispute this).

The battle feels lost in Sydney. I see nature being compartmentalised here. There are trees along the Pacific Highway, but they seem sadly out of place: tokenistic. My hairdresser (um, yes, I must admit that's something Sydney DOES have all over Port...) was telling me about a new zoo thing at Darling Harbour where all the animals are displayed inside in a glizty showcase. Even koalas. It just seems wrong. Although their site looks good.

Face it, I've become a bloody greenie.

30 January 2007

Meeting of the Port Macquarie Book Society

The fortnightly, sometimes weekly, bookclub convened today. There are just the two of us so it's not really a bookclub, but that's how Kerri-Ann and I met...trying to establish a 'real' bookclub here in the cultural wilderness of Port Macquarie.

The local library has a weekly get-together which they call a bookclub, but it's not. It's tragic. They choose a 'topic' to read around every month and then meet up to report back to the group on what they've read -- no, they don't read the same book. Here's the topics for the rest of this year:

March 6Dare to be different
April 3 Canada
May 1 We Live and Learn
June 5 Prize Winner
July 3 Hobbies
August 7 Book group
September 4 The ABC of Audio Books
October 2 Author in common - Paullina Simons
November 6 Stone the Crows - Australian Humour

I mean, I'm tempted to go along just to discover which books they come up with for the "dare to be different" category. Worshipping the Anti-Christ for Beginners? Bondage and Humiliation in the Mid-Northcoast. More like Racey Scrapbooking for Adventurous Pensioners.

So anyway, there was a note on the library noticeboard that promised a real bookclub. One where people go wild and actually read the SAME book and discuss it. Of course, it turned out that this bookclub only had one existing member -- the note-writer, Kerri-Ann. I was the only person who'd responded to her ad in six months. So we met up for coffee and chatted about books for a couple of hours. So that's what we do now -- talk about what we're reading, what courses we want to do next, the dearth of culture in Port Macquarie (that's a long conversation).

This week we met up at the Rainforest Cafe. It was a steamy day so was nice to sit out under the towering trees, and not eucalypts for a change. We both had a smoked salmon caesar followed by a cakey thing. (Kerri-Ann's already blogged about this so you can read her version of events here).

By some curious coincidence there was actually a koala high in a tree by the wooden walkway leading up the cafe. It was fast asleep as is usual. There aren't too many eucalypts in the rainforest so it must have been drawn in by the heat.

Seeing this one made me miss my koalas at the hospital. Tomorrow there's koala handling and rescue training so I'll get my koala dose a day earlier than usual.

29 January 2007

I do, I do, I do, I do, I do-oo-ooo-oooo

the rotunda
So my brother, TonTon, married his fiance, Lena, on Saturday at the rotunda in the park, right by the water at Williamstown. Despite temps topping 40°C in the preceding weeks, Saturday was cold cold cold; about 15°C (or so it felt to me, although D said it was more like 20°C) with an absence of humidity and bracing wind. This made us a motley crew -- everyone had to cobble together a warmer version of their original outfits. I had on the black cardie, Mum popped a plum jacket over her sundress, one of TonTon's friends up from Sydney had to make do with a kiddie jacket cast off by one of the bridesmaids.

stressed junior bridesmaidsThe bride was glorious in a long cream-coloured frock and strappy purple heels. The bridesmaids, my two neices and their best friend, all looked stressed wondering was the right moment to start flinging rose petals at Elena as she was led to the rotunda through the park by her cousin, Mikhail (not Gorbachev). TonTon was beaming from ear to ear and we all cried and snapped pictures like paparazzi. D was on video duty but we still made eye contact when the celebrant reminded us that a marriage in Australia is the joining of a man and a woman... That brings to mind a clever bit of stand-up Ellen DeGeneres does on her DVD Ellen DeGeneres: The Beginning. She talks about th anxiety that seems to surround conservative people when gay marriage is brought up. They seem to jump straight from same-sex marriage to interspecies marriage like, you can easily go from wanting to marry your girlfriend to, say, wanting to marry a goat. She then proceeds to imagine what it would be like going out with a goat...

But I digress...there was a lovely part of the wedding vows in which Elena actually makes a verbal commitment to TonTon's two girls. It was a beautiful touch. Then we all headed for the pub and then onto the reception place. Mr Lamborghini's son was having his reception at the same place (no really, it was the guy who owns the franchise in Australia, apparently). So there was a host of burly Italian blokes milling around the entrance, while inside there was a placard congratulating Giovanni and Charlene (obviously an Aussie girl). Parked outside on the pavement was a lamborgini with the license plate "LAAMBO". Don't you hate typos?

The reception was fun -- it's been so long since I've been to a wedding I'd forgotten how much fun they could be. We were at a table with my younger brother and a host of TonTon's friends, one of whom is a the CEO of publishing firm. We had an interesting chat about what she looks for in the covering letter on a book manuscript -- not even the manuscript itself, just the letter. Basically if you say your book's going to sell a million copies, it gets chucked to the bottom of the pile. She's looking for a bit of humility. If you're cocky in the letter, you'll be cocky all the way through the process from editing to marketing. For example, Tim Flannery, the new Australian of the year, is in her stable of authors and he's a right nob apparently. It's an interesting power play going between the author and publisher. A new author's offering up what feels like their first born, while the pubisher wants, well, somebody emotionally unattached. Not a great combination.

The great thing about being at a wedding with a large Russian contingent (well four Russians anyway) is that the vodka shots keep on flowing. Elena kept standing up and proclaiming "more Russian drink". You gotta love a sister-in-law like that.

28 January 2007

Five years with my dreamgirl (aww...)

D___ & I flew to Melbourne on Australia Day to attend my brother's wedding. As it happened, the date was also our fifth anniversary -- that is, five years since we met; John Howard won't let our kind marry as, both being women, we pose a risk to all that is fine and noble about the institution of matrimony.

Our dear friend and pet-sitter, Clair, swung by to collect us at 11. I was still frantically packing. It was about 30°C downstairs which translates to about 35°C upstairs in the bedroom. It's supposed to be 20°C in Melbourne so I was looking at my woollen scarf collection with disbelief as the perspiration continued to form on my forehead. It's funny how when being stinking hot at home makes it really hard to pack for a cold climate. It's like trying to do the stupidmarket shopping on a full stomach. Yes, having the pedestal fan blasting while rifling the cardie drawer seemed a trifle ridiculous.

Luckily we live in a country town where the airport doesn't take the 30-minutes-before-the-flight check-in very seriously. Clair was collecting her partner, who was coming to spend the weekend with her, and who'd arrived on the flight before ours, so she parked the car and raced off to meet her. Actually, strictly speaking the flight before our flight IS our flight. It's like getting on the bus at the terminus. The plane that arrives from Sydney is the plane that turns around and flies back to Sydney.

So 50 minutes later we land in Sydney at terminal 2 (the country town and Virgin terminal). Luggage is checked through and we have an hour to kill before we need to be at terminal 3 (the big smoke terminal). We hit the Turkish fast-food stand in the food court with abandon. D___ orders an iskender kebab (doner kebab meat and bready bits smothered in garlicky yoghurt, from what I could see) and I go for a gözleme (flat bread filled with spinach and feta). We'd been looking forward to this for weeks! There is a miserable dearth of 'ethnic' food in Port Macquarie: a couple of okay Thai places, a huge number of stuck-in-the-70s Chinese restaurants (the kind that in addition to spring rolls with fluororescing sweet-and-sour sauce also boast an "Australian menu"), a hole-in-the-wall noodle shop ("Delicious Noodle") and, finally, our salvation, a Japanese place with a proper sushi chef who greets you with the customary irasshaimase!.

After a week of Dr Joshi detoxing (well, D lasted 6 days), this weekend was going to be a foodfest. We oohed and ahhed at the size of the plane when we got on our second flight to Melbourne (a regular 737 seems like a jumbo after the little Dash-8). Took the skybus from the airport to what used to be Spencer Street Station (now Southern Cross Station) and checked in to the Vibe Savoy, a refurbished Art-Deco style hotel. Since my brother and his wife-to-be had usurped our anniversary, we celebrated our anniversary a night early at The Point Restaurant on Albert Park Lake. We shared an entree degustation, followed by ocean trout (for me) and a steaky thing for D.

After dinner, we strolled through biting wind towards the main road to grab a tram. We were so excited at the prospect of being in a city with a proper range of movies that we hit Crown Casino cinema and saw Dreamgirls which is not due to play in Port until at least 2012, if we're lucky. Jennifer Hudson was stunning: everything people have been saying about her and more (although we've been fans since her American Idol days). Don't know how I'll feel if she beats out 'our Cate' for the oscar.

All in all a lovely night, just me and my gal.

23 January 2007

Trial Bay Gaol, South West Rocks

Warning: Before you proceed, this post is NOT about koalas. Yes, such a thing is possible. Although an act of animal benevolence does feature towards the end.

32km from KempseyD___ and I went on a day-trip to Trial Bay Gaol on Saturday. It's about an hour and quarter's drive from Port Macquarie, taking the Pacific Highway to Kempsey and then heading towards South West Rocks. Although we were so engrossed in the conversation we were having (ie what I was going to do with my life besides koala-wrangling and blogging-about-koala-wrangling) that we were half way towards Wauchope before we realised we were going the wrong way.

We drove through some picturesque little towns — Frederickton (given the predictable diminutive of 'Fredo' by the locals, Smithtown [presumably 'Smitho'?], and the melodious-sounding Bellimbopinni — littered with single-lane bridges and interesting configurations of rust and flora.

'My mo's bigger' 'No, MY mo's bigger...'The gaol is an impressive, if pint-sized, edifice constructed of pink and grey granite. It was erected in 1886, a time when they took Movember seriously, all year round, judging by the picture of the original prison officers at the site.

prison cells

The prisoners' main job was to build a breakwall as ships were habitually being drawn into the beach and running aground there. (Trial Bay was actually named for a brig called the Trial which came to grief in 18-oh-sometime). However, the granite being quarried for the breakwall was horrendously heavy and the project was doomed to failure. After about 15 years the prison was abandoned.

It was reopened during the first world war as an internment camp for Germans living in Australia (how bizarre, Germans seem such nice people!). At least then the prisoners were allowed to spend their days on the beach and were only locked up at night. Some amused themselves by painting borders of scenes from home around their cells.

Smoky Cape Lighthouse
Mediterranean viewAfter the gaol we headed to the nearby Smoky Cape Lighthouse. I'm quite besotted with our own lighthouse in Port so like to check out any other lighthouses that we come across. The Smoky Cape Lighthouse has a proper lighthouse shape (unlike ours which is more like a tin shed with a dome stuck on as an after-thought). It also has huge sweeping white walls that give it an almost Mediterranean feel.

seaside humourAfter we finished fossicking about the lighthouse, we headed in to South West Rocks for a bevy at the pub. It's interesting comparing different sea-side towns. Port seems like a metropolis compared to this place, although it does have a Thai takeaway with a cute name.

It was getting on to 6pm when we finally headed home. We were gunning it up the Pacific Highway, just on the other side of Kempsey, when we noticed a dog walking along the road in the direction of Kempsey. D and I both said 'is that a dog?'. D___ turned round at the rest stop a few k's on and drove back until the dog was in sight. It could have been a dingo as it was a nondescript browny colour but, as soon as it saw our car pull up, it crossed the road towards us.

He had no collar but was super-friendly -- clearly a pet and very used to people. Yet the only logical conclusion we could come to was that this beautiful dog had been abandoned by its owners on the highway. He wasn't in bad shape -- a bit of a skinned knee, his coat could use a wash and he seemed to have fleas. He jumped in the car with us without a moment's hesitation and accepted all the patting and stroking on offer. D___ had the bright idea of lining her hat with a plastic bag and filling it with water so our new friend could have a drink.

With our hitch-hiker in tow, we headed back to Port and to our vet, who I knew would take in a stray dog. There was no question that we could keep him. Troi can barely cope if we show any attention to the cat (which therefore takes attention from him). Plus he doesn't like any other dogs, people, birds, insects, etc. So we sadly drove our little friend home, knowing that he would probably end up at the pound and possibly worse. And he was such a friendly dog! He didn't snap or even bark the whole time he was with us in the car. He just kept looking out the window, probably trying to search out his home...

What is wrong with people?

17 January 2007

Coetzee but without the disgrace

I finished up my second shift at the Koala Hospital at around 11.30am with a cup of tea in the staff-room. The conversation was dominated by irritations about Centrelink. Talk then turned to Koala Preservation Society name badges—Amanda had one and said they were available to volunteers prepared to cover the $7 cost involved. I was dying to become "official" so I put my name down for one as did the others. I remarked that I was sure that the koalas would appreciate knowing what to call us. "Hello, I'm Sam and I'll be shovelling your poop this morning". As a volunteer, I also get 10% off from the gift-shop which sells every kind of toy koala and koala-themed merchandise imaginable.

It was good to be off my feet. Even better, the staff-room was stocked with green tea. I looked down at myself — I had dirt under every fingernail, there were red scratches up the soft skin inside my forearm and there was dried dirt in the creases on the inside of my elbow joint. My shirt was wet and muddy. My legs were also streaked with mud. I'd caught sight of myself in the mirror outside the treatment room and saw that, not only was my forehead beaded with sweat, but my hair was fuzzy with humidity. A big tuft stood out from my ponytail where it'd obviously been yanked out by a tree branch.

It was a foreign thing to me to be that dishevelled and dirty. That night in the shower I actually had to scrub at places instead of the usual perfunctory rinse. You don't get too dirty sitting in an air-conditioned office all day. Though invisible, corporate grime is harder to shift; good, honest koala-loving grime on the other hand was a tangible sign of my doing some good. I felt worthwhile.

When I got home I also felt utterly exhausted — not just physically but mentally. I wandered around for the rest of the afternoon in a daze. It was like starting a new job when you are in hyper-alert mode, trying to concentrate on everything you see and hear. That night I slept solidly. You know the quick little falling dreams that wake you with a jolt just as you're entering into your deep sleep? Instead, I was driving down Pacific Drive and a koala bounded in from of my car. I woke up gasping!

I keep thinking about J. M. Coetzee's Disgrace, and how the protagonist's unglamorous work with dogs gave him some sense of absolution from his professional disgrace. Not that I have any episode of disgrace to overcome, but the work is surely ennobling for all its seeming simplicity. Perhaps the simplicity of a routine that nonetheless helps the helpless is where this kernel of soulful satisfaction resides.

10 January 2007

Eucalyptus: initial thoughts

I'm reading Murray Bail's Eucalyptus at the moment. There was a hubbub over it a while back when it looked set to be filmed not two hours' north of here, in Bellingen, NSW.

It's unfortunate that Nicole Kidman was slated to play Ellen. Unfortunate because that's who I visualise whenever she appears in the book: Nicole Kidman with that contrived pout and a few stuck-on freckles (a key aspect of Ellen's appeal is her bespeckled skin). It's horrendous enough that Kidman was chosen to portray Diane Arbus, not to mention her laboured performance as Virginia Woolf.

I've found Eucalyptus slow to get going, but now the 'hook' has appeared. At first I thought that the references to different eucalypts were simply atmospheric motifs; but Holland has just wedded them securely to the plot by proclaiming that only the man who can name every eucalyptus strain growing on his land shall win his daughter Ellen's hand.

It's all very "Theme of the three caskets" (Freud 1913), except the 'caskets' here are numerous and the chance of winning through sheer luck virtually impossible. Perhaps this makes it a (post)modern take on the whole storybook romance.