I was chatting to my pal and yours, Stella, an inspiration that you should visit if you have not already, yesterday about my mother. I may have spoken about my mother here on other occasions. I’m sorry to bore you with it.

My mother was a Doctor of English (a clever lady who became a bit eccentric in her old age) with a passion for History, particularly the ancient variety. She dragged me (and my father) many, many times around Italy and Greece, excitedly pointing out old bits of rock and explaining the events that had taken place long, long beforehand upon the same ground that our feet stood.

I didn’t study history (I didn’t study much at all, if truth be known) because I could never have lived up to her standards.

But one day I was playing some music from my hero of the time (Ross Wilson – I may have mentioned him too many times here also – sorry) and she walked in. He was singing a song from her own era. His rendition (as you can see and hear) was delivered somewhat tongue-in-cheek, and it occurred to me that she may have found it offensive.

Quite the opposite was, in fact, true. Her eyes lit up like stars and she called to my father, “Darling, come here! Come here! Listen to this! Listen to this!”

It was as if we were back in Athens again and she had found a link to the Trojan Wars.

Eventually she went completely bughouse and forgot who I was.

She forgot who she was too.

But I haven’t. And I miss her.

So I thought I’d play it again for her one more time.

I’ll never smile again until I smile at you
I’ll never laugh again. What good would that do?

For tears would fill my eyes
My heart would realize
That our romance is through

I’ll never love again, I’m so in love with you
I’ll never thrill again, to somebody new

Within my heart
I know I will never start
To smile again
Until I smile at you

And this is my mother’s version Here

But my favourite one (I was a very young dude at this concert) Here

Further to some comments that I made yesterday about walking the streets of San Francisco……..

Another place I spend some time walking the streets alone is Johannesburg. People have warned me that this is unwise – that to wander about in groups of less than 4 or 5 people was to compromise one’s own safety.

I have always taken (and expressed) the view that muggers only pick on those they perceive as vulnerable and if one walks about the place looking like one who owns it and is, themselves, a potential physical threat, then one will be left alone (this is not advise I give to women, mind you).

Recent events suggest that I might have to review my approach.

When the Australian Rugby Union team we’re visiting Johannesburg recently and returning from dinner in a small group one of them was singled out from the rest and his new phone was stolen. He initially took off in pursuit, but his friends held him back, taking the (very sensible) view that a phone was not worth a knife or a bullet.

The man who lost the phone was Taniela Tupou. That’s a picture of him above. He is 23 years old. He is a professional rugby player and therefore unusually strong, fast and fit. He weighs 130 kilos (that’s 300lbs). He is referred to as ‘The Tongan Thor’.

So …. I may have to change my approach. If these guys are willing to take on Taniela (with half his teammates standing within 30 ft) I don’t think they’ll hesitate too much about Brutus.

The only advantage that I may have over Taniela is that, most of the time, I look like I’ve already been mugged.

More of the Tongan Thor here.

If one wanders through the streets of San Francisco (as I do … aimlessly … with some regularity) it is not uncommon to hear people shouting. It is difficult, most times, to be sure of what they are shouting about or at whom the vitriol is directed. Everything and everybody, in most cases, I think. The language, even by my own colourful standards can be very blue. The sorts of words that one might expect to hear from a sailor who has just dropped a brick on his big toe.

But it’s nice that people can feel sufficiently comfortable, I suppose, to express their feelings so openly in an open forum. Heavy drugs and mental health issues probably help.

But it was different the other day. There were two people shouting and they were shouting at each other. They were both on bicycles. They were stopped at a set of lights and there was a black guy shouting at a white woman whose bike was about 6 feet in front of his. She was facing away from him but turning her head such that she could hurl abuse at him with the added benefit of ugly facial expressions.

In terms of a verbal contest I would judge it as having been fairly even. The dude probably had the upper hand with regard to volume and arm waving, but that was balanced out by the superior vocabulary deployment of his opponent.

But then she turned her bike and rode back towards him so that she could get her face about 2 inches from his. She started to prod him with a finger. Then she grabbed him by the shirt. The dude pushed her back but she was clearly gaining ascendency. He looked frightened. Things seemed like they might escalate rapidly.

I don’t know who these people were. They might have been lovers – although they looked like an unlikely couple. I don’t even know what the argument was about (who ever does once an argument really gets going?) and I’m fairly sure that I didn’t care.

What was clear to me though was that, if this thing was to become violent, then the black dude was going to be outclassed. She had a definite weight advantage. She was some years younger than him. He was in for a beating. So should I have intervened?

My intervention skills are limited. Things have gone badly wrong before.

(On one memorable occasion Mrs Richmond had me stick my nose into a domestic dispute. Some lunatic was beating the crap out of his wife. There were punches and tears and ripped clothing and blood all over the place. I managed to hold him still for long enough such that she could make an escape. And then I was king-hit from behind. By the assailant’s mother – a woman of about 60 with a savage right hook. A week later the happy couple were back together, but I was still recovering from a mild concussion.)

Nevertheless, I am no stranger to physical confrontation. And it’s not like one more broken nose is going to make me any less good looking at this stage in life. But should I have intervened? Should I have stepped in to defend the underdog? Can you imagine how it might have looked? When a policeman walked around the corner as I was wrestling a young white woman to the ground as an older black guy looked on screaming obscenities?

By the time the decision process had gone through all its twists and turns I was upon them. They had both stepped off their bikes by now and she was pushing him backwards into a brick wall where, I assume, she would be better positioned to get a decent swing at him.

I did the only sensible thing.

“Good afternoon,” I said to them both.

And then I kept walking.