Written by Sandshoe*.

Funny, if that’s the word for my viewpoint from my cell, sorry college room in which I immerse myself in little else these days other than the study of careless and murderous intent described in terms of Crown and its judgements. Allow me to describe my commingled thoughts these last few days about specifically the Duke, that’s Mountbatten and not Wayne.

Funny, as I was saying, I was born in 1950 and I cannot recall the exact year the presence of the Duke came to my ken, but as I was reading before I went to school, I am guessing near the very most beginning of me. I recall sitting on my father’s shoulders waving a small flag as the Royal procession passed. That was the visit to Australia in 1954. I was not far older than three years of age. It is not a mystery why I got down to some really serious thinks the small past while. A thought wafted up like a liberating genie out of a bottle.

I am me in a large part because he was who and what he was.

Astounding. I was incredulous. He contributed to shaping me. I knew some men could be something like my father. Here an example was in full view on a world stage. He was sober albeit you do not understand what that exactly is, but by what it presents as. He was outspoken I knew when I was very young. That fascinated me. I saw him as brave in that regard when I learned he was opposed to the degradation of the environment. It goes on.

When I learned something of his history, when I started to understand the dimension of the political and moral dilemmas he witnessed in his experiences as a prince of Greece and a cousin of the Windsor royal family I felt astonishment at how rich the viewpoint must have been. I was a student of history and geography, economics, literature and later of the social sciences. When his kids got into scrapes and the worse they were with regard to immorality as we perceive it through the media, I wondered how much pain he must have been carrying, the worry. I had seen my stoic father walking with his shoulders back and his head held high through similar grief and worry. I had my own children.

I learned about Phillip’s mother and wondered about her decision in later life to choose a path of humility and penury in service to others. I imagined her influence on him.

Not sure when, but some time I conceived of the notion this man was so awed by the adoration of him his cousin formed when she was a child, he responded to what was required of him as a consort forever on that ground … aside the hordes, aside the media, aside Parliament, but as well because he understood this little girl. He in the first instance loved the beautiful young girl who adored him. He had no sides. I believe it is that simple.

*Sandshoe is Christina Binning Wilson (B.A. – History and Politics). Christina is a current undergraduate student of Bachelor of Laws (Graduate Entry) at an Australian University. She is a long-time contributing writer for the independent blog, the Window Dressers Arms, Pig and Whistle aka the Pig’s Arms. Nothing she writes can be taken as representing her alma mater or affiliates and no opinions she expresses are those of the College.

Episode One Billion in Some Parts

Written by Shoe – Direction and Photography by Mark.

“Granny can’t be all that deaf,” Mark was remarking. 

“I’m not going as Death,” Granny hollered. The cellar’s a long way. From is even longer by the time Granny climbs the stairs after a few quiet ones.

“Fancy dress,” Algy explained to Big M, “They’re holding an Allusion to celebrate we’re all in a better place.

“There’s a row of them in a big wooden box,” Foodge heard Granny screech as he walked in. 

“I’m all done in, Uncle Merv.”

Merv set down a steaming cup of milo on the bar. Foodge expelled the breath of a man of all reason. Foodge was a season of reason. No-one dared ask. Foodge was likely to recount. He might recount his entire latest judgement.  Foodge never came away from any trial without a good 40-minute obiter. 

“Come to think of it,” Shoe said aloud. She thought she was only thinking it. “Foodge comes away from every trial like a man glued to postal mail.”

She wrote it down. Benj, new proprietor of the bookshop suggested, “Like a George the Fifth?”

So unnecessary. Overstatement of an adhesive. Strictly speaking, it had been used before.

“If we could make them a little less corny.”

Mark was remarking.

“Not again,” Yvonne groaned. Yvonne could barely breathe for fear if she stopped holding her breath in anticipation, Shoe would say nothing more, write nothing, least of all think. 

“Breathe, Yvonne.”

Mark had it in hand. He placed the bar bill down on the, well, bar.

“I can’t read all these zeroes,” Shoe animated.  “You can’t expect me to pay this as penalty. Three quadrillion billion five thousand and thirty two million…”

“That’s a heart starter,” sibilanted Big M. Big sibilanted in the face of all emergencies. He knew where to toss a vowel in for good effect when needed. 

“Here’s a how-de-do,” Veronica Lake said. Ms Lake is new to that beer-soaked chook-squirt-stained establisment. Everyone remembers the Mexican chooks imported from, well, close to the truth. 

“This is what comes of putting drinks on tick in an ever-expanding consciousness series sense,” Foodge interrupted, “I’ll take the case.”