The Man from Central Casting, by Ros Collins


The ‘flight or fight’ response interests me. I can’t boast any knowledge of psychology although many of my friends seems to have it all at their fingertips, they can even spell catecholamines.

Looking back at the sequence of events during my recent ‘near death’ experience has surprised me. There was no fear, at least nothing to compare with seeing a mouse running across my floor. The hormones that must be released through my body on seeing the first huntsman spider are much nearer to ‘flight or fight’ than having stents inserted in an artery.

The sirens wailed, the ambulance driver was, I’m told, a lovely girl who drove very fast. It was getting to be a bit ‘touch and go’ so the man from central casting was waiting for me all scrubbed up in a really divine navy blue outfit. ‘Is it alright if I have to open your chest?’ he asked and how on earth could I refuse him.

Into Emergency and lying there hidden behind a monitor I felt just fine, apart from the pain in my heart. But it wasn’t fear, nothing at all like mice or spiders. ‘Are you going to save my life?’ I enquired casually. ‘I’ll do my best’, said the man from central casting. The nurses were all busy dabbing and dusting and it really did not hurt a bit when they put a catheter into my groin. I’ve done more damage leaping onto a chair to avoid a rodent.

‘And how old are you Mrs Collins?’ I wasn’t anaesthetised so it was easy to answer. ‘So how old are you?’ I asked. ‘I’m forty-seven’ he said; he’s younger than my children – but they’re not into surgery.

‘When we open the stents the pain will cease almost immediately.’

‘You’ll also feel the blood coursing through the artery again, rather similar in sensation to having a ‘hot flush’. ‘Oh, it’s a long time since I’ve had one of those’ I said cheekily.

Back in the ward and he whips out a little iPad thing and shows the children and me what he’s done. Off to the next job and the family calms down a bit. I didn’t die but evidently it was a bit close.

The next morning it was what looked like an Armani suit. By this time I have enough wit to ask questions. ‘Will I have to spend the rest of my life in ‘God’s waiting room’ and if so I don’t want to.’ ‘I am not age-ist; you may do anything you want to and even more’ said the saviour. This is great news for me, stressful for my children who find me uncontrollable and probably rates an A+ on the report card for the man from central casting. But just to be on the safe side I had the pest control people call yesterday. I could break a leg fleeing from a mouse.

© Ros Collins


Am I A Jewish Writer?


Alan wrote:


It’s a fine piece of humorous and provocative writing and I will probably re-print the entire article in a separate blog; it deserves a wider audience.

Now with the publication of Solly’s Girl it’s my turn to think about this matter.

Alan’s ancestors went from Spain and The Netherlands to London in the 1700s; they arrived in Sydney in the 1830s. They were part of the Anglo-Jewish community. He grew up intensely Australian but with a ‘sense of Jewish history’. My grandparents went from Eastern Europe to London in the late 1800s and retained nostalgic sentiments about the shtetl life they had left behind. I was the first truly British child on one side of the family. I grew up yearning for a family tree that would reach back into English history:

London was the centre of my world. It was great to be English, and I would have given anything to be able to claim British ancestry, preferably back to the Tudors. Solly’s Girl Ch. 1

* * *

Like my other grandfather, Morris did not become a citizen and, being Austrian, he was classed as an enemy alien during World War I, just as Nathan from Russia would be at the beginning of World War II. My family took its time to become British: Sadie and Solly [my parents] were both – almost accidentally – born in London, but their East End Jewish upbringing held them firmly and nostalgically to their roots in Eastern Europe. Not until my birth did a genuine little English girl appear on the family tree. Solly’s Girl Ch. 4

So, what is my perspective? Not exactly Australian, even after fifty years. No longer British – I’ve been away too long. I’m really left only with ‘Jewish’ but this makes for complications. I’m not very observant and have no religious curiosity. Labels are tricky items. The aggressive atheists do little for me. The ‘bob each way’ agnostics leave me equally cold.   I’m not one for deities but I’m comfortable with my Jewish heritage and appreciate the fact that there’s always a branch of Judaism to suit whatever kind of Jew one is (you know the old joke, ‘two Jews, three opinions’); and in my case Masorti, which is egalitarian and does not discriminate against women, makes me welcome.

I found it difficult to explain this in my memoir. I’m reminded of Brideshead Revisited and the ‘twitch upon the thread’ that pulls Waugh’s characters back to their religion; all that angst – not for me.

On one occasion in my teens I deliberately tried to provoke Solly with stupid queries about the meaning of life. He was an amazingly tolerant man and just told me, mildly and correctly, to look in Ecclesiastes: ‘there is a time for everything, for all things under the sun’.

It’s become trite, a cliché and a lyric for popular music, but really what more is there to say?


And yet Jewish identity is not a problem for me. I think of it as a genetic inheritance, rather like blue eyes or red hair and not something to agonise over. A phrase from the Rosh Hashanah service comes to mind:

We believe that He abides in mystery.
Therefore we need not solve life’s every problem.

And I don’t try. Spiritual is not me. I think of Judaism as one long continuous question and answer debate, never to be resolved and fascinating for those of us who love a good argument. Words. Solly was a compulsive writer: poems, short stories, humorous retellings of Bible tales, memoirs. Alan was a journalist, a copywriter, a published author. ‘Solly’s girl’ is a librarian. ‘Jews and words’ (Yale University Press, 2012) ‘a speculative, raw, and occasionally playful attempt’ on the ‘relationship of Jews with words’ is written by Amos Oz and Fania Oz-Salzberger, ‘secular Jewish Israelis’. Their book resonates with me, as does their thesis that words ‘compose the chain connecting Abraham with the Jews of every subsequent generation’.


My father was modest about his relationship with his God; he just quietly went off to shul, came home, kissed Sadie and me, made Kiddush (sanctification of the Sabbath) and that was pretty much it. Every day he’d recite morning prayers, but it was so discreetly done I was hardly aware of it until he visited us in Australia. When I was a child, there were things we couldn’t do on Shabbes and Yom Tov, such as go to the pictures (involving money) or use scissors (involving work). There were no large family dinners; it was Sadie, Solly and me, just we three. The one big occasion was Pesach, when Solly conducted the seder for the whole of his extended family, but it was at his sisters’ house, not ours. After I left England he put his heart into acting in a grandfatherly role to my cousin Gina’s son, Mark, a surrogate for his own grandchildren in far away Australia.

I look at Solly’s siddur, something I haven’t done since I packed it up to bring home after he died. It’s The Authorised Daily Prayer Book of the United Hebrew Congregations of the British Empire, with a new translation by the Rev. S Singer, the ninth edition published in 1912. Solly probably had it since he was bar mitzvah age. The binding is much worn and my father has neatly repaired it with a replacement spine taken from Letts Motorists’ Diary. The tiny stitches must have tested his thimble as he sewed through two layers of black leather. Many of the pages have been mended with brown sticky tape, and wine from the Kiddush cup has been spilt over them from the Sabbath evening service. For so many years he and Sadie would ‘make Shabbes’ all by themselves on a Friday night. The challah would be on an orange rimmed lustre plate they must have received as a wedding gift in 1927. The edges are scored from his bread knife. We treat it more gently now, and the slices are cut on a board before they reach ‘Poppa’s plate’. In the frontispiece of his book are the Hebrew yortsayt dates – the anniversaries of their deaths – for his parents, Morris and Regina, and tucked in between the pages is a small booklet A Guide for the Living outlining the customs for mourners. Solly’s siddur affects me deeply. As his daughter, I can place my hand on the worn leather and know that I’m sharing a moment with him. As a librarian, I can treasure a book that was used every day for over eighty years, not an impersonal computer tablet that’s here today and gone tomorrow. I wonder what will happen to the book when I die.

Poppa's plate

Poppa’s plate

And then there’s Alan’s siddur, a very different publication. A Prayerbook for Shabbat, Festivals, and Weekdays edited by Rabbi Jules Harlow and published in 1985 by the Rabbinical Assembly, New York. It is commonly referred to as Siddur Sim Shalom and has a Library of Congress Catalogue Card Number and an ISBN – a long way from Solly’s Singer edition. I could digress here into a compare-and-contrast exercise between the two prayer books, wandering off into unfamiliar liturgical territory, but I think not. What is more important to me is the way in which Alan’s book, like Solly’s, tells so much about its owner. Siddur Sim Shalom is festooned with those small coloured stick-on marker flags used on business documents. Alan has written on each flag instructions regarding the service: which page comes next, the name of the prayer and where to find the important parts. There will not be another siddur in the world so decorated and so reflective of its owner’s searching spirit. On the rare occasions I turn up at Kehilat Nitzan and take the book from its blue velvet bag, there are knowing smiles from the old-timers who remember Alan. I wonder what I should do with Siddur Sim Shalom. Solly’s Girl Ch. 18

© Ros Collins, words and images


Long before the 1950s – in the 1920s in fact – we have romance in the East End of London. In Chapter 5 of Solly’s Girl you may read about Solly and Sadie – my parents. Here’s a little extract:

It was a long-distance courtship as Cardiff to London was at least a three-hour train journey. They exchanged letters I don’t have and photographs, some of which have survived. I imagine he asked hesadie 1925 001r to have studio portraits taken so he might show his mates, and these pictures are lovely. For his part Solly, who had a life-long passion for gadgets of all kinds, would surely have had a Box Brownie camera and sent her amusing photographs. She must have already said ‘yes’ when he wrote on the back of one of these that ‘I look as if I possess the world’.

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A companion book for companions in life: Solly’s Girl and Alva’s Boy

0153A-Alva's Boy coverSollys Girl coverWell the deed is done, the blog is a ‘presence’ of some kind on the web. I take consolation from the thought that my digital ignorance is not that different from my automotive incapacity; ‘just drive’ I tell myself, don’t worry about what’s under the car’s bonnet or in the computer’s hard drive.

Now, my one contribution so far to the Collins’ literary oeuvre is Solly’s Girl, a companion piece if you like to Alva’s Boy written by my husband Alan Collins. He was a professional writer and his works are significant contributions to Australian-Jewish literature; but there won’t be any more since he died in 2008.

  • Troubles
  • The Boys from Bondi
  • Going Home : Joshua
  • A Promised Land?
  • A Thousand Nights at the Ritz
  • Alva’s Boy

But fifty-one years’ of marriage leave their mark and inevitably Alan is ‘all over my book like a rash’. In this blog conversation I’m surely going to quote from his work so we’d best get this point clear from the start. And no doubt I shall reference the life we shared, the family we created; the way it was for ‘the boy from Bondi’ and his ‘ten pound Pom’.

Hello from Solly’s Girl

Sollys Girl cover‘You must have a website blog, that’s what authors do’, she said. ‘How do you expect readers to find your book?’

It was a workshop on marketing literature in the digital world. ‘She’ was young and pretty and when she was finished with us was heading off to play basketball. Most of the participants had electronic gadgets at the ready on the table in front of them; I just had Solly’s Girl – well I AM Solly’s girl – and at my age basketball is no longer an option.

I consider my book. ‘Let me entertain you’ is how I’ve introduced myself.  But as it says in my book, Solly’s Girl….

‘Let me entertain you’ is how the song goes.  But I’m wary of the Jewish memoir genre. So many authors have suffered such unspeakable torments; it seems almost flippant for me to want to be entertaining. I didn’t spend time hiding in an attic, living on turnips or freezing in Siberia. I’m not a witness.

My husband Alan, an author, was fond of saying: ‘Leave your mind alone!’ and I’ve never quite understood what he meant. He was a natural storyteller and his books are significant contributions to Australian literature; I’m just fossicking through my memories, teasing out what was funny, romantic or sad – and perhaps provocative. (Alan’s memoir, Alva’s Boy, is very different from Solly’s Girl, but maybe they are complementary.)

So, in the spirit of zachor (remembering) and with the vanity of wanting to say ‘I was here’, let me tell you some stories …

So, here we are, you the unknown readers ‘out there’ and me, tentatively exploring the digital world that is so familiar to my grandchildren and so challenging to me.

I have a lot to tell.

I wonder how we shall get along.