Overnight Antics @ the Residence in Heavenly Beverley

We have been living in our little "unit" for nearly three months. Finally, earthworks are beginning for our new home this week. We have just spent an uncomfortable half-hour stacking up the last of our felled trees and raking up more litter. Any sensible person would have been up at sparrow fart to complete this job during the cool of the morning. I rest my case.

We have settled into some sort of routine, similar to our rituals previously at the House that Rocks. We are not early risers.

The dogs are generally not early risers either. Except for Sascha. Our ancient Weimaraner has taken to both evening and early morning strolls down the main drag. Or at any other time if she can get away with a quiet walk. Almost fourteen years old (ninety-eight in dog years), she feigns blindness, deafness and senility to avoid responding to our calls. Think Maggie Beard and Sascha is her canine alter ego.

She also enjoys rearranging her bed during each night. Usually on several occasions. A push here. A scrape there. A poke. Then a great deal of circling before she falls with style to the floor. At that point, the entire residence shakes. If she can't get her bed the way she likes it, she locks eyes with me plaintively until I haul my bum out of bed and do a quick shake job with her blanky.  Then there are the Baby Elephant Walks that coincide with her nocturnal ablutions. Now Sascha is a lean dog. She is also the most heavy-footed dog in the known universe. Her thunderous entry back up the hallway is unmistakable.

Pip causes us the least amount of trouble as he is very quiet. Do not be fooled by his compliant appearance. Pip's greatest delight is lying squarely in the middle of either Sascha's or Ruby's beds. The wicked glint in his eyes always gives him away. Neither of the bigger dogs is ever successful in moving him along without our assistance. The signal that this situation has occurred is Sascha pacing anxiously up and down the hall or Ruby standing stock still gazing mournfully at her bed. At this point, I usually bellow "PIP! OFF" and the status quo will quickly revert to normality.

What can be done with a dog named Ruby? (apologies to the "Sound of Music") Ruby's life continues in a state of blissful bewilderment. She is quite used to spending her entire day confined to barracks. She continues to attempt escape whenever we let her off in the back block. Her culinary tastes have not improved. The only incidents that cause her any distress whatsoever are the Jack Russell's invasion of the bed or her quite frantic eagerness to obtain her morning treat.

At a suitable hour, or when she detects our movement at the station, she begins an operatic performance that would rival any soprano. She out wails those who wail at the Wailing Wall. As her howls of anguish rise in volume, she then begins a daily routine, excavation of the stud wall between herself and our heads in bed. Think of the "Shawshank Redemption" and a rock pick and you get the picture.

Upon release, she joyfully hurtles (yes Ruby can hurtle) into the confines of our tiny kitchenette and prays to her God, the pigs' ears container. Her ecstasy on receiving one almost causes her to explode with excitement. Turning her back on us, she launches down the hallway, takes a flight to land in the comfort of her dog bed to consume her adored titbit. We are thinking of entering her in the hop, step and jump - or in her case, the leap, lunge and land.

Then there is Madame Cat. She has become a "townie" with ease. She has also become far more vocal as she ages. She treats the unit as her own personal hotel, She lets us know her displeasure immediately if some aspect of her life is not to her liking. I need more biscuit! I want a cuddle! I must have a brush! Pull up the sheet on the bed so I may position myself! Amazing how one small cat has so much language.

The final member of our entourage, the Pirate Parrot carries on. He generally has more close company during the day and occasionally emits a piercing whistle to make sure we are awake. He is still rude and annoyingly messy. Except when John, our builder, came to visit. Talk about a Bird Whisperer. Red was putty in his hands. If he'd been a chicken, I would have expected Red to lie uncomplainingly on his back. Extraordinary.

And so, like sand in the hourglass, the Days (and Nights) of our Lives continue. Often hilariously, always surprisingly and never boringly. Our family continues to delight, annoy and entertain us. Not to mention leave us sleep deprived.

That's what nanna naps fix.

The Lovers

OI! Open the door, peasants...

The Three Stooges. Note the Beagle licking her chops...

You rang?

Partaking of a titbit!

Butter wouldn't melt in his mouth.

Praying to the God of Food.

Big Dog in character as the Sphinx.

Who, me?!

You may continue to groom me...

and do not disturb!

A melting Beagle.

Backpacker Simon with the Pirate Parrot.

Sod off, Baldrick.

By the river. Sascha February 2017.

And Now For Something Completely Different.

An end to woe for now. I think I may digress to a far happier topic, that of building our house (!).

Apparently, building a new home is right up there on the Ferality Index, along with divorce, death or losing a job. And in spite of our ever dwindling finances, I have decided to be only positive and cheerful about our latest adventure. There have been times, even this early in the build, when my good humour has wavered a tad.

Take this week for example. We have two blocks on two separate titles. We are building on the back smaller block. So, our decision to add a further seventy-one square metres to our family home site and bring it up to the size of a "cottage" block ( three hundred and forty-three square metres) will part us with nearly $11 000 and give us two new title deeds. Which I expect to be made out of gold leaf. A whopping $4 000 of that fee is purely government charges. And the whole process will take months...

Our fire rating report has set us back a cool $726 - to tell us we are at risk of ember attack from trees not on our property. Our builder John nearly tore his hair out over this finding. We are in the town centre and the back wall of the house has been rated at 29 (which is very high) whilst the rest of the house is rated at 12 (better). So, we have to change the material used in the flyscreens, along with other requirements. The overriding reason is that our house must be able to withstand fire for sixty minutes. My black sense of humour concluded that our house can duly burn down at the sixty-one minute mark, but not a nanosecond before that.

Fortunately, we have had some happier incidents. Our site has been surveyed and pegged. We now know exactly where to place the sand pad. And we have firmed up on tiles, grout and window trim colour. Our kitchen is half paid. The final plans have been passed by the shire (as long as we adhere to the fire requirements). The yard is more or less ready for our earthmover to remove all the green debris, the remaining trunks and get on with shovelling dirt around. Exciting times.

My new outdoor setting is now resplendent in Shop 2, which is being used for storage purposes. I plan to set it up as a feature and arrange artwork around and on the table for the time being.

Unrelated to our house, but rather important to our meagre finances, John and Lindsey have committed to being our tenants for at least the next two years. And in their quest for additional space, they have renovated and revamped the grotty remains of the old commercial kitchen to create a storeroom and display area. What a triumph. This was the last bit of the building that needed to be restored and our tenants undertook this project. Michael, who has picked up yet another chest infection, is stoked.

Friday nights have become pub nights with John and his partner Jacqueline. She is a dynamo behind the scene, attending to all the forms, permits and other written paraphernalia that all has to be completed correctly. I had no idea of the enormity or value of her work. If nothing else, my eyes have been opened to all the complexities of running a country building company. 

They have become firm friends and we really enjoy their company. Last night was no exception. We shared wine and good cheer and four delicious meals cooked by resident chef Lisa. A very pleasant way to spend the evening.

In the Gallery today. We have had a surprising number of guests, considering the heat. And next Saturday night, 4 March, we are all systems GO for live music at our Sundowner.

Come join us!

How many pegs can we have for $11 000?!

Can one take too many photos of pegs?!

The pile of green waste to be removed early next week...

as our "boys" labour in mid-thirties heat to transform the last of the Forbes Building

the tin goes up...

the storeroom shelving...

All newly painted!

Another angle of the storeroom.

The Forbes building facing west.

What. A. Difference from 6 July 2012.

Inside Information from the Mystery Man...

This morning, I finally received the long-awaited phone call from the Department of Human Services financial boffin. This may have been the result of having talked to Agent 99 from Technical Peer Support on Wednesday.

I'll call him Napoleon Solo. He told me he had worked for the Department for twenty-seven years. I told him he deserved a medal.

He was calm, conciliatory and clear in his explanations. This shambles over our assets was not his fault. The blame can be squarely planted at the feet of the Minister for Social Sevices. Oh hail, Caesar - Christian Porter.

Those changes that came into being on 1 January are solely due to the Minister's actions.  Today, Napoleon actually explained the process that has reduced our pensions by fifty-seven dollars each per fortnight. All in plain English.

Michael and I are permitted to have $375 000 in assets before we lose any proportion of our pension. At the moment, we have $38 000 more in assets. For every thousand of being over the asset limit, we each lose $1.50 off our pensions. This may not sound like a lot of money but when we live on just over $600 each per fortnight, that $57 is the difference between surviving and living.

Our Man from U.N.C.L.E. suggested we reduce our assets. When the house is built, the spare block will no longer be counted we will reduce our assets by $30 000. And we discussed getting that millstone of Michael's share in the Wanerie property revalued. Bought at the top of the market, Michael is unlikely to ever recoup the $80 000 he sunk into this enterprise. Our best bet is to get an appraisal from the local real estate agent to reflect Wanerie's value now. Hopefully, these actions will reduce our assets back under the ceiling.

In view of this lengthy but worthwhile conversation, I decided to can the proposed review of our situation. Napoleon also promised to send me, in writing, all of the details of our conversation. I explained to him my frustrations of six different interpretations and six different asset changes and six different pension rates over the last six weeks. He commiserated and apologised but his hands are tied.

Centrelink has turned into a monster, a juggernaut. Very few people seem to know how to drive this complex, arbitrary and unwieldy hulk. Those who do, like Napoleon, are squirreled away from the mug punters, lest they actually explain how the system operates. I consider myself to be very lucky to have had conversations with two articulate and understanding Centrelink staffers, Napoleon and Agent 99, in the previous few days.

At long as K.A.O.S. is at the helm, this situation will continue. And Commander Christian can make any changes that he sees fit. He appears to delight in punishing the vulnerable, the sick, the elderly and the disabled. His partner in crime from Human Services, the Invisible Man is no better. They have declared war on us.

The only silver lining I see is to create posts like this one, to inform, to question and to keep this appalling treatment by this conservative government in the limelight until the next election.  As my friend, Brenda would say, "they are not nice people".

Our agent from Technical Peer Support

Napoleon Solo, decent human being from the Department of "Human" Services

And the current persuasion of those in power

And my not so brave alter ego!

Conversations with Centrelink - a Special Tribute to the Attorney General

Last night's Q&A was a combination of excruciating political point scoring, laugh-out-loud moments of incredulity and serious minimisation of the crumbling hulks that are Centrelink, Family Law and Asylum policy. The attorney general's expressed comprehension of Climate Change and its consequences were fodder for "Utopia".

And this man is the ultimate upholder of the law in this country? Give me strength. What have we to look forward to in our next attorney-general? Apparently, Mr Brandis will shortly be taking up a cushy position in London and, ladies and gentlemen, we will have that guiding light of social justice in the presence of my Federal member, Mr Christian Porter move into the attorney general's role. God help us all.

Speaking of Mr Porter, he appears to be having difficulty with both his position and location. Thumbing his nose at Western Australia some time ago, he quickly moved into a safe Federal Liberal seat and is currently Minister for Social Services, along with his partner in crime, the invisible Minister for Human Services Alan Tudge. Except he has returned to the bosom of his state political family and is currently taking exceedingly nasty aim at the current Opposition Leader, Mr Mark McGowan. Why can't the state Liberals insult others on their own, you may ask? Simply because the entire state Liberal team is slightly on the nose with the electorate.

Anyway, I have digressed. In one outstandingly misguided response to an articulate question from the audience, Mr Brandis suggested the lady in difficulty have a conversation with Centrelink...

One does not have a conversation with Centrelink, George. When one attempts to engage with Centrelink, one needs to set aside half a day. Repeatedly. The almighty procedural mess that is Centrelink translates into multiple explanations from multiple staffers over multiple days. Because nobody really understands how to administer this unwieldy creature.

Another week, another automatic letter changing our assets, our income and our pension. As our assets and income had been lowered (God only knows who by), we expected a slight increase in our pension. But that had dropped too. So, in increasing despair, I prepared myself for another stoush with the well-meaning folk on the Centrelink Complaints line.

In preparation, I had calculated our assets to every zero, written all the information down, collected relevant bank statements and our most recent assets register on the MyGov page and armed myself with the three Centrelink letters for the current month. Bear in mind we still have a week to go in February.

I waited a relatively short amount of time to speak to another poor soul - about twenty minutes or so. I explained our situation again, queried the fall in our pension, queried the insane level of their estimation of our assets and begged for clarification. My appeal into these matters, lodged on 3 February had yet to be assigned to the appropriate operative. There was no time frame, no new information and very little hope.

The overwhelmed young man went to confer with his supervisor for a goodly length of time. He came back and tried to explain the Centrelink calculations in plain English. I was still insisting their figure of our assets was wrong. And I was becoming desperate as he was floundering and I was none the wiser.

Fortunately, the supervisor came on the line at this point. She was able to translate some of the gobbledygook into a language I could almost understand. And then I asked her to go through our assets with me, step by step. God love this lady. We were in agreement until we tackled our bank account. Way back in the middle of January, at the beginning of this saga, we were assured that $96 308 of our settlement proceedings would be exempt from assets or income testing. Because that figure was going directly into building our house.

Somehow this money had not been exempted...

The lady concerned showed enormous empathy. She assured me that she would do a thorough investigation. She estimated that our pensions should be raised by about forty dollars or so. Each per fortnight. And that we would be back paid.

I should have been jubilant. I should have been shouting with joy and relief that somebody at Centrelink was taking me seriously. I had none of those feelings. I was just spent. Again. But I still have to keep going.

I can't rest until this monumental mistake is rectified and we receive the correct level of pension and the back payments. I hope this new Centrelink staffer keeps her word, fixes this mess and phones me tomorrow or Thursday. Otherwise, I'll have to go back to the Centrelink coal face.

This story is one example, Mr Attorney General. My beloved husband's health was wrecked by his profession. There was no redundancy, no compensation. He just couldn't work anymore. So, we manage, as best we can on Michael's Disability Support Pension and my Carer's Payment. In the press, various members of this government have referred to us as burdens, leaners and welfare frauds. Last night, when you, Mr Brandis, hastily assured the questioner she was not one of those "leaners", then we ask, who do you mean?

We paid income tax. We continue to pay GST, local government charges, state government charges and federal government charges. Every time we drive the car, we are contributing to taxes. Every time we go to the supermarket, we pay tax.

I agree with you on one point Mr Brandis. The welfare system should be designed for those who can't work or are ill, vulnerable, disabled or in poverty. These robo debt letters and appalling reviews are not the answer.

Talk to me, Mr Brandis. I'd be happy to share some suggestions with you, Mr Porter, Mr Tudge and Mr Morrison.

I wait with bated breath. Oh and the length of yesterday phone call to Centrelink? A surprisingly compact one hour and twenty minutes or so.

POSTSCRIPT - after this latest ordeal, I had a debrief with a marvellously quirky and great friend. She cares for her husband and her three adult children, all of whom have autism. We became almost hysterical comparing notes. She has been trying to set up a MyGov account for four months to be able to access new funding from the WANDIS.

Like me, she has been dealing with Centrelink for many years. And she is not unintelligent.

So, her comments about our children and their futures were harrowing and succinct. Who will guide them through this mess when we're gone? Or will they just become homeless and die?

Paging Mr Tudge...

And Mr Porter...

And for our final comedy act, Mr George Brandis.

By A Nose

My nose and I are recovering nicely, four days after surgery. Now that the swelling is reducing and I can open my left eye again, I can view Doctor Daram's handiwork with more objectivity. He has performed an almost miracle. For a start, Daram is extremely neat with his stitches. If he ever wanted to part ways with dermatology and MOHS surgery, I am convinced he would be an outstanding textile artist.

He has skilfully blended the stitches along the ridge of my nose and then steered the sewing into the fold of the left side of my nose. At this point, I have high hopes that the end result will not be too frightful.

And my nose has become a local celebrity. Fancy that. My nose has been used to illustrate the dangers of the sun to an impressionable twelve year old young lady, has aroused only curiosity instead of horror and has been remarked upon for its rapidly improving appearance. My nose has become the poster boy for Doctor Daram.

As well it should. Daram is the last of a long line of dermatologists and surgeons I have seen since I was sixteen years old. I have been operated on by a pompous prick who didn't cauterise the blood vessels adequately so I ended up with both a haematoma and a massive infection. I was so important to this geezer that he insisted I see his nurse to remove my stitches. After a few choice remarks from Mark the GP, my infection was treated and he removed the stitches at a later stage.  That scar took years to become camouflaged.

At a later date, I was given sedation by a glamour queen plastic surgeon who assured me that would be all I needed. Never did she mention the words "general anaesthetic". Waking up after that previous nose job to the the awful realisation that I had received a full anaesthetic did not impress me. Apparently, I had become "disinhibited (!)" during the procedure and had to be rendered unconscious. Bollocks. And then, being in a Day Hospital, I was unceremoniously booted out after only an hour and a half of recovery time. Fortunately, nausea was not an issue, but Michael drove me home in a bleary state and I slept the clock around. Just as well there were no complications.

And Molescan ended up being a dud. The quack I saw there missed the BCC on my nose completely and misdiagnosed an age spot as "where your glasses sit on your face". Daram's expression was priceless when I admitted this faux pas.

Before Daram, my least harrowing episodes involved various general practitioners, using either the big freeze or having a suspicious bit excised in the treatment room. The difference between these experiences was that Michael was able to be with me, to absorb my swearing and tears and allow me to crush his hand.

Needless to say, I was neurotic and panicked leading up to the event at the South Bank facility. My emergency anxiety medication did help somewhat, but I was still up to about eight on the Richter Scale of Terror.

Entering the MOHS centre in the bowels of the building through its own lift was akin to being a fail as Agent 99. Not having to wait too long prevented a further anxiety eruption into low earth orbit. The suspense prior to the first local anaesthetic was excruciating, far more so than the actual jab. After the initial locals, I became quite interested in the whole process.

And the final stitching was long and tedious because I was beyond exhaustion. The team kept me in good cheer with seventies music bopping in the background.

Fast forward to this afternoon. My nose and I are feeling greatly improved. As the day has not progressed far enough for a glass of vino, I shall have to resort to the Panadol for some pain relief. And of course the antibiotic that is the size of a horse tablet.

However, this latest violation of my nose has actually turned out very well. I have found a young, friendly, very good-looking surgeon and practitioner who does not scare me, who has performed a decent and timely operation with care and compassion and has not given me an infection, a haematoma or a general anaesthetic. And I have no fear about any upcoming return visits. Which there will be as my rotissering of my body as a teenager will continue to throw out skin cancers in protest.

In the meantime, my nose and I are relaxed and comfortable.

 My secret identity - I am not Agent  99...

One dermatologist removed... 

and another...

and another!

Which is why my opinion of dermatological surgeons was like this...

Mark Flynn - a great general practitioner

Luigi D'Orsogna - my favourite cardiologist

and Susie Stevenson - Wheatbelt GP to the stars (that would be us)

How I felt on D Day...

and my appearance today!

.