Stevie's Revenge

I am just loving strengthening my relationships with all three of my brothers. This process may have taken longer than I would have liked, initiated by the deaths of our parents, but the wait has translated into a quirky, funny and poignant reality for me. I couldn't be happier.

David my eldest brother was always there in his life for me, even when I was a child. I would sit in his brilliantly blue room, downstairs in the Hamilton house and listen to Joe Cocker, the Beach Boys and Herman and the Hermits ad infinitum. I had absolutely no idea of the lyrics, but I hero-worshipped David, thrilled that he would include his little sister so readily.

Later, in my last year of school, he would visit our home on the Gold Coast. One weekend, I had my friend Suzi Hansen over for a swim. Suzi, the product of a Czechoslovakian mother and a Danish father, was already a stunning young woman. At Seventeen, I Learnt The Truth. Blokes' eyes were capable of exploding off their faces on long stalks in the presence of a Gorgeous Young Thing. David was no exception. I have never forgotten that episode and look back with both great amusement and total understanding.

Michael was my childhood companion, confidante, and comforter, and I lost almost forty years of sibling connection. However, we are making up for lost time. In the last twelve months, we have rekindled and grown that special affection we have for each other. He has not had an easy life, with his plans going atray whilst he was still a teenager. I am so looking forward to February to spend more time with Mike and scatter Mum's and Dad's ashes. I just wish he was on Facebook!

Simon was the brother that I so longed to know. When we were growing up, he always seemed too old to play with me. He appeared to hold his cards very close to his chest. Only in the last year have I discovered what a hilarious, gregarious, generous and loving individual he is. And he lives in a part of Australia pretty close to paradise.

My knowledge and understanding of Simon usually came in the stories of others. Then there were also the Famous Poker Nights in the rumpus room of the Hamilton house, where Simon and his friends would gather to drink and smoke (highly illegally) and play cards. About this time, I learned how to pour beer. A very useful skill for me to acquire at around the age of nine.

The following morning would usually present with a number of enormously tall young men all over the rumpus room floor in various states of sobriety and slumber. Simon's many mates were unfailingly kind to me and through them, I also developed a more rounded picture of him.

Charlie Miller was Simon's friend that stands out most clearly in my memory. He was an enormous gentle giant. At sixteen, he looked the oldest of the crowd, so Charlie was always sent to the bottle shop for supplies.  He appeared to have quite a different and interesting family life to us. Legend has it that Charlie took a young kangaroo named HooRoo, concealed in an esky, into the Gabba to watch a cricket match. Apparently, all the excitement was confined to the stands after Charlie released HooRoo for a bit of a hop around.

Charlie's father, a doctor who enjoyed his nightly beers, was responsible for a miniature version of Harry Potter's lightning scar on Simon's top lip. As Simon and Charlie were watching the telly (probably the cricket), some random dog wandered through the open front door, took an instant dislike to Simon and bit him on his lip. I have no idea what happened to this particularly nasty dog but Doctor Miller sprang into action and stitched up Simon's wound. As he had already begun his evening amber fluids, the resulting scar on Simon's lip has always been quite noteworthy.

The Millers were also the owners of two sheepdogs, Ben and Moira. Someone within the family came up with the brilliant idea that they should invest in a sheep for the sheepdogs. So, in a typical Brisbane backyard, Shank was introduced into the mix. Ben and Moira chased him ragged. Eventually, Shank went to the big pasture in the sky, after the Millers ceremoniously cooked him and ate him for dinner. Shank had the last laugh. He was as tough as an old boot and almost inedible.

Since we became the Beverley Hillbillies, I have come to know a little more about various fowls and animals. Chooks are psycho and will stop at nothing to go for my throat. Geese are extremely loud and bite. Alpacas and llamas make good sheep guards but have unpleasant manners, similar to camels. Ducks just create torrents of duck poo wherever they are. As do horses. Horse poo, not duck poo. Horses also kick, bite and slobber. Sheep have the weirdest eyes I have ever seen and are close relatives of chooks in homicidal behaviour. Male sheep, in particular, often end up in the pot after they cease to be cute lambs and became antisocial in the extreme.

In what is left of my romantic mind, calves are beautiful creatures. Their enormous, kohl-rimmed eyes, their obvious intelligence (more than sheep anyway) and their smooth coats have always appealed to me. When our former neighbour, Lorna added Stevie the calf to her menagerie, I thought he was just a perfect example of all I love about calves.

And now Stevie has also gone to that big pasture in the sky. Amongst other things, Stevie was included in some delicious sausages with plenty of parsley and other goodies. As I cooked them last evening, I noted with pleasure that Stevie's sausages produced very little fat.

I have decided that personally eating Stevie was a big mistake. I knew him. Perhaps he knew me. Or perhaps he was a tad upset with the whole series of events. Who can blame him?

In the early dawn this morning, I needed to sit on the loo for a most distressing episode. For me anyway. In guilty misery, as I crept back into bed, I wondered if Stevie had pointed his bone at me. Or cast a hex.Then I realised that Stevie's actions were not confined just to me. Michael took his turn on the throne with a similar outcome. Feeling entirely emptied, we commiserated with each other and sent a skyward apology.

Stevie had definitely had his revenge.

The moral of this story is across generations. Shank and Stevie are both perfect examples.

Obviously, never eat an animal that you know.

Why did HooRoo go to the Gabba?

He wanted to play cricket, of course!

Two sheepdogs with no sheep?

Maybe the Millers consulted this book!

Then it was on for young and old.

 Until Shank became dinner.

I never trust a chook...

but I do have a soft spot for calves.

This was a first world problem for me this morning...

and a great deal of this product was required in the aftermath.

I have a feeling that both Shank...

and Stevie had the last laughs. 

That was Quick. Goodbye Spring.

"Men’s stiff collars wilted by nine in the morning. Ladies bathed before noon, after their three-o’clock naps, and by nightfall were like soft teacakes with frostings of sweat and sweet talcum. . ." 

This is one of my favourite quotes from "To Kill A Mockingbird". Our young heroine, Scout, describes summer in Maycomb with such vivid language that I am right there with her in that dusty little town. 

Actually, feeling like one of Maycomb's ladies is not particularly difficult today. The sky is overcast again and the humidity is high. Summer has slammed into the Wheatbelt with very little warning and not enough time to allow us to catch our breaths. 

I have spent the last three months longing for the sun and the warmth. When will I ever learn to be careful what you wish for?

The early winter was quite pleasant after a weirdly wet late summer and autumn that caused the Avon River to break her banks. Farmers were confident of a good season. Then June was exceptionally dry, so they ceased to be cheerful and became increasingly anxious. 

I am convinced the weather gods listened to every whinge. As a result, the rain started in early July and didn't let up until the end of August. The cool weather continued with further bursts of showery days.  We were still wearing cardigans during the day right through October. Sure, there were some really beautiful days, but none too many of them. And the nights continued to be cold, like ugg boots and fluffy dressing gowns cold.

So, after a wet and long winter and an exceedingly short spring, November has erupted with hot days and warm nights. As I sit here in the Gallery, the streets are practically deserted in the stillness of mid-afternoon heat. Today, I have sold one postcard.

The good news is that any risk of frost vanished during October. The crops have taken on a fiercely golden-straw hue. Harvest is in full swing for some. Others are patiently waiting for their time, with half an eye on the sky, watching for an unexpected thunderstorm. Hoping for the best. Farming is and will remain an intense gamble. Climate change is not doing anybody any favours.

For the second year in a row, these conditions are proving trying for our much-loved plants, particularly the deciduous trees. As new leaves sprout, they are being burnt off by the sun's intensity. We had hoped to have our courtyard built and our pots moved to their new positions before summer struck. 

No such luck, thanks to our battles with the Water Corporation and Western Power. However, we may be close to the end of our five-month-marathon disputes. The Water Corporation finally admitted their mistake and installed a new water main. We still have the old water main along our boundary. But at least this old water main has been decommissioned. Pity about the dust storms.

Yesterday, after a flurry of e-mails, Western Power made a reasonable offer for our domestic connection. We were heartily relieved and immediately accepted the offer, returning their document within a couple of hours so they could generate an invoice for us. Unfortunately, safe in their air-conditioned offices, they have yet to issue that invoice. 

So, on Monday I will be returning to mobile and e-mail to request a bit more urgency (again) in connecting us to power. When will this saga ever end? *sigh*

At four o'clock, I shut the doors to the Gallery. With a little help from Michael,  I wiggled  my round body into my polka dotted togs and headed for the pool with Jan. Vanessa and Lynn were already there. We formed a formidable coven of slightly grumpy witches and kept the hoards of children at bay with minimal fuss. We had an entire hour of cool luxurious bliss. 

How lucky we are to have a town pool!

One up on Maycomb.

Beverley's Avon River - usually bone dry in February. Except this year...

Great advice. Unless you have a houseboat...

Looking towards the bridge. The foreground has become part of the river.

Early winter rush hour.

A smallish fire at an outdoor event during winter.

Which happened, solidly...

What happened to spring? Where were all the fresh days gradually warming up giving us breathing space before summer?

Bollocks!

The heat is ON.

All hail to our pool!

Another Round with Yet Another Department of Stealth and Total Obscurity

After a couple of pleasantly paced and relatively stress-free days, we have returned to our default position of battling with bureaucracy.

First of all, I will throw a few bouquets in the right direction before I launch the brickbats. Avon Valley Glass have been a dream. We have ordered and had installed two security screens onto the front and back doors of Station House. We are now parents of two brand spanking new screen doors that can allow our home to breath at night. Peter and Travis were early and worked like navvies in the late morning heat to complete the job. Their work was immaculate and they cleaned up. Thank you to Peter, Travis and Kristy and all the team at Avon Valley Glass for your prompt, cheerful and efficient attention.

We also enjoyed the company of Michelle and Lyn on Tuesday for lunch. Michelle had been responsible for the impromptu kidnapping of Michael's shoes from Darryl's party as she had an identical pair. I kid you not. I have photographic evidence.She and old friend Lyn decided to combine a day trip to the Avon Valley with the reunion of the second pair of shoes to their correct owner.

Wednesday was a mix of massage and medicine. New and proud owner of "Norishabley", Janet, performed miracles with her hands on both of us. From being barely able to bend yesterday, my back and I were most relieved at the improvement. We spent the later afternoon in Northam on a quest for a new general practitioner.

Due to a series of circumstances, we have been hankering for a rural doctors' practice that would understand the medical pros and cons of being middle-aged Beverley Hillbillies. And, much to our surprise, we seemingly hit the jackpot. After a rapid fire double appointment, our new quack had simplified Michael's meds, ordered a doppler for his troublesome legs and organised a NON fasting blood test and a bone density scan for me. She apologised for being late, answered all our questions, had a sense of humour and was easily understood. As Michael has a touch of industrial deafness, this was the bonus.

Back to the grindstone. Our Inside Woman at Automated Surveys had been trying to make contact with the latest Operative at Western Power. I am calling this chap a Secret Agent as I suspect he is somewhere in the vicinity of the Cone of Silence within CONTROL. Either that or he is an evil fiend from the Other Side.

He is uncontactable at present.  In his cover as Design Team Leader at Western Power, he may be conducting a delicate mission. Or he may still be suffering from Failure to Launch as he was recently on holidays. Or so we have been told. My best guess is that he is a clone of the enormous floating heads that litter the corridors of Centrelink and he defected to the greener pastures of Western Power.

If all of these scenarios are incorrect, then what could possibly be his reason for silence? Apparently, there are those in the hallowed halls of Western Power who consider Michael to be a scary, disgruntled customer. Yes, he bloody well is a disgruntled customer. But scary? This is Michael, ladies and gentlemen. a slightly scruffy, not terribly tall bloke whose legs offer very little means of support. The most mild-mannered, tolerant, slow-to-anger man I have ever met. But he has had enough. As have I.

A couple of weeks ago, we had a wonderfully refreshing conversation with our heroine from within Automated Surveys. Western Power had given her the happy news that they were going to treat us as domestic customers and connect our home, as soon as possible, at the usual $1300 charge rather than mind-blowing $27000 they had previously wanted us to pay.

And so, we have waited with bated breath for Further Action from our Great Energy Utility. And so far, nothing has happened and we are still accessing power via an extension cord.

Unfortunately, in finally adding a water main into the middle of our gravel laneway behind the house, the Water Corporation broke the tough, compacted surface and transformed it into a very dusty thoroughfare. So now, we have clouds of dusts, still no power connection and we are unable to open the windows on the north side of our house unless we have rain. And this week's temperatures are in the mid thirties with high humidity.

Michael has progressive emphysema and asthma, amongst other conditions. He nearly died three years ago from double pneumonia and has had multiple hospital admissions. Due to structural damage to his left lung, he can't dispel the fine dust if it enters his respiratory system. This new issue of excessive dust means he is even more susceptible to chest infections and asthma attacks. Oh goody.

This situation has now become a potential health disaster. I do not use those words lightly. We need our domestic electrical connection so we may install air conditioners. Then, the problem of the dust will be resolved and after five long months, we can finally finish our home.

Please, Mr. Design Team Leader at Western Power, end this farce.

Pick me! Pick me!

Our doors from Avon Valley Glass. Slight exaggeration of the house.

Our new medical practice.

Bollocks...back to reality.

Our heroine from Automated Surveys.

Our Man from Western Power?

Which leads to this...

I couldn't have said it better myself.

And now, just to add to our hassles, we have Heat and Dust.

Which means I get to saddle up for another day.

Michael's Shoes Go to Fremantle.

On returning home from the Party of the Century at Darryl and Wendy's house, we were somewhat worse for wear for a few days. As a result, sorting out Kermit's boot, where we had attempted (and failed) to sleep and finding all our belongings took longer than anticipated.

Much to our horror, we discovered my relatively new Nikon camera was missing. We have searched high and low for my beautiful bright yellow camera to no avail. That it has an outer black rubbery cover means it may have slipped into a dark recess and is just waiting to be found. I had not realised just how much I used it until I lost it! I continue to live in hope. Naturally, the camera will probably surface from its hidey hole the minute I purchase its replacement.

Then I thought I had lost my good walking shoes, with my orthotics insitu. This could have turned into a major catastrophe. I eventually located them under the air mattress, which was still residing inside Kermit's rear. The time had come to clean out the 4WD.

Alas, there was no sign of the camera, even after repeated and increasingly desperate searches. Already gloomy, Michael confessed he was unable to find his good walking shoes and they weren't in Kermit either. Bollocks.

Due to his merry hijinks at his brother's birthday, Michael had very few memories of the entire night. The only stand-out episode involved his frantic efforts to prevent impaling himself on Kermit's tow ball. Resembling a mountaineer in serious peril, he had furiously clutched at the seat belt in the back corner of the car to circumvent an unfortunate demise.

I actually imagined the scenario of taking Michael to hospital. "Excuse me, could you look at my husband's private parts? He has had a terrifying encounter with a tow ball!" Yeah...right...

Anyway, I've digressed. Michael's shoes were nowhere to be found. I suggested my increasingly embarrassed husband phone his brother to inquire if any other attendee had handed in a pair of black walking shoes.  And so, after much procrastination, Michael did just that.

Eureka. Darryl had deduced the location of the Missing Shoes. Another party guest had spied a pair of shoes, neatly together, left forlornly under a tree. About the same place we had parked Kermit...In her slightly inebriated state, she had questioned her sanity in leaving what she believed were her shoes outside the house all by themselves.

And so, she had taken the shoes to her home in Fremantle. Where she discovered she had an identical second pair of the same shoes. One pair was hers; the other pair was Michael's.

Unbelievably, Darryl had her mobile number so we could contact her. Just when we were considering the enormity of a five-hour round trip, to collect his shoes, the lady involved in this case of mistaken identity offered to bring Michael's shoes home to Heavenly Beverley. What a woman.

We are expecting Michelle and the shoes tomorrow. She actually sent us a photograph of the two pairs side by side. They were identical.

I think I need to buy a lottery ticket. Maybe I'll win enough money to buy the new camera.

The Scene of the Crime - a serene property in Toodyay

I'm fairly sure this was the cause of most of the trouble.

Michael in full flight at Darryl's birthday party.

What we were trying to avoid as we were only staying one night.

How we imagined sleeping in Kermit.

A lack of space led to this...

followed by this.

Then Michael's version of the Watusi Quickstep went horribly wrong...

which I feared would lead to this.

When in doubt, admit defeat...

or blame Murphy.

However, this story ended very happily for Michael's shoes which will be returning home!

KAOS in Control @ Centrelink

Being born during the age of the dinosaurs, I have very fond memories of the series "Get Smart" that featured the incredible Don Adams as our hero, Max Smart, and Barbara Feldon as the indefatigable 99. Other characters such as the Chief, Hymie, Larabee and the unforgettable Agent 13 (who would appear in any number of obscure hiding places) were the results of the insane imaginations of  Mel Brooks and Buck Henry, who went on to triumph with such movies as "The Nude Bomb", "The Producers", "Young Frankenstein","Blazing Saddles" and "Silver Streak".

Who can picture Max's shoe phone, the Cone of Silence or the entry to Control Headquarters? I have used such gems as "missed it by that much...", "would you believe...?" and "sorry about that (Chief)" on countless occasions since childhood. Only a "Get Smart" devotee understands the significance of these phrases. 

KAOS, the evil arch-enemy of Control, was a far shadier operation and its schemes inevitably ended badly for them. Max adored procedure and protocol and his tendency to "play by the book" complicated even the simplest of missions. Siegfried, the nemesis within KAOS, appeared to share many traits with our man Max at Control and they had a rather cordial and healthy respect for each other. Against all odds, Max and 99 always saved the day and KAOS was soundly humiliated. 

This week, I am sure that I have landed smack in the middle of an episode, but without most of the laughs. I say "most" as I have a habit of trying to see the funny side of any situation. I have managed to extract a snippet of humour from my latest encounter with Centrelink.

This episode started on Tuesday with a letter from the Centrelink Compliance Team. I have had a relationship of some sort with Centrelink for thirty years and I had never heard of this branch before. The letter made as much sense as one of Agent 86's mad plans. Centrelink wanted to confirm my details to make sure I was receiving the correct benefit. No other information. Except to cheerfully remind me they may terminate my payment if I didn't contact them by 13 November. Que?! 

Wanting to sort this issue out as swiftly as possible, I attempted to ring the attached telephone number. In spite of the letter stating I could call between 8am and 5pm, this was not the case in Western Australia. I called just after 3pm and nobody was picking up. In annoyance, I rang the Complaints Line, as I still had no idea what information Centrelink could possibly need.

The long-suffering voice on the other end of the phone proved an excellent choice for Centrelink, as she appeared to be devoid of any emotion resembling compassion. She also told me, without a skerrick of insincerity, that she did not believe Centrelink's automated letters were threatening in any way, shape or form.

Better was to come. I asked if the Compliance Team could ring me to designate which of my details they didn't possibly already have on their system. In a breathtakingly even tone, our complaints officer revealed that the Compliance Team were a "Virtual Team" and were so secret that they were uncontactable directly and certainly didn't ring anybody.

As I write this, the visions of enormous heads floating about in the corridors of Centrelink cyberspace have been activated by my seriously warped sense of humour. At the time, I felt incredibly vulnerable.

On Wednesday, I finally made contact with Compliance Team "head" Jeff/Geoff/Major Tom, who was not terribly helpful in answering my questions directly. He kept muttering about profit and loss statements that we should have submitted to the great Centrelink Chief/God/Cone of Silence and actively tried to dissuade me from seeing our accountant Ryan to sort out this mess. He also made the outstanding admission that the appropriate Centrelink form he was going to issue was "difficult for some customers".

We travelled to Northam on Thursday to visit our Inside Man/Centrelink Codebreaker/Mild Mannered Accountant Ryan with our sorry tale of woe. He responded to our plight by ordering us tea, coffee and biccies, found a convenient phone box and changed into his superhero outfit. He rang Jeff/Geoff/Major Tom to ascertain what information Centrelink required in Plain English.

The Truth Was Out There. Back in June, Michael had decided (even though we weren't required to do so) to bring our tax returns up to date. The industrious Ryan had completed this task with swiftness and alacrity. We had felt like Model Citizens doing our duty.

Centrelink seems to spend far more time checking other departments for Red Flags/Reds Under The Bed rather than having enough staff on the ground in their Centres. That we had completed all our recent Tax Returns had been noticed by the enormous floating heads. Apparently, we should have lodged all of these Top Secret Documents within fourteen (14) days to Centrelink.

Once Ryan had sorted out this extraordinarily Complex Issue from talking to Jeff/ Geoff/ Major Tom, he printed out the required documents so we could immediately hand them into Centrelink Headquarters in Northam. And he did not charge us a brass razoo for his time.

This week has been quite a difficult time for me on many levels. The Black Dog has been nibbling my arse to make sure I know he's there. Actually, on Wednesday night, he announced his presence with an enormous First Strike, reminding me he was wanting to Take Control. That night, I was in my own personal Abyss.

So on Thursday, I was still battered and bruised. After leaving the safe haven of Byfields, we ventured forth to Centrelink. In the past, I have been able to lodge forms, have them photocopied and returned to me in one fairly straightforward move. Not anymore. Photo ID was also required and we had be "Wait to be Called".

Needing distraction, I was playing Solitaire on my phone. When the brisk and humourless representative called my name, I went to face her without Michael by my side. Big Mistake. I was trying to turn off the game without success. She accused me of being rude by playing with my phone and not making eye contact with her. I turned my phone over and she then made the pointed suggestion I could turn my phone off. In my flustered state, my brain had left the room. I felt intimidated and embarrassed. I left the tax returns with her to be processed and fled back to the waiting room chairs.

When my name was called, again, to retrieve our documents, Michael strode over to her desk. I didn't want her to have the satisfaction of seeing my tears. Even so, she couldn't help stamping our initial letter from the Compliance Team with a flourish that showed us, without a shadow of a doubt, who was In Charge.

Today is Sunday and my mood is more stable. Now I can see the humour in this latest absurd encounter with Centrelink. Floating heads, obtuse usage of language and procedures and the purposeful sense of dread created by their communication style are all designed to keep the poor, the sick, the disabled and the unemployed feel exposed as unworthy. The process is monstrous.

Michael paid his taxes during his almost forty years of employment. I received a Parenting Payment from 2005 when I left a bad marriage. Applying for DSP/Carer Payment was an exhausting marathon of endless forms, countless phone calls and extensive visits to the various Centrelink offices. Contrary to some views, any Centrelink document is a maze of confusion and any communication with their operatives can't be taken as gospel. We certainly do not receive Centrelink pensions for fun.

Time to lighten the tone of this post. The Centrelink monolith is less scary is we can poke fun at this institution every now and then. That these people can talk about "Virtual Teams" and "difficult to fill out this document" and that we are required to wait until a Grand Poohbah deigns to process forms or answer enquiries should be treated with as much frustrated amusement as possible. If, in our dealings with the KAOStic system that is Centrelink, we all hold our heads high, laugh a little (or a lot) and treat ourselves with respect, their culture of contempt may change.

Oh, and have a Secret Agent or a superhero or a mild mannered support person on the side.

I have not been at my best this week...

Attempting to contact the giant, floating "Talking Heads" took three calls.

Disempowerment is the Name of the Game.

This is one of their tactics.

So we feel we are trapped in a Cone of Silence...

and may cause the Centrelink clients to feel Centrelink is an evil organisation...

So find yourself a gorgeous Secret Agent

or a mild mannered superhero masquerading as an accountant.

Perhaps Centrelink staff could take note?