And Now For Something Completely Different - Plain Tales From The Toilet.

A very long time ago, I read a book of stories detailing British rule in India during their final decades in the twentieth century. That book was titled "Plain Tales From The Raj" and documented life in a simple and often nostalgic way. The "plain" reality  of their lives included daily routines, travelling to the Hill Country to escape the summer heat, the vital position of the "ayah" for the children and all the other servants, the social life and British bureaucracy. The book did not shy away from the difficulties often experienced by the Anglo-Indians. as well as the racial barriers and segregation faced by the majority of the Indian population. However, "Plain Tales From The Raj" was a wonderful read, definitely a book one might leave in the toilet for those times an extended sit might be on the cards. 

Most Australians I know have generally easy-going relationships with their toilets, which remain functional devices for specific purposes, but may also be a refuge from small children, a chance to gather one's thoughts, create scathingly brilliant ideas, enjoy a game on one's phone, the next chapter of a book or just quiet time.

Originally, having a wee or a poo might involve sitting or standing at a structure over a hole in the ground just next to your humpy or tent or simple structure made out of whatever material was at hand - hessian, scavenged scrap or corrugated iron. As houses grew, the introduction of outdoor dunnies became all the rage, situated at the rear of the properties so that the "night soil men" operating the night carts in lanes could collect all the daily human waste in its pan through a external flap and replacing with a clean pan for the following day. The seat and pan underneath were also referred to as "a thunderbox" with the whole structure known as "the dunny". Toilet paper was virtually non existent, with squares of newspaper or the phone-book hung on a hook within the confines of the dunny. Some toilets had neither a roof nor a door, illustrating that yesterday's Australians were certainly not squeamish about being discovered in the midst of necessary bodily functions.

Toilets in Australia have also been known the loo, the bog, the crapper, the shithouse, the lav or more formally the W.C. (water closet). A favourite nickname for one was coined by my first husband. Our toilet, situated in our half of an elderly Queenslander (house on stilts) uttered a deep and prolonged guttural noise whilst flushing and was thenceforth known as the crogan. 

I must admit to rather intense irritation when Australians declare that they are off to "the bathroom". Really? A good friend of ours was reminiscing, as a young child just arrived from the U.K., asking where the bathroom in the house was during a visit to an Australian family, She was promptly shown the bathroom, which didn't help her cause, as what she really needed was a wee...

I blame Americans for this outcome. They have no problem with the right to bear arms, and using those arms on an extremely frequent basis, yet they could not cope with an episode of "Bluey" when Bandit lets rip a fart, known much more gently as a fluff in this magnificent children's animated series. Another great Australian fart scene is during a wonderful movie called "The Sum Of Us", featuring Jack Thompson and a young Russell Crowe, when Jack's character, who has suffered a stroke, nevertheless continues narrating to the audience whilst plonked on the loo and also lets fly a most impressive fart. The Americans seem to have completely lost touch with that famous fart scene in "Blazing Saddles", released in 1974, now regarding the mention any bodily functions (sometimes even including breastfeeding) as Topics Not To Be Mentioned.

Returning to the argument at hand - like our friend Jen, who does one do upon asking for the bathroom if there is no toilet in there? Drop your drawers in the bath? Balance perilously above the vanity basin? Retreat in shame to ask awkwardly for the actual toilet?  Would not the whole process be so much simpler if we all just accepted that a toilet is a toilet and the bathroom is the bathroom? Certainly, there are sometimes toilets placed within the confines of bathrooms, but not always. In fact, during the 1950s,1960s and 1970s, Australian houses often consisted of two bedrooms, with a "sleepout" often becoming the third bedroom and the toilet was located in or adjacent to the laundry. Nowhere near the bathroom.

I fear I may be fighting a losing battle with the encroaching Americanisation of our lives but I will not go down without a fight. If I ever hear myself asking to go to the bathroom, I swear that I will have lost my marbles and I should immediately be removed to the funny farm as quickly as possible.

The end. 

 

 

An excellent addition to any toilet library....

 

 

 

The "Family Meeting" episode which discusses Bandit's "fluff"...

 

 

Jack Thompson and Russell Crowe in the "Sum Of Us". The fart scene was not discoverable through Google...

 

 

Unbelievable... 

 

 

 

 

 

Sophisticated outdoor dunny...

 

 

 

With the door shut...

 

 

 

Without a door!

 

 

 

Suburban Brisbane houses with backyard dunnies - 1960s...(I kid you not)

 

The toilet finally comes inside, next to the laundry...

 

 

Very modern bathroom...with chair, but, where's the loo?!

 

 

Americans DO have toilets! The difference? I suspect the way the way the water swirls inside the pan. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I Had A Daughter Once...

She turned 40 years of age two days ago. She was such a long-for baby. I had suffered a mid term miscarriage ten months before. I became pregnant almost immediately as my fertility was not an issue. The pregnancy with her was not easy. I bled early on and was terrified I was going to lose another baby to miscarriage.  I was confined to bed-rest for a month and then endued horrendous second term migraines. Eventually, all settled down and the rest of the pregnancy was trouble free until I began labour at 34 weeks gestation.

She was fine for a premmie, apart from becoming tired whilst breast feeding. So, we remained together, learning how to bond, for nearly two weeks. We came home, blissfully, to begin our lives together.

Then we embarked on a nightmare as a family. I gave birth to a little boy who died when he was seven weeks old. My twin girls were stillborn, all before she was three years of age. Finally, we welcomed a live baby boy as her sibling when she was almost three and a half years of age.

A surprise package in the form of another brother arrived two years later. She did not bond with him well, due to his physical and later other disabilities. In spite of their similarities, she could not build any meaningful relationship with him.

She was never an easy child. She was severely bullied at primary school, but was unable to respond positively to counselling,  as she was far more intelligent that those well meaning school psychologists trying to help her.

We rescued her from difficult accommodation situations at least twice. Usually with less than twenty-four hours notice. She lived in Beverley on and off, with us or with  a mutual friend, for a while.  

She possessed a brilliant mind,  which actually was the catalyst for so many of her issues. She achieved a Masters at uni and was working towards a second Masters when disaster struck in the from of COVID19.

Her world, I believed, collapsed. So, she needed to blame somebody and I was an easy target. She tried to take out a VRO (Violence Restraining Order) against me. That didn't pass mustard, so instead I was issued with a summons for a Conduct Order. That was one of the most horrendous processes ever in my life, called a Shuttle Conference  Callum supported me through this truly dreadful day. All based on lies that my posts about her on this blog prevented her from becoming employed. A simple search on LinkedIn confirmed that she had not been unemployed when she stated she had been and had nothing to do with any post I had written about her.

The Conduct Order demanded I removed every piece, every photo and even the mention of her name from this blog. That was one of the most emotion driven tasks I have ever undertaken. And not contact her in any way, shape or form for twelve months. 

But her revenge, and I use that word quite deliberately, was not yet over. We were summoned back five months later as she had requested an extension to the Conduct Order. We waited, distraught for four hours in the stark and soulless Magistrates Court waiting room until the procedure was dismissed due to her non-attendance.  

The worst part of this tragedy is that she had chosen to take Michael's surname as her own. He could not cope with her attempted destruction of me, so he finished their relationship. 

If any of Michael's biological children choose to criticise him, (as sometimes they do read my posts and make miserable comments) I shall invite them to put their money where their mouths are and come and see him. Face to face and talk to him. Otherwise I will just have the confirmation that they are just bullies and cowards. 

Most of the time, these days, I cope what she did to us. She is on her own journey and I can't join her. My greatest sadness is that she has cut herself off from her family. I hope she has found happiness in her own way. And in spite of all this, I still wish her well for her future.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Presenting The News Of The Beverley Hillbillies - Packed Full Of The Usual Shenanigans!

I have been trying to sit down and write a few posts this month so far. But given our constantly evolving circumstances, which now also includes having my right forearm in plaster, typing away on my trusty laptop has not been that simple. Having my dominant hand somewhat hampered is providing its own amusement, as I am having to be very patient (not my strong suit) and constantly correcting interesting spelling and bizarre accidental grammar mistakes!

So, here is our news...I shall try to be as brief as possible...which probably means I shall end up with a post that is the length of a Masters thesis!

1. Suffering through the Subdivision from Hell -

Almost three years ago, our tenants who operate a hairdressing salon within our building approached us to buy two of our shops. We believed that, financially, this would be a sound decision - less rates, less insurance, less maintenance. 

However, due to delays, miscommunications, apathy and ourselves 'dropping the ball' as a result of our health issues, we have found ourselves with a blowout of another estimated twelve months before the subdivision can be finalised. This means another year of living hand-to-mouth with no funds from the sale of the shops to reduce our debt. 

We are very disappointed by these circumstances, however we intend to propel ourselves back into this project, grit our teeth and wait for the process to conclude. 

The good news is that we are now fully informed and I intend to keep in regular contact with the surveying company handling the subdivision, the electrical contractors and the settlement agent. And hopefully, achieve the outcome we desire before we get carted off in long black boxes!

2. Separating the Nincompoops from the Good Guys in my quest for Alex to live 'an ordinary life' and achieve his goal of opening his own drop-in cafe for disadvantaged people before he turns 40 -

Our Autistic Superstar, Alex, is currently 34 years of age. He has been a participant with the NDIA/S since 2019.  Those of you familiar with this agency will know dealing with them is not all beer and skittles. The National Disability Insurance Agency and Scheme was set up to assist people with disability achieve their best possible outcomes, along with safety and independence.

Alex, who has normal intelligence, does not understand his current Plan. I struggle with the jargon and changing conditions. For whatever reason, the NDIS is littered with complexity and has a generally combative style, regarding participants and their families who may question their own Plans as the enemy. Added to the general mayhem is the handsome benefits paid to the management agencies. For example, the NDIA pay Alinea, the organisation that employs Alex, over $2000 a week. He gets paid $540 a fortnight...

So far, Alinea has provided no evidence they are providing assistance for his primary goal of opening his cafe. Alex and I have decided that we will give Alinea another twelve months to demonstrate that they are able to do so. Personally, I don't hold out much hope.

For nearly eighteen months, we have been without an effective Support Coordinator, who acts as a conduit between Alex and I and his LAC, whose job is to collect information, prepare Plans and submit them to the NDIA. We were also without a LAC for the best part of this year. In theory, we had one; in reality he did not communicate with us for nearly six months.

We have now secured both a LAC and Support Coordinator, both who appear to be proactive, intelligent, compassionate and communicative. Our ongoing mission is to use Alex's funding effectively whilst attempting to have his Acquired Brain Injury added as a secondary diagnosis. In theory this sounds relatively simple, in reality, this has added to hundreds of hours spent in discussion with Alex's Team, which includes his Rehabilitation Specialist, Neurologist, Speech Pathologist, Podiatrist, Physiotherapist, Rehabilitative Social Worker with a required specialist Occupational Therapist (close to securing one) and specialised Psychologist services (exploring his funding before we assign our chosen practitioner). 

Tomorrow will be another day of chasing reports, checking in with our Support Coordinator on updates, and confirming when an OT will be able to start with Alex. We are also part way through a Functional Capacity Assessment, which is valid for twelve months and will form the base of his new Plan. 

In addition, the rejection of Alex's ABI as his secondary diagnosis by the NDIA, which we expect, will result in another pointless Internal Review before I consult with the Administrative Review Tribunal in 2026. At least, I know that process relatively well.

3. My personal crusade to improve standards in some private hospital settings -  

Michael had hernia surgery at Hollywood Private Hospital just over three weeks ago. Pre-op, the surgeon and anaesthetist and Recovery were all of an exceptional level of care.

Unfortunately, nursing care on the ward was not up to scratch. A nurse who was thoroughly bewildered by Michael's medications and forgot to undertake a second bladder scan after impressing on us that was required as Michael was retaining urine. Unanswered bells. Another nurse who discussed Michael's blood sugar levels loudly and inappropriately at the desk, which we heard. Doors routinely not closed for privacy. A supreme battle to be discharged the following morning - we eventually exited just before 12 noon. And always excuses...Our night duty nurse was the only exception to this list of failures. We have another week to go before I should receive a response to my concerns.

The good news is that my complaints over the years to the Mount Hospital have been both heard and acted upon. I was entering the Mount with some trepidation for surgery on my overgrown ulna bone, which for whatever reason, had decided to push back into my wrist and hand bones, causing pain right up to my shoulder, loss of movement and weakness.  

In hindsight, our worries were not substantiated. The hospital has a new and functional lobby. Our shared room (Michael was boarding as my support person) was clean, had been renovated and no longer had a toilet lid that used to try and decapitate his willy mid-wee. All the day nursing staff - Cheryl and Valeria, Cathy, Elsa and Simran - were attentive, promptly addressing our needs and getting us out the door before 11am. Gora, the night duty nurse, tried his best, but his English was not great and did not proactively respond to my feedback that night staff could consider moderating their volume whilst patients are trying to sleep close by. That feedback will be given to the Patient Liaison Officer along with our generally very happy review.

Needless to say, Mister Ben Kimberley, my orthopaedic surgeon was in his usual top form and I owe special thanks to my anaesthetist, Doctor Chris McGrath, who in spite of additional billing, provided me with such exceptional care that I believe he was worth every cent. My heartfelt gratitude to both Ben and Chris, who made both the surgery and post-operative care as painless as possible. And Chris also made sure I was provided with enough medication to go home feeling assured that I would not have to attend my GP for this purpose anytime soon.

4. Plans for the East End Gallery -

We have been operating our Gallery for almost eleven years. The financial reality, which includes the drawn out length of the Subdivision, means we are not breaking even, let along making an sort of profit. This situation has become unsustainable so we have decided on some relatively drastic measures. The Gallery itself will reduce from 150 square metres over 2 shop spaces to 1 shop space with a capacity of  around 100 square metres, which will include Rebecca Buglass' Studio relocating to the front of the reconfigured Gallery at the window. We will also have to farewell a number of artists as we will consolidate to local artists and minimal non-Wheatbelt artists who have connections with us and are proven sellers in the Gallery.

These changes will allow us to rent out Shop 3 for additional capital. We hope to attract another artisan(s), but we will accept any reasonable tenant for a long term lease. Stay tuned for the news of our revamp over summer and we hope to open the new look East End Gallery in February 2026. 

In the meantime, we have oodles of artists and some fantastic original and unique gift options until we close in our current format on Christmas Eve.

5. And finally, repeated recognition of Michael's status as an innovative and gifted metal sculptor -

Michael has just won the Mixed Media, Textile and Fabric Category at the Northam Art Prize. In addition, another Wheatbelt artist bought 'Hooked' at the same exhibition. We are delighted as this directly follows on from him being awarded the 'Avon Valley Artist for 2025' at the recent York Arts and Crafts Show.

The prize money has allowed him to purchase more materials for the fantastic railway themed panel he is currently planning, plus creating more of his fridge magnet spiders, each arachnid code-named Magda, which has stuck to these utterly unique little creatures since the 1990s. Once we pick them up from being powder coated and attach her red stripe and rare earth magnet, Magda will be back! 

These two awards have also given Michael some much needed confidence to continue with his vision as an artist and enter further art awards. He has always had a sense of 'not being good enough', being self taught, but his tenacity and perseverance over the last 45 years is being applauded.

And I could not be prouder of him.   

 

 

Subdivision  blues -

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This is our Alex, who wants to live 'an ordinary life' and achieve his goals... 

 

 

 

What being in hospital feels like...

 

 

 

What should be hospitals' number 1 priority... 

 

 

 

Michael - post op after hernia surgery...

 

 

 

Me post op yesterday! 

 

 

With my fabulous support person (enjoying morning tea)...

 

 

 

The East End Gallery November 2025 -  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Michael, being presented with his award at the Northam Art Prize...

And the winning sculpture - 'In The Mix' returning to the East End Gallery today and looking to come to your home. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hi Ho Hi Ho, It's Off To Hospital We Go (Again)...

Today dawned as Michael's date with Doctor Bhandari, lovely chap, general surgeon and cricket lover, who was in charge of sewing up Michael's belly button hernia. Very early start for us - vertical at five o'clock in the morning, breakfast done and dusted by six o'clock, followed by interminable fasting until he went to theatre just before two o'clock. In between was driving to the Big Smoke, lots of paperwork, with episodes of utter boredom and high anxiety, mostly in the operating theatre holding bay where we waited with waning anticipation until, suddenly, all was GO.

Thankfully, the interval Michael was under the care of Others was relatively short and punctuated by two informative texts, reporting on where he was and then a final phone-call confirming he was on his way back to Room 15 in Howell Ward in Hollywood Hospital. I heaved a huge sigh of relief when Michael appeared cheerful, hungry and surprisingly switched on.

We have been surrounded by some really lovely staff - from the surgeon and the anaesthetist to the orderlies, the nurses to the domestics, the reception to the cafe attendants. Although there's no place like home, we have been particularly heartened by the experience of this hospital stay.

In addition, Michael has looked incredibly sexy in his glorious powder blue patient 'dress', his white knee high support stockings, his disposable undies (he was aghast at the concept of going without any jocks) and the Pro Hart inspired splashing of red disinfectant all over his belly. 

This evening's entertainment included two bladder ultrasounds to check the volume of wee still sloshing around and the theatre of Michael's night time tablets being dished out to him by our attentive and compassionate nurse, Nick. Nicole, who admitted Michael onto Howell Ward was cheerful and efficient. And then with any luck, we will both drift off to Cloud Cuckoo Land and enjoy as much slumber as is possible in a hospital room.

The only brickbats I can currently toss are concerning the ancient pillows sporting the latest fashion of torn plastic protectors, the stained and torn sheets and the illusion of thin coverlets masquerading as blankets. Hence, expecting the worst whilst hoping for the best, we arrived with our own pillows in clean, fresh pillow cases and warm and woolly blankets, which were lovingly knitted by Michael's grandmother.

In a couple of weeks, we will likely be switching beds. The ulna in my right forearm, which was shortened and had a plate inserted in 2015, has completely healed and grown again and is now back pushing onto my wrist bones, causing pain, weakness and limited movement. 

As a result, I will be re-visiting Mister Ben Kimberley, who put the bloody plate in, for an opinion and hopefully a solution. Which will probably involve taking the old plate out, putting a new plate in...in, out, in, out and shake it all about...along with a further shortening of this annoying bone. What is most irritating is that I would really like a growth spurt in my leg bones, but that seems rather unlikely in my rapidly ageing state.

And thus, I will be the hospital patient and Michael will draw the shorter straw by enduring the luck of the draw in securing a reasonable sofa bed as the boarder.  With our own pillows and blankets.

 

 

Michael in action, creating spiders just prior to his surgery... 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And today, post-op and still smiling...