Author Archives: Therese Trouserzoff

Loving Lagos

03 Monday Oct 2016

Posted by in Gregor Stronach

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Gregor Conrad takes us deeper into the heart of Africa in search of the elusive bean…

The streets of Lagos fairly hummed with activity, as the residents made their way through the day-to-day activities for which Africa is duly famous. Nigeria is among the more developed African nations, but even still I was surprised at the number of locals who had taken to using cars as their chosen mode of transport.

I asked Godwin how far it was to the hotel.

“It is barely 35 kilometres, sir,” he smiled. “It should not take us longer than four or five hours to get there. If we are lucky, we will beat the peak hour traffic.”

As I contemplated getting out and hiring someone to carry my bags for me as I took the quicker option of walking through the oppressive heat of the afternoon, what sounded suspiciously like an explosion erupted nearby.

“Happy Tuesday!” Godwin beamed. “We do love our fireworks!”

The traffic delay became something of a farce within a very short space of time, and we were rapidly surrounded on all sides by other stationary vehicles. It wasn’t long before the driver in the car next to ours switched off his engine, reclined his seat and went to sleep.

“This man here,” Godwin chuckled. “He has the right idea of sleeping. This traffic is truly awful.”

I asked Godwin why the traffic is so bad.

“Ah yes,” he nodded sagely. “It is mostly because a lot of people like to stop their car and go to sleep. In Nigerian custom, it is considered very impolite to interrupt another person’s sleep with your own problems. That is why they are usually left to sleep.”

“But… surely people only sleep when the traffic is as bad as this…”, I opined.

“This is true, sir, yes,” Godwin replied. “They sleep because the traffic is bad, and the traffic is bad because they sleep. Perhaps one day, we will discover a solution to the problem, and then the traffic will not be so bad.”

Taking my cue from Godwin, who was beginning to open up further about his beloved Nigeria, I began to ask about what life was truly like here. As all experienced travellers, such as myself, will attest – the life of a visitor is often vastly different to the life of the locals.

“Oh, Nigeria is a wonderful place,” he said. “There is much to do and see, with many things that are a lot safer than people will tell you. Why, here in Lagos, the many different cultures that make up our people have become a melting pot!”

On that note, Godwin was quite correct. Nigeria, and Lagos in particular, has become something of a poster child for African economic success. The bustling business district has adopted a very African take on the 1980s Wall Street ethos of “Greed is Good” – and the slogan “Get Very Rich” is in the hearts and minds of its many inhabitants.

Such is the extent to which this has been taken to heart, in 2012 Nigeria’s GDP eclipsed that of South Africa, a nation whose economic growth has been faltering since the fall of Apartheid, according to Godwin. He stopped just short of blaming the former all-white leadership for abandoning the people of South Africa under an onslaught of international outrage over apparent institutionalized racism.

Many people see Lagos as the unofficial capital of Nigeria, an easy mistake to make, largely because Lagos was the capital until 1991, when Abuja became the federally mandated capital of the country. Abuja was chosen, I suspect, because it is just shy of 750km from Lagos, meaning insurgents and would-be military dictators would be far more likely to be dissuaded from staging a coup when they faced driving such a distance in appalling traffic.

I asked Godwin about the reports of rampant crime and social dysfunction, the main reason why Nigeria is often seen as a very dangerous country, which drew a hearty laugh from my guide.

“There is no crime problem here, no,” Godwin laughed. “The Nigerian people have been unfairly categorized as criminals all around the world, but it is simply not true.”

It turned out to be an inopportune time for Godwin to be boasting about his countrymen’s sense of civility. Mere seconds after he had sought to rest my mind assured that Nigeria was safe, two young men quickly and expertly relieved Godwin’s vehicle of its headlights as we waited in the traffic. Needless to say, I was shocked.

“Aren’t you going to do anything about that?” I asked.

“There is not much I can do,” Godwin frowned. “It is a shame to see my fellow Nigerians resorting to such petty thievery. It makes me very, very sad… and it will certainly going to make driving home tonight much, much harder than before. We are not easy people to see in the dark.”

At that moment, another loud boom shook the car, this one much closer than before. Glancing out the window, I could see a large plume of dust and smoke curling up from behind a nearby high-rise building.

“Happy Tuesday!” Godwin shouted glumly, as he peered into the rear vision mirror, watching three more enterprising young men removing his brake lights, before escaping into the throng of pedestrians that now moved freely between the stationary vehicles on the road.

“Are all of the young people here thieves?” I asked Godwin politely.

“No, not all,” Godwin smirked sadly. “Most of Nigerians are honest, hard-working people with steady jobs. My brother, for instance, works for one of my country’s thousands of princes, writing letters to ask for assistance in relocating funds that have been wrongly seized by the military during coup season, which runs from March to October every year.”

“But yes, I shall admit, there are many thieves in my country,” Godwin continued despondently, with a sparkle in his eye. “This, you have already seen for yourself. Please, be careful. They are crafty devils, sir, who would steal the milk from your coffee if you give them half a chance.”

The mention of coffee reminded me of what had prompted my journey, and I asked Godwin when we would be travelling north to find the plantation I sought.

“Tomorrow, we will go,” Godwin sulked buoyantly. “If we are to leave early, we will only catch the end of today’s traffic jam, hopefully before tomorrow’s has a chance to catch up.”

“When we do go north, it is vital that you follow my instructions,” he continued. “Here in the city, it is quite safe.”

Another small explosion sounded somewhere far away.

“Happy Tuesday!” Godwin exclaimed solemnly. “But yes, here in the city is safe. Australians are welcomed here, especially journalists. The only thing I must warn you is that you must never, ever reveal to anyone that you are a homosexual. Nigerian people are not at all tolerant of homosexual people.”

“But I am not a homosexual!” I protested.

“That’s the spirit!” Godwin smiled.

Mildly outraged by Godwin’s complete mischaracterization of my impeccable dress sense, we passed the remaining four hours of traffic jam in silence, arriving at my hotel – the Lagos Oriental, on the far side of the Lagos lagoon from the city itself.

Lagos Lagoon gets its name from the Portuguese word for lakes (lagos) – giving the large body of water here the ridiculous translated name of Lakes Lagoon, and cementing forever my long-held belief that the Portuguese should never have been allowed to name anything, ever.

Speaking of names, it was at this point that I pondered the name of my hotel for a short moment, and decided that the irony of latent racism is lost on the relentlessly cheerful Nigerian people. Oriental? Really? It was probably named by the Portuguese as well. And while we’re on the topic, whoever named Niger deserves to be boxed around the ears – and whoever decided to name the nation of Chad after every football-playing date-rapist from Brisbane with a propensity for stealing other people’s wives also deserves a stern talking-to.

Finally, we reached the hotel. Thanking Godwin, I left the car, and was alarmed that someone had managed to steal the front and rear bumpers of the vehicle without me even noticing it was occurring. I remarked on this particular turn of events, eliciting a world-weary shrug of Godwin’s shoulders, and the remark that this would make it much more difficult to survive crashing into the pedestrians who are very hard to see in the dark.

When Godwin popped open the trunk, and I waved to a porter to fetch my luggage and wheel it upon a trolley into the hotel’s beautifully-appointed reception.

The resulting chase on foot was mercifully brief, and the young man in the borrowed porter’s uniform was promptly and severely thrashed by the side of the road by several very enthusiastic passers-by. I trudged back to the hotel through the African dusk, pushing the luggage trolley and glaring at anyone that came within three feet, and eventually made it to the check-in desk.

“I have a room booked here. I was promised the finest suite in the hotel,” I said.

A nearby explosion and gunfire rattled the building, sending a small shower of plaster dust from the ceiling onto the beautifully polished, solid marble counter in front of me. The desk clerk quickly checked a calendar on the desk, before looking up at me and smiling benignly.

“It would seem that our Happy Tuesday celebrations are in full swing!” he said. “Now, if you would be so kind as to provide a credit card.”

And it was there that I cut him off. I had been warned of Nigerian financial scams, and this brazen approach bore all the hallmarks of a sophisticated attempt to raid my bank account while I slept.

“I am afraid I do not possess a credit card,” I said. “I do not believe in attempting to enjoy anything in life that I do not have the means to purchase outright on my own behalf. Besides – I do believe that this room has been arranged by the office of the NTDC – any and all expenses should be directed to them.”

“As you so desire, sir,” the desk clerk responded, a reply as slick and smooth as silk stockings on the legs of a slightly plump young woman named Mary, who wore them as a special treat for me one evening to a midnight screening of Ishtar. I shall never forget the tactile experience of running my fingertips over her knee, the chill of the air conditioning and the overwhelming pungency of popcorn pervading a cinema utterly devoid of patrons, save for Mary and myself. That should have been the night we consummated our passion, but as my knee-rubbing became more pronounced and my intentions more obvious, a sudden sneeze from the projection booth reminded me that we were not, as I had hoped, alone and unobserved.

Mary should have been my first, but I was cruelly denied, and any subsequent chance to spend hour upon hour exploring her exquisite form was also extinguished when I accidentally reversed over her in the driveway of her parents’ home in Chatswood, such was my hurry to get home and relieve myself of the pent-up sexual pressures of 107 minutes of rather vigorous knee-touching. The relationship would probably have ended there, but for the fact that I spent several long, difficult weeks at her bedside in hospital.

At one point, when her surgeons announced that she was near death and had only minutes to live, I proposed and she gave her consent by blinking twice. We were married 15 minutes later by the hospital chaplain. Three days later, she was released from hospital in a full-body plaster cast that restricted movement for her, and access to the parts of her that a husband might otherwise enjoy. Two days later, I returned from work to find that she had been swept off her feet by a hospital orderly called Chad, whose claim to fame was a brief stint in the second reserves for the Brisbane Broncos, until he was let go following a nightclub scandal, a 17 year old girl, and a quantity of sedatives purloined from Chad’s mother’s medicine cabinet.

But I digress.

“Here is your room key, sir,” the desk clerk said. “The dining room is open from 6:00pm – if you would like to dine downstairs, please call down to reception and we will send an armed escort upstairs to guide you to your table.”

“The lift to you your room is on the far side of the lobby, next to the piano,” he continued. “Go up to the ninth floor, turn right and you will find your room at the far end of the hall. Please… enjoy your stay.”

I strode purposefully across the lobby with my bags, following the desk clerk’s directions, and arrived at the lift just in time to see four extremely ambitious young men attempting to steal the piano. As the door to the lift closed, I could see a crowd gathering, getting ready to administer a beating.

“God speed, you plucky young gents,” I said to myself, and the lift lurched spastically, beginning the final stage of my journey to my room.

The room itself was beyond even my wildest expectations. I had been granted the full amenities of the Presidential Suite, which – in the interests of full disclosure – had been paid for by the Nigerian Tourism Development Corporation. The bill for the suite totaled 462,000 Nigerian Naira, per night.

I considered the fact that this was roughly 70 percent of the average Nigerian annual wage, which might sound quite a hefty sum, until one factors in the sheer oppulence this 300-square-metre island of solace, with its sweeping views of Five Cowrie Creek, and features such as the full leather couch, so startlingly red that it resembled a kiss from a high class escort that could comfortably seat seven people.

A king-sized bed awaited me – and I could not help but wonder how many Nigerian princes had slept in this bed before me.

Tomorrow – “North to Destiny”

I Need a Barista – Chapter 2

02 Sunday Oct 2016

Posted by in Uncategorized

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… in which Gregor Stronach encounters his first pod

Fellow Travellers

It was a genuine pleasure to be waited upon by the very accommodating staff aboard the Emirates ‘castle in the sky’, I shall admit. But it rapidly became apparent that one of the options for the private cabins in First Class is there for a reason.

That option is comprised of two very simple elements. The first is a privacy screen between the individual passenger pods. The second is the ‘Do Not Disturb’ button, which acts to keep the other First Class passengers out, and the pleasantness of your immediate surroundings in.

I mention this largely because, once aboard the aircraft, my natural journalistic desire to explore and document what I could find sent me seeking every available nook and cranny to which I might have access. The level of service, and the sheer opulence of experience aboard such a flight is legendary after all.

Within minutes of take off, I found myself quietly and obsessively flicking through the more than 2000 channels of in-flight entertainment on offer – and suddenly understanding why I have always felt uneasy about paying a monstrous amount of money each month for platinum-level cable TV.

As someone who has spent their life devoted to the idea of living a sybaritic lifestyle, it was quite confronting to realise that there is actually such a thing as “too many options”. Incapable of reaching a decision (because there could be something even better on the next channel…), human interaction seemed like a much better proposition than coping with the sensory overload of 2000 different channels. And, not wishing to bother the help, it was time to find the private bar, located a few short strides from my seat.

It was precisely as you’d expect for a private bar – well stocked and plentiful… and entirely free. I rubbed shoulders with my travelling companions, including the very charming Siegfied Lemke, the self-professed “Cheese Baron of Eagle”, whose property just outside of Eagle, Wisconsin turns out some of the world’s best dairy products. An affable chap, he enjoyed a good chat – and talked me through the cheeseboard that arrived after he slightly raised one eyebrow and gave an almost imperceptible nod to the bar staff.

Before long, I was very discreetly tapped on the shoulder and informed that I was now free to enjoy the delights of the inflight Shower Spa, which allows those in the good seats to bathe for five minutes beneath a raging hot showerhead at 40,000 feet.

In some ways, it was blissful. And, to be fair, something of novelty – until I wondered about where the water was coming from, how the aircraft could possibly hold the added tonnage of a body of water large enough for a five minute shower and still be capable of getting off the ground.

Which then lead to the realization that the water cascading down upon me was likely to be coming from a very, very small tank wedged somewhere between the economy class lavatory and my suitcase, and passing through the most lightweight and flimsy filtration system ever devised.

Drenched in partially recycled waste water from the showers of a thousand Arabs, I decided to repair quietly to my comfort pod for a bite to eat, and a well-earned sleep.

Arguably the finest of the perks of this mode of travel is the on-demand food service. Somewhere aboard the aircraft, presumably wedged somewhere between the cockpit and the showers, is a full-service galley, which is airplane for “kitchen”. Once again, I began to wonder where on this aircraft the owners had managed to find the space to accommodate these elements.

Virtually every other aircraft I have ever flown on has been designed to minimise the amount of space and weight consumed by anything other than paying passengers – who themselves are, more often than not, packed in cheek by jowl, like live export cattle setting sail for a swift and brutal death at the hands of inexperienced Indonesian abattoir workers.

Yet here, aboard this Emirates flight, there’s a galley staffed by what could only be the world’s most patient chefs, whose task it is to prepare food at the whim of their in-flight guests, at all hours of the day and night.

The menu is surprisingly extensive, and features some remarkable feats of culinary fare. I am reliably informed that the food served on board the aircraft is all “locally sourced” – a claim that could only be upheld by some form of miracle, as the last time I checked, there are absolutely no oysters, nor beef cattle, 40,000 feet above the Indian Ocean.

I chose, for this meal, to sample the Wild Iranian caviar and grilled scallops from the appetiser menu. The caviar, chilled to absolute perfection, was served with the very traditional accompaniments of finely diced onion, chopped boiled egg, sour cream and lemon alongside perfectly crispy Melba toast and a pair of delicious soft blini pancakes. It was not, however, particularly wild – preferring, it would seem, to perch upon the plate and steadfastly refuse to do anything other than look like caviar.

My scallops arrived within seconds of the caviar disappearing, presented on bespoke Royal Doulton bone china tableware that is truly exquisite. I could only wonder at how lightweight and brittle they seemed – and that, in the event of turbulence, the kitchen would end up resembling the floor of a Greek wedding.

The scallops themselves were divine, accompanied on the plate by a lurid yellow saffron crème fraiche, atop a marinated vegetable salad. My palate prepared, I perused the main course menu carefully, before settling on the beef roulade and a glass of red.

The roulade was absolutely spectacular, stuffed with turkey and smothered in a rich red rosemary jus, which leeched into the fluffy mashed potato to give a marbled effect that was almost too pretty to consume. The meal had been matched by the crew to an exquisite 1998 Charmes-Chambertin Grand Cru Burgundy, which I sipped at contentedly while marveling that the team at Emirates headquarters in Dubai can really pick a decent wine, despite the fact that they’re forbidden to drink by their particular religious affiliation.

Dessert arrived in the form of a selection of Arabic sweets, the undisputed highlight of which was chocolate hazelnut mafroukeh, which was as much of a mouthful to pronounce as it was to consume. It was coupled with a delightful 1974 Graham’s single vintage Tawny Port, bottled from production of just six barrels, and worth every penny that I didn’t pay for it.

Having consumed what could only be defined as an elegant sufficiency, I called for the help. Within seconds, my comfortable private dining pod had been turned into a slightly more horizontal sleeping pod. While it is a genuine luxury to be able to lie down to sleep on an aircraft (without resorting to trying to snooze in the aisles, a pastime I would not recommend in this age of heightened security), I found the mattress to be slightly too thin, and somewhat lumpier than I had hoped.

Nicole Kidman had lied. But then again, she once married Tom Cruise, and adopted a number of children shortly thereafter… so I’m guessing lying is something she knows something about…

I slept the sleep of the damned and the blessed, before being woken gently and informed that Dubai was mere moments away. We arrived, disembarked, and I milled about pointlessly in the terminal for just over an hour, before boarding the second leg of the flight to Lagos, the bustling city on the coast of Nigeria, and the next stop on my adventure.

 Tomorrow – Into Africa

Barista Wanted… but I’ll settle for a Lawyer.

01 Saturday Oct 2016

Posted by in Gregor Stronach

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Inspired by the search for the world’s rarest coffee bean, gourmand and seasoned traveller Gregor Stronach embarks on an epic journey to Africa.

 

Travellers the world over move from place to place for a variety of reasons, each as personal as the documentation they require to return home.

For some, it’s simply the love of the journey. For others, the destination is the real prize. And then there are people like me, who travel in search of something truly unique – a rare gem that sparkles somewhere on our planet, just waiting to be unearthed.

I take my inspiration to travel from often unlikely sources – and this particular adventure is no different: a simple conversation, overheard at my favourite coffee shop, Flicking the Bean, on Newtown’s bustling King Street, in the inner-west of Sydney.

Two young men – both with beards so mighty and impressive that I was quietly sure they could house a family of four and give shelter from a hurricane – were doing what true lovers of coffee often do. They were discussing the latest beans and brews that they had tried – and were indulging, I must admit, in more than a little bit of showboating and one-upmanship.

My interest was piqued when one of the young men proclaimed that he had tried what many consider to be the Holy Grail of coffee – a bean so rare and rich, that only the very best baristas in the world are ever allowed to attempt to extract its heady crema. A trump card had been played.

“Nigerian coffee. Now that’s a bean worth finding…”

“But it’s impossible…” – which sounded less like a declaration of fact, and more like a challenge to my ears.

Intrigued, I took my stolen advice and decided to make a beeline for the most populous nation in Africa, in search of a coffee bean so rare, not even the government of Nigeria will admit that it exists.

I rang my editor, who was delighted to have found someone prepared to travel to Nigeria. While mumbling something very quietly about it becoming “somewhat dangerous” over the past 12 months, he casually mentioned that a contact at Emirates had been in touch.

The Emirates route from Sydney to Lagos was had apparently dipped somewhat in popularity, and Emirates had offered the chance for a journalist to fly in its luxuriously appointed First Class section. I seized the opportunity, of course.

I’d often wondered what it would be like to fly somewhere while lying down, while being waited on hand and foot by a bevvy of unobtainable dusky-skinned beauties. This was the perfect opportunity to find out.

 

Flight or Fight

I had been conditioned as to my expectations about the Emirates “world-leading” First Class travel experience by a couple of things. Firstly, there was the media blitz that seemed to have seen every man and his dog that dared to call themselves a “travel writer” invited on board to savour the splendour of their own personal cabin space, while they flew from Sydney to Abu Dhabi, before being put on the next available Qantas plane (economy class) to fly home again.

I, however, had missed out on this apparent bonanza the first time around, and so I was very pleased to have received this chance to completely independently and impartially review this rare and luxurious experience.

The second, and perhaps most intriguing, revelation about what I was to experience once on board arrived via the utterly enormous, and frankly quite confronting, 15-metre billboard inside the overseas passenger terminal at Sydney’s Kingsford Smith airport.

It features the reclining, silk-clad figure of Australia’s Own Nicole Kidman. The photography is clearly meant to suggest that Ms Kidman is cocooned aboard an Emirates jet in a nest of almost intolerable comfort and relaxation, dreaming happily away about the years she spent married to Tom Cruise.

However, the visual effect looks rather more like she has been kidnapped, drugged and unceremoniously left in the cargo space of a well-appointed courier’s van – destination, and destiny, both highly uncertain in nature.

I made my way through to the ultra-exclusive Emirates lounge, where cool jazz wafted gently into the room, and pin-striped men in pin-striped suits sat quietly whispering to their wives and / or mistresses, glancing around quietly to make sure that they were being noticed by every other pin-striped man in the room. I was, it seemed, the only person travelling alone.

There was no overly-loud announcement that our flight was being called. Instead, eye contact was made by a young woman upon whose head was perched a teeny-tiny fez – the kind an organ grinder’s monkey might have worn on the streets of Little Italy in 1880s New York. With the slightest of nods, I was informed that it was time to board the craft.

Once aboard the Airbus A380-800, one of 59 currently flying for Emirates to 35 destinations around the globe, I was immediately struck by the almost-disquieting levels of deference paid by the flight attendants to the passengers. Any and all requests are met with a charming half-smile, a nod and an assurance – spoken, or otherwise – that no request is too difficult, or will be turned down. Indeed, one might be fooled into believing that this is how life is meant to be. And, for those of us for whom this level of luxury is only just out of reach, it would be an easy trap to fall into.

If I’ve learned anything by travelling the world, it is this: Trimmings are just that.. and a lily, once gilded, is still just a flower.

Tomorrow …. Fellow Travellers

Lazy Long Weekends

01 Saturday Oct 2016

Posted by in Algernon, Bands at the Pig's Arms

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Playlist by Algernon

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UtW1NemzeII

Turn to You – The Go-Gos

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AH-a22xge-c

Sacre Charlemagne – France Gall

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1iuwZTC0oeo

In the Basement – Etta James & Sugar Pie DeSanto

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=omUnWmSrDJ8

I’m gonna be strong – Blue Angel

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HqNrkOQmWKQ

If I could lose you – Nina Simone

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EXJx2NnnxA0

Rock Steady – Aretha Franklin

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LX-fyhBj8Xg

Fallin’ – Wanda Jackson

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sxEDxiWZx20

Dynamite – Brenda Lee

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LDie0tv6DAg

It’s my thing – Marva Whitney

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4k9qHmYKxEE

The Nitty Gritty – Gladys Knight and The Pips

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CxYRbzGi8Rg

Our day will come – Amy Winehouse

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s7U1q5Ir3yU

Tainted Love – Gloria Jones

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tc1IphRx1pk

Pull up the bumper – Grace Jones

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LpZyYELyf18

Light my fire – Erma Franklin

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xTfHhNg1iII

Crimson and Clover – Joan Jett

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tLTGs4fqxBk

Don’t go – Yazoo

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8yNk6bmT0L4

Way over yonder – Carole King

Live Music is often good

26 Monday Sep 2016

Posted by in Algernon, Bands at the Pig's Arms

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Playlist by Algernon

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nC1oQ3jdzCU

Aloha Steve and Danno – Radio Birdman

An oldy but a goody. Found this clip and thought I’d include it.

Saw From the Jam with Algernonina the younger recently. Whilst not a playlist from the concert the songs are all interlinked.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EfK-WX2pa8c

London Calling – The Clash

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JDLyVGz0epM

Tony Adams – Joe Strummer and the Mescaleros

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m-H0uIH5HHQ

That’s Entertainment – The Jam

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hf4EFDGP4yg

Down in the tubeway station at midnight – The Jam

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C7kUDkK70qQ

The Eton rifles – The Jam

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5ipGhzrIi3s

In the City – The Jam

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r1H8lkkOrhw

Walls come tumbling down – The Style Council

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RRGnXprimbg

Have you ever had it blue – The Style Council

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7m94ip38UKs

Shout to the top – The Style Council

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1CAzwewVjZ0

Long Hot Summer – The Style Council

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T3oJTUDDWhg

David Watts – From The Jam

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GFyvcOX8cSo

Smithers Jones – From The Jam

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=74R-Gv6MvuA

Town Called Malice – From The Jam

A Bedtime Story

17 Saturday Sep 2016

Posted by in Gregor Stronach

≈ 5 Comments

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By Gregor

Once upon a time, from a bedroom suspiciously close to the one that I normally sleep in, there came a series of noises that I suspected weren’t entirely devoid of something marginally more sinister than the usual sounds of my Chinese neighbours snoring, or engaging in the kind of hardcore oxygen-deprivation sex that they appear to enjoy.

Not that it’s my place in the world to judge them for that – whatever floats your boat (or bursts all the blood vessels in your eyes while heightening your sexual experience at the point of clinical climax) – I’m not in any position to draw any valid conclusion about the kind of person I live next door to.

Except for the fact that they own a small, white dog. Pure white, it is. And really, really small.

At first I thought it was some form of ambulatory cleaning equipment – a hypothesis proved incorrect when it actually deposited a series of tiny pellets of shit on my driveway, proving irrefutably that it was designed to do the precise opposite of any cleaning equipment I’ve ever seen before.

The animal in question might appear tangential to this story thus far, but follow along – the high-speed, turd-emitting fluffball plays a starring role in what happened next.

As my neighbours engaged in their usual nocturnal activities, with the gentleman’s shouts of encouragement punctuated in a weird syncopation by the guttural, bilious grunts of a woman in the throes of sexual ecstasy and severe respiratory distress reverberating through the paper-thin adjoining wall of our bedrooms, I crammed my head beneath two pillows in a vain attempt to silence the noise. But the cacophony continued for an hour or more, and I began to fear for the safety of the young lady next door.

Surely, such prolonged attempts to stop her breathing would result in severe brain damage at best – and a suspicious death that would be hard to explain at worst.

But then I heard him shout. “Poko! No!” he bellowed. “Poko!! No!! Fuck off Poko!!”.

I don’t speak Chinese, so I might have the wording slightly wrong here, but above her desperate gasping for breath, along with his near-orgasmic grunts and imploring for Poko to “Fuck Off”, I heard a tiny, tiny noise… the unmistakable sound of a small, furry dog’s razor-sharp teeth puncturing the scrotum of the man choking that poor little pup’s mistress in pursuit of a cheap sexual thrill.

As I said, my Chinese is rusty – but when I heard him shriek the words “不要咬我的睾丸“, I knew that Poko had finally turned out to be useful…

Not only had he bitten through the softest and most sensitive portion of his master’s anatomy, he had achieved what I can only describe as a miracle – the near-cessation of sound from next door.

I fell asleep to the music of gentle sobbing that night – and in the morning, when Poko was shitting in my driveway once again, I rewarded him with a gentle scritching under the chin.

He gave me that weird look that dogs give you when you bother them when they’re pooping – but I could tell from the pattern his tiny little turds made that morning that he was, in his own way, wagging his tail with happiness.

 

We are Defs NOT Amused

12 Monday Sep 2016

Posted by in Neville Cole, Politics in the Pig's Arms, Virgil's Aeneid

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not-amused

The Pig’s Arms delights in the return of Neville Cole !

Queen Victoria once famously said “we are not amused” and for the first time in my life I can identify with that humorless old bitch. This past year has torn out my funny bone and stomped it to dust. I swear to god, Mad Max Fury Road is beginning to feel less and less apocalyptic and more and more like a best-case scenario for mankind.

A year ago, I’ll admit, there was still an aging anarchist inside me screaming: “Bring it on! How bad could Trump be? This shit is going to be hilarious!” But, like a lifelong atheist facing certain death, I’m starting to have second thoughts.

nev-1

I think my affliction began in earnest after I re-read Neil Postman’s Amusing Ourselves to Death. I’m here to say: that book is not fun. It’s just…not. In fact, it’s even more of punch to the kidneys today than it was 30 years ago when it was first published.

These days the things Postman says in Amusing Ourselves to Death don’t so much make you think as jump off the page, grab you by the throat, and beat you into submission.

Consider one of the book’s main themes…

Our politics, religion, news, athletics, education and commerce have been transformed into congenial adjuncts of show business, largely without protest or even much popular discourse.

If you have any doubt that this has happened. Well, let me introduce to you to a little thing we call “the internets.” Folks, we are living in the Golden Age of Show Business.

Some of Postman’s other concerns seem quaint in comparison to our brave new reality.

In AOTD for example, Postman reveals his horror that “the President of the United States is a former movie actor.” Damn! Who among us wouldn’t welcome Ol’ Ronnie back to the White House today with big old bag of jelly bellys* Honest Ronnie! We don’t care if you facilitate the sale of arms to the whole Middle East! Just come back and save us, please! We are begging you!

Hmm… Come to think of it. Seems like he had a point. Maybe we should have been more concerned back then.

After all, one of Postman’s big concerns was that Reagan was a celebrity. He felt that “the politician as celebrity has made political parties irrelevant.” Yeah, just ask the Republican Party about that one. Hey Fellas! You’re Fired!

By the way, does it not seem conceivable that elections could soon be broadcast reality show? Oh! I wonder who with get the Presidential Rose tonight! The way I see it, pretty soon ONLY celebrities will run for elected office. Who else is going to be able to compete?

I could go on and on about how much worse things have got since AOTD was published.

For example, at one point Postman notes bitterly that: public discourse has become dangerous nonsense.  Hoo boy! Do you think in his wildest dreams he ever imagined a Trump Policy Speech? Or the comments section of your local digital rag? Or Twitter, for christsakes!

But, you know, all this said, I can’t say I blame people for not being better informed. I’ve tried… and it’s damn, hard work.

Disinformation is the new norm and sorting truth from bullshit is damn near impossible; especially in a world where facts are irrelevant.

If you, like me, have tried to follow the press following Trump; it is obvious they have given up. There are so many distortions they start every report with a general disclaimer: Everything this guy says is a complete and utter lie. Then they try and pretend they are still reporting news. It is exhausting. For all of us. At a certain point you just have to get up and shut it off. And believe me, I’m not trying to pretend Hillary is all that different. It’s just that Trump has taken this whole dance into a different dimension. This is some historic crazy people.

97cbca5a8c7e66a4c2b6d95dd300ed11

And you know what? We are mad as hell and we’re not going to take it anymore! I see it everywhere. People are turning off and tuning out. They are no longer amused.

Jon Stewart famously left The Daily Show because of what he termed “bullshit mountain”. He explained that he just had to leave because “Watching these channels all day is incredibly depressing. I live in a constant state of depression,” he said. “I think of us as turd miners. I put on my helmet, I go and mine turds, hopefully I don’t get turd lung disease.”

You know, I think my whole point is… I know exactly how he feels and I am not amused. God help me, I am not amused.

*In case you weren’t aware, Jelly Bellys were Reagan’s all time favorite candy.

 

 

Chapter Two: Shamalat from Dagastan

04 Sunday Sep 2016

Posted by in Gregor Stronach

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Dagestan: The Land of Mountains

Editors note:  After a party, young Dagestani men visit a hot springs in the middle of no-where which has a flammable fountain of water. Located in the North Caucasus, bordering the Caspian Sea and a Republic of Russia, Dagestan is home to almost 3 million mostly muslim people. Ethnically very diverse, it is made up of several dozen ethnic groups and is Russia’s most heterogeneous republic, where no ethnicity forms a majority. From 2000 until late 2012 Dagestan was subject to a violent Islamic separatist movement that spilled over from neighbouring Chechnya but has now been largely controlled by the Russian Government. Now relatively peaceful Dagestan (which means Land of Mountains) remains one of Russia’s untouched treasures* receiving few visitors. Due to its relative isolation, this beautiful mountainous region has maintained its traditional cultures that have been lost in many other parts of Russia.

* untouched treasures – translation – it’s a fucking godforsaken war zone amongst Russians, Chechnyans and Isil terrorists that makes Iraq look like a walk in the park.

Gregor returns with an incendiary tale 

Shamalat was a stocky little bastard. Barely five foot tall, he packed enough strength to lift a three-seater couch over his shoulder and heave it across a living room.

I know this because I saw him do it. And what made it even more special was the knowledge that he was probably even more stoned than I was when he did it – and I was on the cusp of pissing my pants because I was greening out so badly.

I knew, of course, that something was afoot that day. There’s that feeling that you get, regardless of how badly reality has been damaged through ingestion of substances, that something – somewhere – has gone badly wrong. And I was feeling it from the soles of my feet to the fillings that were rattling like craps dice, deep within my teeth.

Something was about to get well and truly fucked up – and, for seven or eight glorious minutes, I thought that it was probably going to be me.

It was well beyond the normal paranoia that accompanied a heavy session on the bucket bong. This was a visceral, atavistic style of slow-creeping panic. Even Vaughan, who was entirely unflappable thanks to his horrific upbringing and resulting alcoholism, was looking tense.

And when he looked tense, he got this look on his face that said he was trying to evict a grossly enlarged and horribly dry, brick-hard turd.

Think ‘it’s the day after we took all the opiates and now I can’t shit but I really need to and – while we’re discussing this – why the fuck are you in the bathroom while I’m trying to shit?’ … and you’ll get the idea.

Anyway… when Vaughan got nervous, I got nervous. He was our broken little canary in the coalmine. If he took something and it killed him (which happened twice – but both times we managed to punch him in the chest until his heart decided that it wasn’t quite done beating) – that was a good sign for the rest of us that we should probably take whatever it was in half-doses. Just to be safe.

So this particular night began like every other. Barefoot and starving, three of us found ourselves in the living room in Rose Street. Half an ounce of pot sat in a snaplock bag on the coffee table. Next to it sat an eight ball of speed, two casks of white wine and a handful of prescription meds in a small bowl that had been swapped, bargained or purloined from among acquaintances throughout the course of the afternoon.

I fucking loved Tuesdays.

There was no official start to proceedings. No fanfare. It simply began.

Within the hour, it went bad. It always did. The trick to it was to charge through – tough it out, like a concrete-headed boxer whose manager demanded a solid six-round showing so the paycheck looked like it was genuine. No one was expected to win. We just needed to survive.

It was a grim kind of fun. And to turn the boxing analogy through 180 degrees, it was never about hurting anyone else… it was about how much self-inflicted damage we could endure. Three young men, punching themselves repeatedly in the face. It wasn’t a quest for honour. It was a very long run to the edge of an abyss that we believed we understood.

But this night was different. For starters, Sham and Vaughan we both unusually quiet. Normally, they would verbally spar – Vaughan because he thought he was smart, and Sham because he needed to practice his English. Born somewhere in Russia – but Sham called it Dhagastan or some such shit – he sounded like a spy and looked like an adolescent black bear. Short, shaggy-haired and as strong as an angry ox, he is the only guy I’ve ever met that I honestly believed could wrestle a train and emerge victorious.

But he was a friend. Which was a good thing – something we learnt when he’d wrapped a bar stool around a stranger’s head in the pub about a month before.

“He disrespect you – I make him sleep,” Sham said once that violence was complete, flashing a sickening grin, which revealed that dentistry hadn’t quite made its mark in Dagastan.

“I’m pretty sure the word you’re looking for is ‘coma’,” Vaughan helpfully corrected him.

“Ah… Good… Yes,” says Sham. “I make him coma.”

On this particular Tuesday we’re discussing, however, Sham was unusually taciturn. Something was brewing in that horribly ursine brain of his.

There were few rules in the world we inhabited. And the ones that did exist almost exclusively revolved around etiquette – the ‘do’s and don’t’s of drugs’. Over the course of the next 15 minutes, I managed to shatter just about every single one of them.

The first, and perhaps most obvious in hindsight, is that you never – ever – get in the way of an angry Cossack when he’s well into the blackened depths of a profound mental funk. Even a simple ‘You okay there, tiger?’ is likely to end with someone sporting the wrong end of a broken beer bottle in the trachea.

The second is that you should never, ever assume that just because you can hear or see something, that everyone else can hear or see it as well. Which would have been good to remember around about the time that I casually mentioned to Sham that he had set the couch on fire and was somewhere between four and seven minutes away from cooking himself where he sat.

The third – and most telling – is that you should never assume that the people around you have ‘probably had enough, so whatever’s within reach is now fair game’.

Even if the people around you appear to be well and truly ablaze, and hence highly unlikely to want another line or two, on account of what should surely be an urgent desire to ‘stop, drop and roll’ to deal with the flames that are – evidently – consuming them.

But, as everything we were consuming began to kick in, idiocy got the better of me. The rules went out the window.

“Sham…” says I. “Dude… Sham. SHAM!”

From beneath his shaggy black crop of hair came a baleful gaze.

“Hhhwhat?” he uttered, with the word arriving so guttural that it took me a second or two to realize he had answered, and wasn’t merely hocking up the phlegm for which he was (deservedly) quite famous for producing.

“Sham… you okay, dude? You look a little warm…”

“Is fine. Fuck you.”

“You sure? Because it could just be a trick of the light or something, but honestly, dude… I think you might have set yourself on fire…”

“Campfire!” he cried out. “We clap hands. We laugh! We sink sonks and dance!”

“… Sham … for real … you’re sitting in a fire…”

“IS FINE! FUCK YOU!”

Doubt crept into my mind. I could be making this up. Because surely… someone who had managed to light their legs on fire – in polyester track pants, no less – would arguably be a better judge of whether they were actually on fire than me… After all, I was clearly on the other side of the room, well away from the action.

I peered about myopically – the best kind of peering, in my opinion – before my gaze settled on the plate on the coffee table. The one with one last line of something vaguely pink, powdered and of dubious origin.

I looked at Vaughan – who still looked like he was trying to remember something very important.

I looked at Sham – who was, by this stage, clearly on fire.

I looked at the plate. And the drugs on the plate. Then at Vaughan. Then at Sham.

I looked at the plate. And the drugs on the plate. Then at Vaughan. Then at Sham.

I looked at the plate. And the drugs on the plate. Then at Vaughan. Then at Sham.

I took the drugs – kneeling on the floor, I scooped up the $5 note, rolled it into a tight little tube, tested which nostril was most likely to work (the left one…) and before I knew it, the line was gone.

I looked at the plate. And the lack of drugs on the plate. Then at Vaughan. Then at Sham.

Vaughan had vagued out substantially. Sham, on the other hand, had not.

“Was Mine!”

“Dude… Sham… seriously, dude, you’re on fucking fire… are you okay?”

“AM NOT BURNING. THOSE WAS MY DRUG. GIVE THEM BACK.”

If you’ve ever snorted a line of drugs, you’ll know precisely how impossible that request is. If you haven’t ever – then imagine eating a teaspoon of castor sugar, and being asked to spit it back out into a neat little pile – as dry and useful as it was before you put it in your mouth.

If you’ve ever snorted drugs, you’ll also know that – aside from mainlining them into a convenient vein – up your nose is about as rapid a transformation as you can expect between ‘I just took something’ and ‘why aren’t my limbs responding?’.

“GIVE. THEM. BACK.”

“I would if I could but I can’t so they’re gone,” I thought smugly to myself.

Vaughan, to his credit, fucked off at this point. Sham, to my dismay, did not.

[internal monologue time]

‘Tough it out, dude. Tough it out… their gear will wear off soon, and you’ll be fine, as high as nuts and everything will be fine as soon as we put that fucking fire out and how the fuck doesn’t Sham understand that his legs have been on fire for a few minutes now? Something’s not right. Really, really, not right.’

And that’s as far as I got before Vaughan emerged from the next room, wiping vomit from his chin and blinking owlishly through the gloom.

“Sham,” he mumbled. “You’re on fire.”

And it turned out that Sham was, indeed, on fire.

Most of us realised that the usual fug of smoke that hovered in the living room had become unusually thick – and quite extraordinarily pungent.

The scent had a distinct chemical base, combined with marijuana and nicotine, enhanced by subtle top notes of rapidly rendering skin and fat – as if someone had served a dish of ‘slow cooked foam rubber and pork belly on a bed of insanity and rice noodles’ in one of those insufferable pop-up restaurants that people love, even though it means the proprietors could be responsible for an outbreak of dysentery but will never face prosecution because they’ll be in Adelaide before the fourth or fifth victim dies of the squitters.

… I digress.

The living room was filling with smoke. All of us were coughing horribly. Shamalat still hadn’t moved.

Something had to give… and that something was Vaughan.

Summoning all of the grace one could hope to expect from a kangaroo that had just been hit by a truck, Vaughan lurched forward and (as much as I would love to lie, and say ‘in one swift movement’ but it certainly wasn’t the case) grappled with the bong for a very, very long ten seconds before dousing Sham with the fluid it contained.

It made little difference to the flames. It made a lot of difference to Sham.

“The fuck you do?” he bellowed.

Vaughan scampered, as only people called Vaughan can scamper – leaving me alone with a burning Eastern European, and no control over my own limbs. Unable to move, I watched Shamalat discuss his predicament with himself.

“… I am on fire.”

“… This couch is burn me.”

“… The couch must leave”

And it was at that point that Sham stood up, heaved the coffee table aside and lifted one end of the couch to around shoulder-height, before making a run for the front door.

The results were almost inevitable… Sham hit the door like we’ve all hit the floor at various stages of our lives: rapidly, with a loud thud and what seemed like an awful finality.

The collision sent him crashing to the floor. He was left with no avenue of escape – trapped between a front door deadlocked against possible police interference, and a three-seater sofa that was in imminent danger of becoming a suburban Valkyrie farewell to dreams and wishes and drugs.

But Shamalat was not a quitter. Not then, not now, not ever.

Gathering all of his strength, Sham heaved that couch across the room to escape the flames. It landed with a burning ‘whomp’ – shortly followed by Shamalat doing precisely the same.

… The ‘poetic’ ending to this story would have been a Viking-like shout of rage and burning furniture hurtling across the room, before Shamalat absconded smoldering into the night.

Instead, I witnessed Sham hoist that couch to shoulder-height, heave it across the room so that it blocked the front door (and only reasonable external point of exit) before patting out the flames on his legs.

“Fuck fire,” he moaned. “Fuck. Fire.”

…

The following morning, Sham was nowhere to be found. Our couch was still gently emitting what were surely toxic wisps of smoke, and the living room was even more of a grotesque mess than usual.

I tidied up as best I could – by which I mean I shambled back upstairs to steadfastly ignore the detritus of a night gone bad.

…

When Sham resurfaced about a week later at the pub, he was walking like a rodeo champion – bow-legged and more ginger than Lucille Ball.

We all said nothing. The last man who crossed him at the Glengarry Castle Hotel went home with a pool cue lodged somewhere unmentionable… and none of us had the balls to deal with that sort of indignity.

 

 

There she goes – Music for listening once again

03 Saturday Sep 2016

Posted by in Algernon, Bands at the Pig's Arms

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Orkestar

 

Playlist by Algernon

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y3E5YIP-DvU

There she goes – Velvet Underground

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uXj8FM7lTrw

Safe and sound – Justice

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NXn3BQ5pbig

I’m gonna haunt you – Fabienne Delsol

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8-Ok_otzVQ4

It’s alright – Little Red

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nSoxia4Tyic

God put a smile on your face – Mark Ronson

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gWHVQA26g94

Bottle Rocket – The Go! Team

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kR_Tf4rGVS8

Hit and run – Jo Jo Zep and the Falcons

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gir7bw1MwEY

Sometimes – The Celibate Rifles

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8Qu3patcAwk

In Madrid/Rainbow Lollipop – Joesfin Ohrn + The Liberation

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NdHHsoW6mMg

Little wing – Jimi Hendrix

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4lebmtsgQM0

Firefight – Tommy

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o-frryY8qNg

Oogum Boogum song – Brenton Woods

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n3TW49VCd3I

Sunday Morning – Velvet Underground

 

My Story

31 Wednesday Aug 2016

Posted by in Sandshoe

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Story and Photographs By Sandshoe

Photo 1 (Medium)

Painting by Lehan Winifred Ramsay

Photo 2 (Medium)

the living room of my now home from the hallway door

Photo 3 (Medium)the living room looking towards the hallway door

12 months ago, the end of the lease on my then rental, my landlord was not renewing the lease. The one thing I knew about my future was I had won right of appeal of a Tenancy Tribunal decision that rejected application I made for an award of compensation to me for tenancy law breaches.

The advice of the Tribunal was to very carefully consider proceeding and to seek legal representation if I did proceed. I felt I had no choice. The quality of the adjudication as I experienced it was poor, the process flawed. I needed to re-establish a belief in social justice and housing law. I needed to face fear either win on appeal or lose.

Other than a PC and a reserve of Mac collectibles, I covered a floor with kitchenware and computing equipment, basically declared to the township, ‘Come and Get it’.

The previous lease to the one I was vacating, in some respects furnished poorly, was furnished. Leaving the next…a Queen size bed, couch, recliner chair? $300 in the previous 12 months. Hello, the oversize tank of a never mind really great television I paid 50 for? Set top box and tv unit? Another 85. Sideboard shelving with glass doors and a second with open shelves? 150. Mostly you give your belongings away. I carried bags of Cds to the radio station.

The sewing machine table a friend gave me that she had been given I returned. Sold for a few dollars the new sewing machine to a young woman who wanted to learn to sew, added miscellany and the Readers Digest Complete Guide to Sewing. Gave away the part completed tablecloth made with cotton curtain swatches. Swopped a new carpet (never unrolled) bought on lay-by for the previous address (as well a rental disaster) for a mens bicycle and onsold the bicycle.

The second hand washing machine and refrigerator? The town had been plunged into a mini recession as redundancies from the meat-works wrought their impact. Remember you paid the appliances off on a loan from a friend you repaid at a slap up dinner three months before, now selling day?

She announced after I committed to pay for the slap up I should see inside her wallet and laughing so hard I started laughing. When I did see I gasped what a lot of money. She, overwhelmed with laughter: “I won Lotto. Not enough to be inconvenient I had to go anywhere to collect it. Now you absolutely sure you want to pay for the meal?”

Of course. That was part of the fun filling the wallet to overflow, wildly unexpected, joyous.

The sentimental loss of the white goods lingers. The washing machine and refrigerator went for next to nothing relative to their worth and a fraction of the price paid. A worker husband reconnoitred and brought a woman with a young child to see the washer and purchased it. I sold the piano removalist on the refrigerator. Who would not want to see him top up his return (the piano he moved for me I gifted and its delivery to the recipient).

For all the stress, I started to have fun. I had made my plans and written an application to the Tribunal. I was gaining sociability. A mum with a young family needed curtains. Another family needed kitchen goods. Filipino neighbours and their friends included me wholeheartedly in the fun they made when they arrived with a trailer to help a mate. They helped me out in a later situation when I asked. The message broadcast was Christina needs us, guys.

I stayed for only a few days in one of the town’s pubs. My gratitude is immense a neighbourhood friend had suggested she drive me the four-hour round trip to the regional office in Mount Gambier of Housing SA, formerly the Housing Trust to state my disadvantage. I accepted. I was awarded a house on passing an emergency priority interview and one was available.

Emmjay, once I advised by email I had moved again and into public housing suggested I might like to write to the housing issues when I was settled.

A couple of weeks ago, I was offered and have accepted a ten-year lease on the property.

By the by for now the detail of the changing status of the Tribunal, no longer entitled as a separate entity but a division of the South Australian Civil and Administrative Tribunal that is SACAT, pronounced say-cat. By the by for now I certainly identified the rigours of the jurisdiction for landlords and tenants after having taken two cases, of three I consider I ought to have, in my time living in Bordertown.

In regard to the first case, I had been awarded a small amount of compensation I applied for; in regard to the second at appeal I was awarded 500 dollars compensation recognising two of various claims I submitted. The 500 only represents to me upholding process and that there is housing law. It is not financial reward and not compensatory for the liability a property can be that is determined to be sub-standard on close inspection and experience. It will not heal the insults I experienced. I might never to boot understand tenancy law shortfalls that mean a landlord pays costs if they are awarded and compensation no matter how poor the response of an agency is to property management.

Unfortunate however, my experience of the property included my being a victim of crime in it on Christmas Eve evening 2014.

The perpetrator was found guilty in 2015 of two counts of assault, indecent and aggravated. He was sentenced to serve 15 months imprisonment with a significant non-parole period. I remain indebted to the South Australian Police Force officers who attended and the Prosecutor. Post traumatic stress impeded my preparation of the Tribunal application I was preparing. An adverse incident complicated my circumstance when a real estate agent levelled an accusation at me of bringing the assault on myself (not surprised…did I invite the perpetrator into the house?…see?). A handyman attending to the security of a lock on the front door was present and witnessed my grief. I found myself crouched and cowering around the front corner of the house. I was peering around it like a child trying to identify a new world of danger I discovered myself in.

I had already as it was lived in the property for a period of time with five windows I had not initially realised were not locked and could not be and a sliding back door with neither a lock or least opportunity to secure anything against its wide opening.

Although it is two years ago now in December I experience random frequent flash-backs of stressful life experience when I am falling asleep. In the street or supermarket a glimpse of a man of similar build to the perpetrator triggers episodes of fear and confusion. Health professionals were ill equipped to understand how to address the trauma of violence. An associate of the agent who triggered me to run and cower as a frightened child might maintains behaviour seeming to try to snub me. The reason is known only to them. As a matter of contrast the agent addressed me with a smile recently when I addressed them.

In community development there is no room for partisan opinions expressed by anyone in the form of silence towards a courteous greeting. You equally refine dignity and compassion for others when you hear versions of your experience reported back to you in innocent conversation and realise you are ‘that’ person in some part …unrecognisably even dismembered and at least dishevelled.

Instead of bringing you grief, I hoped when I began to write to reveal something of me and what I have been doing that shows the constant of creative thinking in our lives and its contribution, how does it work. Lehan’s painting has been a constant. I have lived in three properties with it and for this almost 12 months now it has been my companion where I can view it on the table of the first item of furniture I was gifted for my new address. The shelf unit and a double bed labelled ‘Please Take’ were glaringly obvious sat in the front yard of a friend’s neighbour moving out of their property.

There was I who thought I would have no bed, instead sleep between two canvas chairs or on the floor as I did when I moved from Christies Beach in Adelaide to live in Bordertown 6 years ago. I was soon in hospital then suffering fatigue and back pain that became intolerable.

Coincidental with recently signing a ten-year lease, I found the items I have searched for to near complete my re-furnishings … a sofa bed for a second guest room and a living room rug. I sold a wardrobe for a few dollars to make room for a three door cupboard I took a shine to. Neighbours and I pushed the treasures down the road on a trolley. I was offered and accepted the loan of a vaccuum cleaner to clean the rug. My vaccuum cleaner I bought 6 months ago for $15 is still missing a tube pipe for the hose. That had not mattered betimes. The floors are wood throughout.

Friday a fortnight ago I ordered a 24-month fixed-line internet connection for a terabyte of data.

While waiting and hoping for the NBN, I have been paying between 120 and 200 dollars for 10 GB of data distributed between a mobile phone and mobile wireless broadband. Some stress is relieved after 12 months of incessant outages.

When I moved in…aside my PC and assorted computer items… I started again with a small box of writing, one of graphics and art, photographs, one of loved books, a few items of clothing in a backpack, an extending table, two red lounge chairs, and Lehan’s painting she posted to me from Japan. In my mind’s eye I have frequently seen Lehan wrapping the painting to post it.

I found The Pigs Arms and Lehan Winifred Ramsay (of the corresponding three names to my own) together. I was at a bar where friends virtually met and mingled. Everywhere in the meantime before discovery and my own project as Sandshoe in a room in an online pub, sure I had fallen on hard times and good and held onto boxes of my art. The very earliest box with its Chinese ink stylisations on delicate A4 sheets and pencilled shapes of hands and faces was lost in transition – although stored – when I returned to live in Australia from New Zealand after almost 10 years.

We manage grief as well as we can. In our creativity that belongs only to us whatever it is applied to we will see the work we lost. If we make display…banners, signage or editing newspaper copy, poetry and so on…we see the work. No question about it at the moment, I am grieving Lehan. Any wonder. The photographer cannot do this painting its real justice. The colours include fire. The brilliance is spoiled by the camera collecting light off ridges of paint that are dusty. The gold is dulled. The face appears black whereas patched with a lightness that contrasts with its surround. The effect is pretty and whimsical.

Lehan asked me which painting did I want. I offered to her she choose. She had another in first mind and later decided on this one, with only a commitment she thought it was ‘the one’, thought I would agree. The setting is a lotus pond. The dashing streaks are fireflies. Where the facial configuration looks out in a mesmeric condition of being…in portrait… for a reason I cannot recall I believe Lehan painted it as landscape and the face on the left hand side of the work. I long ago stopped wondering how I should properly view the painting. I came to terms with my viewpoint.

I remain its custodial guardian. Lehan referenced she would like me to frame it and suggested a gold frame. A local artist has provided me the name of a trusted framer. The painting needs conservation work and I will seek out that and for the frame to be supplied.

Number 4

the study

19 August, 2016.