Blinded By The (Complete Absence) Of Light

Manfred Mann's "Blinded By The Light" is an absolute classic of Prog Rock. Highly suspect lyrics that are about as clear as mud, music that roars psychedelic (man), the hair, the clothes, the hats, the glasses.

Perhaps "Blinded By The Light", or the lack of it could become the new anthem for Centrelink. The ancient Muzak that Centrelink plays whilst on hold is excruciatingly boring, frustrating and depressing. Particularly when listening to these woe-inducing pieces over and over again during my latest ninety minutes of aural agony.

Waiting for a Robo Debt letter is rather like waiting for a very painful dental procedure. One knows that sooner or later, one will receive notification of this dreaded event. It's only a matter of time. Rather like the Queen Mother who stoutly declared that she could look the East End in the face after Buckingham Palace was bombed, I now feel a sense of belonging with everyone else who has received such correspondence.

The debt, that Centrelink claims we owe, is a relatively modest figure compared with the financial torment endured by other poor bastards. Apparently, over almost five years, "The correct amount of your combined Real Estate income...was not taken into account with the payments made to you". Centrelink also states that between 1 July 2013 and 12 January 2017, Michael was overpaid by $1473.43 and I was overpaid by $1281.70, a total of $2755.13. Which Centrelink wants back by 4 July. This year.

Having been reduced to tears by my last memorable visit to a Centrelink office to lodge our tax returns for 2015/2016, I made the decision that I could not deal with them directly ever again.  Hence, I made an appointment to handball the situation to Ryan, our Accountant to the Stars. Which I duly attended yesterday.

Ryan stared at the letters with a considerable amount of disbelief. He noted several issues - the lack of any information that he could cross-check, the time frame of the episode and his inability to be able to assist us without dates and figures. His summation of the Robo Debt letters was their total lack of transparency. He was appalled that Centrelink could issue such letters with no supporting documentation. He gave me the letters back and noted sagely, "They need to do better than this".

And so I was doomed to listen to the awful music once more whilst waiting for a Centrelink officer to answer my call.

Strike one. The phone number at the top of the letter which would direct me to "Us" was a fizzer, due to the fact I couldn't remember my PIN. Every time I told that supposedly soothing voice I didn't have a PIN, "she" would reply "I'm sorry. That doesn't match our records..."

I gave up and rang the Complaints line. After the usual hour and a half wait, I was connected to "Lisa" (I think). Centrelink are obviously training their staff in guerilla warfare. She did not have a gram of empathy in her body. Yes, I was fluttered. Yes, Centrelink brings out the village idiot within. Yes, my anxiety levels were through the roof.

She was all business. The information that Centrelink had used was based on information from the ATO. Yet, she was unable to answer why Centrelink claimed to have data up until 12 January 2017 when we have not entered a tax return since 2015/2016..."You'll have to take that up with the ATO".

At last, some clues I could give Ryan. And blow me down, she also agreed that Ryan could contact Centrelink on our behalf if he identified himself and gave a password. A reprieve of sorts for us.

Of course, this problem isn't going away. We still have the guillotine hanging above our necks. The onus is on us to prove ourselves innocent of any financial wrongdoing, according to Centrelink. And satisfying them is like praying to the universe whilst crossing a minefield.

After sending Ryan an e-mail with The Letters, I fled into our garden courtyard. We are in the process of moving all our pots and windchimes and nicknacks into our private little paradise. The feel of soil between my fingers, the joy of re-potting and trimming our neglected plants and bringing some of our treasured garden ornaments back into our line of sight was the epitome of joy. I forgot everything else whilst my soul was renewed and nurtured.

I wonder what Centrelink staff do for fun.

That would be me...

A slight exaggeration of the number of Centrelink staff...

Spare me from the Muzak...

 What the Robo Debt letters provided...

And the inevitable result...

 Is this what Centrelink staffers do in their spare time?

Beware the "Guns Of Navarone"

Friday night, was as ever, Pub Night. I really do enjoy the chance to get out of the kitchen and have a meal elsewhere. The best bit is leaving the table and walking away from the dishes without a second thought. As much as I enjoy the overall experience, my skirmishes with IBS are ensuring that my digestive system still reminds me who is actually in charge.

Last night, being quite wintry, the option of a glass of red vino won over my recent preference for white. I also ordered the chicken cannelloni, which normally causes no issues.  All was well until we returned home. We watched Michael Portillo"s "Great British Railway Journeys", admiring his colourful outfits as we always do. Surprisingly, I had predicted he would be wearing yellow and royal blue. And blow me down, he had complied!

My tummy had experienced an odd rumble, but ablutions had not been too scary, so I congratulated myself and had a couple more glasses of red. Deciding to head for bed after a British train expedition through Wales and the west of England, Michael announced he was staying up to watch the "Guns of Navarone".

I retired to bed, fighting with Madame Cat for a fair share of my side. Unable to get really comfortable, I swallowed a couple of painkillers and turned off my light. Out in the living room, our heroes - the Brits and Yanks - were in full flight against the evil German fortress somewhere in the Mediterranean Sea. Michael, happily inebriated, had the volume at full throttle, thus preventing me from slipping into Cloud Cuckoo Land.

Worse was to come. An almighty crash from the pantry signalled all was not well. I went to investigate. Michael had been prowling for snacks and had dropped the container of jellybeans on the floor whilst searching for other delights. In his haste, he ate as many as possible, whilst picking them up off the floor to prevent the Canine Clowns from vacuuming them up for themselves.

I then asked him to turn down the telly's volume. Which he did. A bit.

The guns continued, albeit at a more muffled level. But by now I was fully awake. Bollocks. I gave up and resorted to a sleeping tablet. Just as I was happily drifting into slumber, the TV quietened, my beloved swayed his way into the bedroom and announced he had a whopping tummy ache.

Pleading with him to remember the direction of the loo in case of digestive emergency, we then tried to sleep. Neither the cat nor I was amused. As he often does after consuming a touch more vino than usual, Michael became very chatty. I tried "good night darling" and "sleep tight, see you in the morning" onward to "please be quiet Michael" and eventually to "SHUT UP AND GO TO SLEEP". All this time, Miss Ruby was continually changing her position on the bed, creating maximum disturbance whilst kneading Michael's bum through the covers.

Michael's excuse for a chat had something obscure to do with Ryan our electrician and the fireplace at the pub. The full explanation remained tantalisingly out of reach, however, I suspect Mr Carrot, the official delegate from the salad, may have been involved somehow. (See a previous post about Michael's night time shenanigans.)

Luckily for Michael, he shut up and fell into unconsciousness before I found a handy sledgehammer. As a result of all this chaos, we didn't wake up until about ten o'clock this morning, which firmly put us behind the eightball for opening the Gallery on time.

And just to top off an eventful night, my IBS reared its ugly head. I was marooned on the loo for what appeared to be an eternity. It was as if the "Guns of Navarone" had relocated to my posterior for the duration. I left the seat of the crime after several miserable minutes.

Red wine is off the agenda for the foreseeable future. I am blaming the "Guns of Navarone" for the whole unsavoury episode.

Postscript:

Later this morning, my neck seized rock solid in agony. I staggered up the street to see if Janet, Masseur to the Stars, could squeeze me in to unlock the problem area. Which she did, over half an hour, with me uttering a few interjections of profanity when she hit the right spot.

I told her to stop apologising for causing me pain. I had chosen to be there, I needed her to weave her magic, which I was fully aware would result in copious swearing. By me, not her.

Then I remembered she had started her career in equine massage. "That's why you never had any f*%king complaints in the past", I told Janet between gritted teeth. "You never massaged Mister Ed!"

I'm sure that, somehow, the "Guns of Navarone" had also contributed to my neck's demise. Remind me never to have it on the telly ever again...

Our heroes from the "Guns of Navarone" looking suitably heroic...

Da Guns...

Michael's nemesis...

and the predictable result!

One of the characters from Michael's nighttime antics...

Meanwhile, this morning...

Yep :-(

Not one of Janet's massage clients...

In the Jungle, the Mighty Jungle, the Lion SNEAKS Tonight...

I must start by offering Mr Elton John my profound apologies for altering the lyrics of this great song from the "Lion King".

However, there is a very good reason for the title of this post. Madame Cat has become a force of nature that belies her small stature.

Two weeks ago, an abscess was discovered on her Majesty's back, which resulted in surgery, two really attractive drains (she looked rather like a fearsome Pacific Islander with a bone piercing her anatomy), the horror of twice-daily antibiotics, a hefty outlay of cash and confinement within the walls of Stalag 13.

This situation is wearing thin for all concerned.

Occasionally we fling open the door of her dungeon - our bedroom - sprint to close the laundry door before she can escape through the dog door, boot the Beagle up her clacker as she attacks the Cat's food and/or the litter tray before we lift them off the ground and hope Pip doesn't piddle everywhere as a result of extreme anxiety,

Her Fickle Felineness then prowls the house, searching for any escape routes we may have inadvertently forgotten. Eventually, she gives up the hunt and returns to the Inner Sanctum, climbs back up onto our bed and scowls savagely at the known universe to express her displeasure.

However, the nights are the times that we suffer the full fury of her malevolence. Remembering that Madame Ruby is only a four-kilo cat, she has been able to inflict grievous injuries to both of us, but in particular to Michael's nose. Trapped with her in our bedroom, she takes great delight in hopping off our bed on multiple occasions during the darkest hours to attend to stuffing her face, noisily lapping a drink or attending to her ablutions in the litter tray.

The strife begins when she climbs back up onto our bed to torment us. We know she has poor vision in one eye. Hence she no longer jumps on and off the bed. She uses the quilt to haul herself up and down. Woe betides if any part of ourselves is outside the bed covers. Like Michael's upper arm or his nose.

Twice, she has attached her claws to these available accessories to the quilt in order to complete her ascent onto the bed. The result has been a hearty bellow of F*#K exploding from Michael's lips as his body is used as a convenient ladder.

And that's not all. She then takes great delight in lying across as much space as possible - between our legs, between us or the majority of the bottom half of the bed. All whilst she deftly kneads the covers, obviously hoping to cause the maximum amount of dread in us during the dead of night.

The other really fun exercise we have endured is treating her for constipation. Last Wednesday we dropped by the vet to ask if they had a laxative treatment for the cat. "How do you know she's constipated?" was the obvious question. My response was "Well the sour expression on her face and that she hasn't done a pooh in days!"

The advice was to give her a laxative paste the exact colour of pooh and to increase her liquids. The paste was smeared all over the interior of her Helmut of Shame (which she did consume) and we left out a plate of yoghurt which she likes for an addition to her fluid intake. I ended up spooning it in the general direction of her mouth after first she walked through the yoghurt and then sat in it.

Give me strength.

Since Thursday, I fear there have been no more pooh ejecting from her bum, but I don't know if I have the stamina for another laxative assault.

And of course, the Problem Child may have snaffled this delicacy when I wasn't looking, so I refuse to become too concerned.

Monday, the Cat returns for suture and Helmut of Shame removal. We are currently fantasising for the moment we return home. We intend to place the cat carrier in front of the door to the Wild Blue Yonder and then open the cage to release her Royal Ferality.

As long as Michael and I both survive until then...

Butter wouldn't melt in her mouth...

yeah right!

Michael's upper arm - no this is not caused by a snake bite, but by the bloody cat!

The latest injury to Michael's body...

Close up - small but deep...

One of Madame Cat's less extreme opinions over the last couple of weeks...

I won't be showing this to Her Furious Felineness...

I can concur. Just not lately!

Hickory, Dickory, Dock...

Hickory Dickory Dock
Centrelink runs the clock
The clock goes BONG
We all fall down
Hickory Dickory Dock...

June is never a terribly great month for me. Winter is beginning to bite, the light continues to retreat and fade as we approach the shortest day and the fifth marks another anniversary for me - Christopher's death on a cold and miserable day thirty-one years ago.

I woke that morning to external gloom and internal poignancy. Even after all this time, I can still see his little face as the day of his death progressed towards its inevitable fate. For once, he seemed at peace and his eyes were open, watching me as I held him close in my arms, his ventilator the only means of keeping him alive. We sat, him and me, exchanging a lifetime of love and memories, in his corner of Neonates at Princess Margaret Hospital. He was tiny, still less than a kilo and a half, with a scrap of red hair, but for once, there appeared to be no pain in his battered little body.

One of the best and worst days of my life. For a precious few hours, he appeared to be alert and engaged; my baby boy was really with me. But as the day progressed, we all knew he was dying and that he would die even if he was still connected to his ventilator.

So we made the decision to turn off all supports and allow him to die without any tubes inside him. His short, traumatic and ultimately sweet little life ended in the rain and dark of a Friday evening. I have mourned him ever since. And yet the legacy of his death was that I was able to have two more beautiful living sons, along with his older sister.

And I am convinced Christopher's spirit is intertwined with that of my beloved Autistic Superstar. Alex's second name is his, Alex was born with a right-sided heart lesion (similar to his brother's)  and both of these boys were destined to have autism.

Vanessa was and is an extraordinary daughter and she saved me with her very presence. And Callum, born alive and roaring after the deaths of his brother and twin sisters, provided me with profound and bursting joy after a very dark two years.

I have this family of children, some of whom I can hear and see, others of whom I hold in my heart. There are special days of remembrance and these are often spent in introspection with as few interruptions as I can muster.

Pity nobody at Centrelink is aware of the sometimes subtle, sometimes expressive grief that occurs for me on certain days, often with no warning.

This fifth of June, we were required to visit the Big Smoke for a review of my Active Knee and to deliver Vanessa to her digs so she could complete her final assessment for this semester. This was the least we could do as she had taken over the house throughout the long weekend, given it a good shake, a good scrub, and miracle of miracles, brought our washing up to date.

But I was already fairly low, due to ongoing knee discomfort and interrupted sleep. Then my phone rang. Private number. Hello, this is BLAH from Centrelink. Have you time to talk? I said I had a few minutes but that I needed to get ready for a doctor's appointment.

The boom was then lowered. I had been relieved that, up until now, we seemed to have been immune from the scourge of RoboDebt. Not anymore. There were some discrepancies in the rental income information that we had provided Centrelink between (wait for it) 2013 and 2018 and on the surface, Michael and I had both incurred a debt to the Department of Human Services.

I was completely stunned. The amount of information we have given Centrelink over the years feels about half the size of the Amazon rainforest. How could they have not picked up a possible issue starting five years ago?

Of course, they didn't. They rely upon electronic cross-checking that is known to be flawed, as they don't have enough bums on seats. The onus is on us to prove ourselves innocent. And the last time Centrelink declared that I had incurred a debt (when I was a single parent), I scurried around to pay back the required amount, only to be told weeks later that Centrelink had made a mistake and they actually owed me money.

Once more, we are waiting for the hard copy so we may proceed further. This will involve a trip to our accountant as I am utterly burnt out from thirty years of communicating with this giant disaster of a department. Michael is stressed to the max and refusing to answer his phone. The amounts involved are relatively low, which is some comfort. But this presumption of guilt that Centrelink generates in those of us who rely on support payments to live is unconscionable.

I am currently in a cloud of bitter disbelief. But I refuse to cave into misery and fear. I will be writing to Centrelink, my local member and the Minister, as per usual, once I receive the Letter. And I am on the record, pleading with the Minister for more staff in order to prevent these dreadful phone calls, that often are entirely a waste of everybody's time.

There has to be a better, fairer and more compassionate way than the one Centrelink currently employs.

I am now going to pick myself up, have some breakfast and get on with my day. As we all do.

Map of PMH. Neonates is in the long section of building 6.

Neonates on the far left. I used to look into the building whenever I was stopped at the traffic lights.

Some of what parents encounter in Neonates.

Meanwhile at a Centrelink call centre...

Where there is never enough trained staff...

Due to the chaos that is the Department of Human Services...

Which results in this...

And this...

Wouldn't that be nice?

What a Combination! The East End Gallery Sundowner and The WA Day Long Weekend!

We are gearing up rapidly for our Famous Sundowner. Five o'clock has just come and gone. We have already had a ripping day, with both day-tripper guests and others up for the WA Day long weekend.  The fire is blazing, the bush poet is in attendance, the muso is coming and the BBQ will be fired up at any moment. What a chance to party for three days! Just don't pretend that this long weekend has any historical connection whatsoever.

Until 2012, WA Day was known as Foundation Day. Apparently, this was because WA had been founded on 1 June 1829. Except it wasn't. Albany, on the south coast, with a magnificent deep water harbour, was founded on 26 December 1826, a full two and a bit years before Captain Stirling and his party were anywhere near the Swan River.

And anyway, another bloke named Captain Fremantle had sailed up the Swan River for a spot of exploring between 2 and 4 May 1829. Which is how Fremantle was given its name. Our hero Captain Stirling arrived on 31 May 1829. And they didn't found anything on 1 June as they were struggling to save a ship and plonked all the women and children either on another ship (if their husbands were officers) or on Carnac Island. Five days later, everybody was moved to Garden Island and the first settlement was established there. Then on 17 June, still on Garden Island, Captain Stirling read a proclamation to the assembled colonists.

So, 17 June could have been Foundation Day. Well, there was still the problem of a more permanent settlement, so on 12 August, the King's birthday, Perth was founded. Now that could have also been the date for Foundation Day.

Guildford, now a suburb of Perth and York, in the Avon Valley, were both established by the end of 1830. Albany, which probably should have been the capital, became an extremely important landing point being in the vicinity of the splendid King George Sound.

So Foundation Day became WA Day on 2012, on 1 June. Both sides of government were in consensus. The indigenous population, who I suspect had their wishes ignored, probably don't give a toss about the name that politicians chose. For them, that was the beginning of forced colonisation.

Hang on a minute. If WA Day falls on 1 June, we should have celebrated yesterday. That would have been no good then, as there may not have been a long weekend. And although my calendar makes mention of the holiday on Monday, there is no mention whatsoever that WA Day was on 1 June.

I am highly amused by all these shenanigans. The rest of the country celebrate the Queen's Birthday holiday on Monday week. Which doesn't fall in June. The Queen turned 92 0n 21 April, quite a while ago. But the English don't actually have a public holiday for her birthday. Celebrations tend to be held on a Saturday in June, when the fickle English weather tends to be more reliable for outdoor activities.

As for us, public holidays make absolutely no difference. The East End Gallery will be open on WA Day/Foundation Day. So wherever you live in this great Southern Land, have a great long weekend this week or next week.

So, if anyone is at a loss about what to do on this long weekend, take a ride up here to Heavenly Beverley and have a really good squizz around our town. And remember to drop into the East End Gallery!

"My Studio" - Brian Aylward

"Old Shed" - Brian Aylward

Michael with our local member, Mia Davies

Kath Whiteside - pot

Kath Whiteside - "The Frenchman"

Kath Whiteside - "Flower"

Kath Whiteside - "Frog"

Kath Whiteside - "Hat"

Kath Whiteside - "Birds" and "Gumnuts"

Kath Whiteside - "African Lady"

Kath Whiteside - "Pelican"

Andrew Taylor - "Cooee 1" and "Little Ducks"

Andrew Taylor - "Epitaph"

WHO In Their RIGHT MIND Would Have A PET?

Obviously, I am not in my right mind as our current menagerie stands at two dogs, a cat, and the Pirate Parrot. I understand that our posse of pets isn't extremely numerous compared to others, however this week they have all combined to be as trying and expensive as possible.

Take Madame Cat, for example. Seemingly at death's door three months ago, the combination of daily blood pressure medication and a specialist feline renal biscuit have seen her condition to return to as normal as possible for a thirteen-year-old cat, as well as gain a kilo in weight.

Her Majesty was due for her next monitoring when we noticed a lump on her back. This did not seem to bother her in the slightest and when we took her to see Graeme, our long-suffering vet, her temperature was normal and the lump seemed to be innocuous. And then he discovered the puncture mark on her side.

The Cat had a humongous abscess caused by the bite of another. This event has occurred before as Ruby would have to be the worst street fighter in the known universe. Her idea of defence is utter submission, which only causes a short delay before the antagonist sinks his or her teeth into a tasty part of her anatomy.

So Ruby the Cat had to stay overnight, have the abscess operated on and was duly sent home the next day with two drains protruding from the wound, looking like she had been a participant in some highly religious ceremony. Choice.

As I am still out of commission with One Bung Knee, Michael was required to return Her Royal Grumpiness to Graeme to have said drains removed this morning. We stupidly considered that the cat would be more docile at entering her carrier. Wrong. She managed to slash Michael's upper arm as well as insult my right hand during four outraged lunges. Apparently, her behaviour did not improve by one iota at the vet's but at least we were saved from further injury.

She is now at home, scowling from her position of complete safety on our bed.

Not to be outdone, Pip has torn or ruptured his anterior cruciate ligament, the one that puts footy players out for a season. How he did this to himself is unknown, though it may have been one of those really scary leaves purposefully flying in his general direction.

How he was diagnosed was being muzzled, one vet and I restraining him and the other vet pinning him on his side and manipulating the dodgy ligament. Pip retaliated to piddling in every direction. Fortunately, he'd had a pooh after breakfast so he was unable to use diarrhoea as a weapon of mass destruction. However, if his looks could have killed, we would have all ended up on the opposite side of life.

Our choices were to spend an absolutely obscene amount of money on surgery for Pip, or treat him conservatively with anti-inflammatory medication and confined inside. Guess which course of treatment we chose. Pip has a mental block when the advice for him is no running or jumping. He is satisfactorily managing to not follow doctor's orders, even when kept in the house.

As for Bloody Ruby, she has behaved badly on several occasions with a startling swiftness that has left us open-mouthed. In her pursuit of anything edible (cat pooh, cat biscuit, cat litter), she has broken our key pot in our bedroom, howled at the closed door of the bedroom, riffled through the litter tray and chased the cat to collect one of those delicious crumbed sausages fresh out of the cat's bum. Charming.

During her examination with Graeme, he announced that she is actually looking quite fit (hence her frantic quest for more food) and that she only looks fat because she has a low slung belly. Oh, my giddy aunt! If Ruby is an example of evolution or what the creationists call Intelligent Design, she is an epic failure in both theories. Apart from her lack of legs, collapsing trachea, disreputable ears, excited sneezing and being as thick as two short planks, she now has a confirmed gravity-driven belly.

This week is thankfully drawing to a close. We are suffering from financial shell shock and other physical wounds, courtesy of Her Feline Moodiness. Apart from yet another visit to the vet to remove Madame Cat's stitches in ten days, we have absolutely no desire to experience the wilds of Northam again for a while.

Except for physio on Wednesday...

Madame Cat in happier times...

And with some nasty body piercings and the Bucket of Shame...

An example of a dog being terrorised by a leaf with evil intentions...

Usually an injury of footballers, our Pip was obviously trying for too high a mark...

 Ruby wishing for stilts...

And worshipping leftover roast...

The cat's less than cheerful disposition this morning...

And after we eventually marooned her in the carrier, we discovered she'd inflicted these bruises on Michael...!

The black spot is the stab mark...