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Christmas cards or emails?

christmas-cards-emails — The world over, the mail must get through – image by Brazilian photographer Alexandre Fukugava www.pixabay.com

Last week I posted a handful of Christmas cards to New Zealand. The woman in the post office frowned and said I’d missed the deadline for international post.

“But it’s only New Zealand, so they will probably get there,” she added, with a slow, small country town smile.

I’m not so confident. The record time taken for mail exchanged between my sister and I was 17 days in 2020. Blimey, I could have flown over and hand-delivered it, enjoying a two-week holiday at the same time.

Those of you with family members living abroad know of the annual dilemma. Is it Christmas cards in the post and/or calendars, an animated ecard or an email with a word document of the family’s highlights through the year?

The problem with the annual epistle is that some years are just crap. Nothing good happened and you didn’t go anywhere, right?

I have more or less faithfully kept up the tradition of sending cards in the mail, not expecting one in return, since moving to Australia in the mid-1970s (stamps then cost 10c).

When we were both working, we’d shop for Australian calendars and post them to relatives in New Zealand, Canada and the UK. We stopped doing this once the cost of postage became more than the cost of the calendars.

Last month, I had a reminder email from animated ecard producer Jacquie Lawson, who offers cards for all occasions. The reminder was that my $20 subscription was about to lapse. It was a shock to find I had sent only five ecards in 12 months. I must be old school after all.

I’m not renewing, but if you decide (on December 23, after counting the unsolicited cards on the tree and mantel piece), that you should reciprocate, it’s easy to sign up and deliver an impressive ecard.

The first Christmas card was issued in 1843 by UK civil servant, inventor and entrepreneur Henry Cole, the first director of the Victoria and Albert Museum. Cole was instrumental in reforming the British postal system, helping to set up the Uniform Penny Post. This system encouraged the sending of seasonal greetings on decorated letterheads and visiting cards. Struck by the idea of creating a greeting card of his own, Henry asked his friend, artist John Callcott Horsley, to illustrate it.

Horsley’s design depicts the Cole family raising a toast in a central, hand-coloured panel surrounded by a decorative trellis and black and white scenes depicting acts of giving.

Cole commissioned a printer to transfer the design onto cards, printing a thousand copies that could be personalised with a hand-written greeting. The issue (at a shilling each), was described as a commercial failure.

Cole would have been fascinated to see how his idea blossomed into a multi-billion-dollar business. The greetings card industry is in a spot of trouble now, as digital options make sending greetings cheaper and faster.

Marketing group researchandmarkets.com released projections that showed global greetings card sales would drop 17% from $23 billion in 2020 to $20.9 billion in 2026. Reasons for the decline include the popularity of social media platforms and messaging apps such as WhatsApp.

“Despite the challenges posed by the growing social media and e-cards, there still exists a niche consumer base for physical greeting cards,” a spokesman said.

“Giving and receiving these cards continues to matter to a set of consumers, albeit a shrinking one. For this niche group of consumers, a physical greeting card on special occasions means much more than a Facebook message or an e-card.”

Last year, the Australia Post network delivered around one million fewer letters every working day than prior to the onset of the COVID-19 pandemic in early 2020.

A spokesman told FOMM the network did not differentiate between Christmas mail and regular letters so could not produce meaningful statistics. But as a guide, the annual Santa Mail program last year received more than 118,000 letters bound for the North Pole!

Australia Post is one of Australia’s most successful companies, posting revenue of $8.3 billion for 2021 and pre-tax profit of $100.7 million.

“This is a strong result, with our domestic parcels business continuing to go from strength to strength, while we retained our position as a market leader with parcel and services revenue growth of 17.7%,” acting CEO Rodney Boys said in the 2021 annual report.

Revenue was driven by a record peak period, with more than 52 million parcels delivered in December alone. The organisation is continually finding new ways to take advantage of the growth in ecommerce (more than one million households now shop on-line each month). Australia Post has developed well beyond a simple service for mail delivery. The network supports banking and bill-paying services for major institutions.

My recent application to renew my Australian passport (at the post office), for example, cost $307.00 plus $27.95 for passport photos, taken by Australia Post.

(Ed: He has some spares if you’d like an autographed one).

The Australian Passport Office delivered my new passport by registered mail ($4.45) in just under four weeks so obviously the Passport Office/Australia Post collaboration is working well.

The strong growth in ecommerce and parcel home delivery has coincided with an ongoing decline in the volume of letters, however. Revenue dropped from $2.33 billion in 2017 to $1.77 billion in 2021.

As a trustee of a self managed super fund, I can vouch that all companies which issue shares promote electronic delivery of annual reports and other correspondence. All of the institutions and government agencies with which we have dealings also push hard to convert their clients to on-line interaction.

Despite my earlier observation about the time taken for mail to arrive in New Zealand, Australia Post boasts a 94% delivered on time record for letters and parcels. If the letter/parcel you are expecting is late, it is probably someone else’s fault.

There are 7,950 postal routes in Australia, some requiring a marathon effort to traverse. We should be grateful for the 10,000 ‘Posties’ who battle rain, hail, bushfire smoke, steaming hot days and aggressive dogs.

No laughing matter that, with Australia Post confirming that more than 1,000 posties have been attacked by household dogs in the past six months. Nibbler used to bark at the postie, or more accurately at the scooter as it whizzed past. I went out one day to introduce the dog, thinking it would make him less likely to bark and run along the fence. Our local postman said it was ‘traditional’ for dogs to bark at posties.

I hope this has inspired you to get out your address book and start writing in cards (buy a box of cards from a charity and do two good deeds in one).

A study by the University of Limerick concluded that the act of sending (and receiving) Christmas cards can help alleviate depression. Moreover, if someone who always sends you a card suddenly doesn’t, this can be a red flag.

“If you do not hear from someone who regularly sends you a Christmas card, it might be worth checking in with them to spread some Christmas cheer,” said Dr Jennifer McMahon, a lecturer in psychology at UL and study co-author.

You have seven days.

Postscript: I wrote an irony-laden Christmas song which has been described as ‘a bit dark’ by someone who saw a preview. Not suitable for children.

A doggy tale in the time of covid-19

By Guest FOMMer Laurel Wilson

dogs-covid-19 — Rex and assorted Canadian children

As anyone who knows me would realise, I love dogs and have had various four-legged companions ever since I can remember. ‘Foxie’ was the first one − a small, non-descript, furry golden mutt, who apparently decided our place was an improvement on her previous abode.

Then came ‘Rex the wonder dog’ (or at least, that’s what I called him), also a mutt, but who looked quite a bit like a Border Collie. As is the case with most dogs surrounded by small children, he was the soul of patience and accepted with good grace my various attempts to dress him up or get him to do tricks. He had an endless capacity for ‘shake a paw’.

Then came a hiatus of quite a few years, involving moving to Australia, going to high school and later university, when I was either not living at home or too broke to contemplate acquiring a dog of my own. (There was a brief interlude with a cat called Pith, but it just wasn’t the same…)

dogs-covid-18 — Tilbi and pups, including “Ankle-biter”

When I was more settled and could afford it, the sweetest dog I’ve ever known came into my life. This was ‘Tilbi’ (which I believe means ‘duck’ in one of the Aboriginal languages). This was an appropriate name for a Golden Retriever, although, apart from one embarrassing incident with a couple of tame ducks, she never got to follow that particular life path.

The closest she came to it was when the occasional ‘chook show’ was held at the Showgrounds over the road from our old place. Tilbi and her daughter Finis were in ecstasy whenever that event occurred, whining and scratching at the gate in a desperate effort to ‘retrieve’ those feathered objects of doggy lust. Apart from that, she was a most obedient and loving dog, who was fond of all humans, from toddlers to the rather ancient fellow who lived over the back fence. (Ed: One day Tilbi came home with a pot roast in her mouth (a neighbour left it on the window sill to cool).

A few years later, the most independent-minded dog I’ve ever experienced became part of the household. This was ‘Kia’, the German Shepherd (named before the vehicle of that make became popular, I might add – it was more a nod to our Kiwi rellies, as in Kia Ora, or ‘Hello’). She was obedient to a point, especially if she was in reach, but coming back when called was an optional extra, as far as she was concerned. But she was a very intelligent dog. For instance, in her later, more arthritic years, she struggled to get into the back of the station wagon, so we put a box down in front of the open tail-gate. She got the idea almost immediately. And she had a sense of humour. One of her favourite games was to play ‘chasey’ around the car when we were trying to catch her before going out. She’d eventually take pity on us and let herself get caught.

The latest four-legged addition is Nib, the mostly Staffie brindle ‘brick on legs’, who spends much of the evening acting as my own personal knee blanket. It’s wonderful in winter, not so good in summer. He is without a doubt the most obedient dog I’ve ever come across – for which we take no credit. He is most reliable about coming back when called, walks nicely on the lead, doesn’t respond if other dogs bark at him, goes outside when asked, gets out of the kitchen when I’m cooking, and seems to have quite a good grasp of various other commands, or as I like to put it, polite requests. His only fault is that, like most other Staffies, he ‘sings’, especially when he is in the car. And his ‘song’ is not pleasant to the ear…

See, I managed to get all this way without mentioning ‘Iso’ or ‘Covid’, but dogs have apparently come into their own during this period. Those with dogs are thankful for their company and the impetus to go for a walk. Many of those without dogs are apparently taking the opportunity to acquire one while they have the time to welcome one into their lives. Hopefully, they head to a nearby Animal Shelter to pick out their new friend, and hopefully, these new pets won’t find their way back there post-Covid.

I make no claim to the following observations being original, but I too have noticed that people have turned into dogs – roaming around the house all day, looking for something to eat; rushing to the front door when anyone knocks; peering through the window at the unusual sight of a passer-by; and getting terribly excited at the prospect of going for a drive in the car…

Here’s to all the dogs I have met in my life, including Bindi, Logan, Tosca, Patch, Stella, Moet, Dante, Winnie (the poodle – which scores the prize for cleverest name), Motek, Joey, Fleur, Spud, Darcy, Wally and all those friendly pooches who accept a pat from a passing stranger.

Postscript by Bob (taking a break this week while dreaming up new topics).

Our first dog was a cocker spaniel named Lady who was left with a family friend in Scotland when we all caught the migrant boat in 1955. Dad was heartbroken but the alternative was quarantining an old dog for six weeks at sea and then a month on land.

Once settled in New Zealand we acquired a fox terrier with the imaginative name of Spot. He could be a crabby critter and Mum didn’t like him much for his habit of lying on the front step and then snarling when she tried to step over him.

He was a wee bit epileptic, Spot, and also had a habit of eating grapefruit then spitting shredded citrus out all over the lawn.

As an older adult I took up with She Who Tried For Best In Show who owned Tilbi. Later we acquired a litter of eight Golden Retriever puppies, keeping one (Finis).

Now we find ourselves in 2020, as SWTFBIS points out, responsible for a rising nine-year-old Staffie who is quite needy but also quite endearing. He is slowly adjusting to life in the suburbs where people walk past the house (don’t bark, good dog, treat).

I usually cannot resist clicking on the many dog videos, gifs and memes which have proliferated as Iso forces dog owners to spend more time with their furry pals. I like the mindlessly cute ones where cats (or dogs) jump over increasingly higher stacks of toilet rolls.

If you have not seen the videos of Scottish sports commentator Andrew Cotter turning the daily antics of his two dogs into a sports call, there are quite a few. He may be bored but he definitely loves these Labradors – and, as with all dogs, it is mutual.

*Correction: In last week’s blog about the coronaconomy, I mentioned Jobseeker in the third paragraph and again near the end. It should have read Jobkeeper.

Dog My Cats! – Australia’s Fur Baby Obsession

dogs-cats-fur-babies — Nibbler and friend checking the p-mail at Elanora Park, Wynnum

Down at Brisbane’s biggest dog park, Elanora, a chap is loading two dogs into the back of a wagon – a black Labrador, and a white fluff dog. The big one had earlier snaffled my dog’s hard rubber ball and didn’t give it back. Fair enough, I reckoned, musing about the numbers of times our adopted Staffie has stolen other dog’s tennis balls and reduced them to slimy fragments.

I once knew a woman who named her dogs Kierkegaard and Kant, after famous philosophers. Imagine the neighbourhood mutterings when she called the latter-named from afar.

Kantian moral theory assumes the rightness or wrongness of actions does not depend on their consequences but on whether they fulfil our duty. So if Kant (the dog) poops on someone’s lawn, he is fulfilling his duty (to empty his bowels). The rightness of the owner’s action depends on whether he or she brought a poo bag with them.

Brisbane City Council did a smart thing when fencing the 26,000sqm Elanora Park, which sits between hillside houses and the mangrove-lined foreshore at Wynnum. The park is split into two fenced enclosures; a large one for big dogs and their owners and a smaller enclosure for small dogs.

The park provides shade trees, obstacle courses for the bouncy mutts and benches for the owners to sit and talk about their dogs and how the Broncos are going.

There are water points and poo bag dispensers. The only downside is, if you happen to be there after 4pm, the mosquitoes and midges will find you.

I implied earlier our dog was a hand-me down from an adult child. We belong to a demographic where one’s adult children for one complicated reason or another, cannot look after their dog. As you probably know, the cry ‘I want a puppy’ often starts between the ages of 8 and 15. By the time your kids are old enough to smoke and drink and start dating, no-longer-a-puppy gradually becomes the parent’s responsibility.

We have owned dogs together and individually for most of our lives although there was a 10-year gap between Kia the wonder Shepherd and the brindle Staffie. The latter is a well-trained dog, but a bit of a sook; a 20-kilo lapdog with a propensity to ‘sing’ when being taken somewhere in the car.

I realise this is not a great pitch to anyone who’d like to mind the dog on the occasions when we are away, but here’s the catch: Staffies are bouncy dogs full of nervous energy with a tendency to whine and whimper for reasons not always apparent. The upside is Staffies are cuddly, affectionate and easy to train.

The broader question is, why do otherwise independent people in our demographic (70+), complicate their lives with a needy animal – in effect a toilet-trained toddler? Sometimes when dog-walking, I meet people who introduce an aged Labrador or a crossbreed that shies away when you go to pat it, as ‘rescue dogs’.

It surprised me to find that only 1.92% of Australia’s 4.8 million domestic dogs are rescue animals (abandoned and picked up by pounds and dog shelters or surrendered when the owner is no longer able to care for the animal). RSPCA data shows that 40,286 dogs were reclaimed, rehomed or euthanased in 2017-2018, a 10% drop on the previous year’s figures. The better news is that 34,709 dogs were rehomed, with a relatively small number (5,577) euthanased.

Let’s debunk the myth spread by current affairs TV and tabloid newspapers. Only 257 dogs were put down for ‘legal’ reasons. So despite lurid stories about killer (American) Staffies or Pit Bulls, the majority of dogs consigned to the celestial kennel had ‘behavioural’ problems.

Now that we are officially of no fixed abode, the subject of dog sitters/minders comes up frequently. A quick Google search revealed services that will hook you up with dog-loving people who will happily look after your pooch at your place or theirs. The average price is about $50 a day, so if you have a private arrangement that is less than $25 a day you are doing very well.

The free option is to engage a house/dog sitter and there are many online services which will match you and your dog with (ahem) pre-vetted sitters. People who don’t like the sound of that and want to go away for a lengthy period have no option then but to book their fur babies into boarding kennels. A friend who chose this option booked her two cats and two dogs into establishments while on a five-week UK tour. The bill would have paid for her airfares, but she was happy to do it for the peace of mind.

So, if you really want a dog, be aware it will cost between $3,000 and $6,000 for the first year alone. The BankWest Family Pooch Index estimated it can cost $25,000 to keep a dog over its lifespan.

The above does not factor in chronic health conditions. As vet bills mount up, more people are taking out pet insurance which can cover expensive items like a tick bite (involves an over-night stay).

Nor does the Pooch Index take into account occasions like when Fido wander s off through the gate left open by the meter man. After shelling out $250 at the pound, you chastise Fido and put up a sign: “Shut the Woofen Gate”.

None of this apparently dissuades the millions of Australians who own one or more dogs. If you want one, there’s a plethora of choice with 339 different breeds (a conservative estimate).

The term ‘fur babies’, much as I dislike it, rings true for people for whom a dog (or cat) is a substitute child. According to She Who Can Name Most Dog Breeds, the telling statistic is that 53% of owners let their pet sleep on the (marital) bed.

Some (like me), freely attribute human traits, emotions or intentions to an animal that cannot speak and lacks opposable thumbs. This trait develops as said dog increasingly learns to recognise words like walkies, drivies, dinner/breakfast, come/away, outside/inside, good/bad dog, off the bed and wait (exceptionally useful command when descending stairs or steps).

This anthropomorphic behaviour was in full bloom when the movers were emptying our house. I’d left the dog bed in a corner of the living room. He either lay upon it or stood staunchly in front.

“Does the dog bed go?” asked Mover No 1.

“Touch my bed and I’ll rip your lungs out, Jim,” the dog snarled,* or at least that’s what I read into his body language.

“No, the bed stays,” I told him, assuring the dog: “It’s OK, mate. You’re staying with us… I didn’t know you liked that Warren Zevon song – aah wooh!”

“Yeh,” Dog said, warming to the topic. “I thought Night Time in the Switching Yard was his best. I quite like Harry Manx too. Did you know his album title, Dog My Cat, is a riff from a 1910 short story by O Henry where the character says ‘well dog my cats’, by way of an exclamation of incredulity?

“No, I did not know that,” I replied, marvelling at his musical and literary acumen and ability to sustain a 50-word sentence.

“I’d like to try my paw at the Mohan Veena one day,” he added.

“Stick with singing,” I advised.

Beyond words, Harry Manx: https://youtu.be/JFY8bW3xsHg

(I demur – I’ve never heard Nibbler snarl in all his life. Ed)

Old dogs, new tricks

Chunky the bulldog is pictured in the world’s first stair lift for overweight dogs. Photo: www.rcagroup.com

You may have noticed last week how I skilfully bypassed National Seniors’ Week and wrote about the IT/social media stuff that engrosses 30-somethings. Physiotherapists love this ‘old body-teen brain’ syndrome. They get a lot of ongoing business from 70-year-old men falling off ladders while pruning trees with chainsaws, or moving a full filing cabinet only to have all four drawers roll out at the same time. But I digress.

For me, the young at heart feeling is quite acute this week as we rehearse for a couple of gigs at a folk festival in our home town. It’s hard to think of yourself as old when you’re wearing jeans and a T-shirt, guitar around your neck, singing songs about love and peace and a dead man’s shirt.
The subject of age came up the weekend before last when staying with rellies at their new abode, which has a flight of polished wooden stairs that lead to a sunken lounge. The problem with the see-through steps is that the 15-year-old poodle can’t do them. He tries: a tentative paw, a quizzical look, a tiny whimper and there he stands, quivering, for however long it takes for someone to take pity and carry him up the stairs.
“You need a Dog Stairlift,” I jested (before looking it up on a search engine and finding that, yes, someone has already thought of that).

Adapting to arthritis and ancientry

What a marvellous idea, and multi-purpose, too. You could adapt this for aged cats, your pet python; banjos, anything small but heavy you don’t want to carry up or down the stairs.
The truly lazy could arrange the sunken lounge just so; the sofa’s here, the remote is there and the lift is within arm’s reach (“Send down another Merlot and some cheese and crackers wouldya?”)
As we age and our bodies start to let us down, we adapt in almost imperceptible ways. We stop using the bottom shelves of the fridge, the oven and the dishwasher, so much less crouching down. Stooping we can do. We put the recycling bin out every fortnight, not waiting until it is so full of empties you can’t drag it anywhere.
Old dogs too are good at adapting, despite what they say. The poodle has worked out how to exit the downstairs back door and run around to the front, whining and pawing the screen door. When we had a German Shepherd and she got old and arthritic we went to a $2 shop and bought a big plastic box we could put on the ground at the rear of the station wagon so she could get in without having to jump, like she used to. Only took her one go to get that right.

I was telling Mr Loophole that I was having trouble getting up from a crouching or kneeling position. Mr L, who does stretching exercises every day of his life, showed me his patented way of becoming upright with the least effort; I parried with the Dru Yoga lever-yourself-off-the-floor-in-a-spiral move.
As my Scots Auntie (90-something) said, last time I was there, prising her old bones off of the sofa: “Ach, this getting auld is’nae for the faint-hearted.”
Or as Billy Connolly says, “You can tell how old someone is by how long it takes them to get out of a beanbag.”

Man, you gettin’ old (P.Simon)

The latest demographic studies confirm what we have suspected for a while, the old and increasingly infirm will soon outnumber the upcoming generation.
As you stand around the water cooler at work, you can use these figures to impress people how much you know about how the world’s population is growing—and aging.
The National Institute on Ageing says very low birth rates in developed countries and birth rate declines in most developing countries are projected to increase the population aged 65 and over to the point in 2050 when it will be 2.5 times that of the population aged 0-4. That’s a big change from 1950, when there were 335 million children in the 0-4 age group and just 131 million people ages 65+.
United Nations Population Division estimates for mid-2010 said there were 642 million persons aged 0-4 and 523 million aged 65+ .( We assume people ages 5-64 make up the rest of the 7.2 billion). So the UN is projecting the 0-4 age group will decline between 2015 and 2020 (a historical first), having peaked at around 650 million. The 65+ population is projected to rise from 601 million in 2015 to 714 million in 2020 during the same period. Crikey, that’s just five years away.

Masters, not just a degree

Medical science, meanwhile, coupled with elevated community awareness of “wellness”, means that more of us will live to be 80, 90 or even 100 years old. So my tongue in cheek song about a 100-year-old Morris dancer who challenges the new squire of the team to a dance-off is maybe not that far-fetched.
Even in my somewhat atrophied social circle you can find people like Mr L, still playing basketball at 68 (“And I’m one of the young ones,” he’ll say). People who have always played a sport or kept fit frequently progress to Masters Games status. The last competition held at the Gold Coast saw 91 year old swimmer Joyce Faunce winning a gold medal in the 50m freestyle. Heather Lee (85) set two new world records in the women’s walking events (category 85+) at the Masters Games 2014. She walked 3,000m (3km) in 23 minutes and some seconds, backing up with a win in the 5,000m (5km) walk in 40:06:97. These high-achieving oldies put a new twist on the meaning of life, making the dragging of two wheelie bins up a 100m driveway seem like a doddle.

Rumination can be fun

I was persuaded to think about age and its complexities this week when engrossed in one of Clare Russell’s Dru Yoga sessions. The stillness and body awareness quickly makes one aware of what parts of one’s body really hurt. The Dru Yoga ethos is you don’t do it if it hurts. So there are things one doesn’t do, but one does enough to feel it in the body later.
I’m very bad at relaxation/meditation. Random thought keep swooping in – don’t forget eye drops, shoelaces and taco shells on the way home – oh no, I should have gone to the toilet first – did Bill Shorten lose the leadership ballot or did I just have a microsleep and dream that? – what will I write about on Friday and should I correct things I got wrong last week? All kinds of ruminative thoughts surface, dive and resurface, over and over. At one stage I invented a tiny leprechaun with a little rubber mallet and mentally trained him to run around my head walloping me, saying encouraging things like: “Take that, ye eejit.”

As a thought-stopping exercise it was shite.

Last week:
• Correspondent Barbs wished her son could have studied Latin but she steered him into German (for the sciences), not the other way around;
• Fiddler on the Roof tells me that Si hoc legere scis nimium erudittionis habes! means ‘if you can read this you are over-educated’ (just in case someone adopts it as a tattoo).

Postscript:
Listen to Ann Leung’s interview with us played on 612ABC this morning ahead of the Maleny Music Festival which starts tonight.