WRITING 101- DAY TWELVE- DARK CLOUDS ON THE (VIRTUAL) HORIZON

~ creakingbones ~ 1 Comment

It’s 10am on Wednesday the 22nd April and I’m sitting in a down town cafe waiting for a mate to join me for coffee. He’s late as usual and I can guess his lame brain excuse. He forgets that he uses it every time.

He’s a really big bloke and never just comes in, he always bursts in. Today was no different except he had company. He was with a codger who looked old enough to be his father.

Before I had a chance to say anything, my mate plopped down in a chair, beckoned to the old bloke to do the same and said to him,”  This is Max, I told you about him on the way over”. My mate then half turned to me and smiled out the side of his mouth but still didn’t acknowledge me verbally.  The old fellow just looked me up and down. His face was expressionless, he just licked his lips.

When the lip licking was finished, the old bloke, whose name I still didn’t know said,”He looks OK to me, not the stupid bastard you described”. I felt my hackles begin to rise but I kept my peace. My so called ‘mate’ said,” Looks can be deceiving, he is quite devious, you can never tell when you’ve got him, he’s a clever lying bastard”.

I nearly broke in to their conversation but kept my mouth shut, waiting to hear what was going to come next. I didn’t have to wait long. My ‘mate’, talking to no one in particular said,”I’ll go order the coffee, short black for you”, he said, looking to his elderly companion.”Yair”, was the reply.

The big bloke rose from the table and I heard him give the order to the girl behind the cash register.

On his return, he again ignored me and addressed his comment to the old man,” We come here almost every day. It gets damn boring, hearing his yarns over and over again, month in and month out. I don’t know how much longer I can put up with it”.

Something told me to keep a lid on my rising anger. The old bloke said to my mate,” Well, I haven’t heard him say a bloody word since we got here”.

There was a short pause in their conversation as three cups of coffee suddenly arrived at the table. Short black for the old boy, cappuccino for my erstwhile ‘mate’ and the same for me. My ‘mate’ had obviously paid for the three of us.

“Pitty you can’t take a leaf out of his book then”, was the mate’s reply to the old chap. My ‘mate’ continued,” I wanted you to meet Max because the two of you are like bloody twins. You never shut up and neither does he. At least with Max he’s not a bull shitter like you. When I said he was devious, a liar and you could never tell when you had him, I was really describing you”.

Before either the old bloke or myself had a chance to say anything, my ‘mate’ kept up his running commentary on the old blokes apparent faults. “I promised my mother I’d pop in and see you  every day as she used to do before she couldn’t do it any more. Well for the last ten years I’ve heard the same stories from you almost every day. I know that it’s just make believe but that doesn’t make it any easier to listen to. At least Max’s yarns have an element of truth about them. You are just a plain old pain pain the arse”.

With that I saw that the old boy’s lip began to quiver and I thought he was about to burst into tears.

I couldn’t hold back, things had gone too far, I just had to interrupt. I tapped my ‘mate’on the shoulder, he had his back half turned to me, and I said angrily to him,” That’s enough, you’ve not had the decency to introduce me to your guest, you’ve insulted me and now you’re insulting him.  Why don’t you just piss off”!

With that, the two of them burst out laughing, great smiles on their faces. The old bloke said to me,”I’ve known him for years, his father and I were great mates. One day he told me what a practical joker you are and how he wanted to get back at you for the last great trick you played on him, but he didn’t know how. I put him up to today’s bit of fun. It’s worked like a beauty. He really got you going’.

My mate, now reinstated from erstwhile status, offered his hand to me and said,” Now we’re equal, no harm done, just a bit of fun, I’ll buy you a beer to make up for it”.

What could I say?  I shook his hand and said,” good one, I’d no idea that you two were’t fair dinkum. Let’ go to the pub.”

We finished our coffee and off we went.

If my mate thinks that’s the end of it, he’s very much mistaken. I’ve got a ripper of an equaliser in mind.

WRITING 101-DAY 13-SERIALLY FOUND.

~ creakingbones

I finished Day 4, Serially lost, part three with the image of an Harley rider wearing a kilt whilst riding his bike. When I made this image at parade, they were riding slowly and their kilts were not flapping  about. Had they been, the crowd would have found the answer to the classic question, ‘What does a Scotsman wear under his kilt’. It would have been obvious to everyone.

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WEARING THE KILT AT THE NATIONAL AUSTRALIAN HOG RALLY

I added that at a later date I’d refer back to the kilted Harley Rider. Little did I know that Day 13 would provide me with that opportunity, so here we go.

It was the Harley Owners Group National Australian Rally that had brought me to Alice Springs.

I’d hoped to get there with plenty of time to find my mates from our Monaro HOG Chapter and I found I did get there in plenty of time.

I was really fortunate in The Alice. Firstly, I found good accommodation not too far from the rally site.

Then, in Todd Mall, dead in the heart of Alice Springs, I found a good spot amongst  the crown to wait for the parade of Harley riders to pass by.

The rumbling sound of Harley exhausts let the crowd know that the riders were approaching and suddenly there they were, to be found behind their obliging police escort vehicle.

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MONARO CHAPTER HARLEY OWNERS GROUP RIDERS IN TODD MALL, ALICE SPRINGS

As Harleys’ do, they delighting the crowd whom had found time to gather in the mall.

Then, along came members of the Monaro Chapter, resplendent in our bright orange T shirts. The standout colour made them easy to find amongst the other riders.

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MEMBERS OF THE MONARO HOG CHAPTER RUMBLE ALONG TODD STREET, ALICE SPRINGS

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My Chapter mate in the above image had a look of surprise on his face when he found me, camera in hand, in the Todd Mall crowd. He’d obviously forgotten that I’d told him where to find me.

After the parade was finished everyone moved on to the banks of the Todd River that runs through the middle of The Alice.

The Todd is famous for the ‘Henly on Todd Regatta’, an annual event held in the river. In the river does not mean,’in the river’. It really means, where the Todd occasionally has a bit of water in it or is in flood. For the rest of the time  the ‘river’ is as dry as a bone.

Again, I was able to find a great spot to watch the various Harley Owner Groups( HOG) compete in our own Harley section of the Henly on Todd Regatta.

Scanning the crowd through my 200 mm lens I found my mates lolling about on the far bank. I found it easiest to sneak a few long distance shots of them before I wandered over.

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MONARO HOG MEMBERS RELAXING ON THE BANKS OF THE TODD RIVER, ALICE SPRINGS AT THE HENLY ON TODD REGATTA.

Searching in my camera bag, I found my 24-70mm lens and switched over to it. By the time I’d made the switch I was surprised to find that the group had split up to grab a grab a bit to eat. I have always made it my practice to ask before I take ‘portrait’ style  images of people. This time around, most of the blokes found an excuse and knocked back the opportunity to be recorded for posterity. I found it very strange indeed.

I searched my memory and couldn’t find any other occasion upon which such outrageous excuses had been found by people to avoid being photographed.

Only one couple found the time to be photographed.

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TWO HAPPY MONARO CHAPTER MEMBERS WHO FOUND TIME TO BE PHOTOGRAPHED AT THE HENLY ON TODD REGATTA, ALICE SPRINGS.

After looking at my watch, I found that I had only an hour or so left to photograph the action before I was due to meet up with some long time residents of The Alice for dinner. I thought I’d need a bit of time to find the venue so I excused myself from the Monaro gang and found my way back to my view point from where I made a few images of the regatta  before finding my way back to my accommodation to clean up ready for dinner.

Later, as I downloaded my images to the lap top, I found that I’d misjudged the light and as a consequence, quite a few of the shots found their way into the post process file. I knew I would find them once I got back home.

I hope that anyone reading this will find it interesting and if they look hard enough, will surely find the mistakes I found amongst the images I revived from the posts process file. After a bit of work, they did find their way into the Alice Springs album. All of the images that are follow here I found in the Alice file..

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This is the starting gate for the Henly on Todd Regatta. Note the name. I’ve found that things are a lot more relaxed in the Northern Territory. Political correctness is sometimes allowed to take a back seat.

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As you can see, even the kids find time to enjoy the Regatta.

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The lady members of the Blacktown HOG Chapter put on a sterling show but found the going heavy in the sand and came a cropper. This let the organisers find the grounds for their disqualification.

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I found many more images too but on reflection I thought viewers would find too many photos a bit tedious.  As a consequence, what you find here is all you are going to get.

If you find that a bit rough, find yourself another blog to read.

Hoo roo  for now.

WRITING 101-DAY 11- WHERE DID YOU LIVE WHEN YOU WERE TWELVE.

~ creakingbones ~ 4 Comments

Where did you live when you were twelve?

Quite a journey of unpleasant recall for me. I spent my early childhood on the move with mum and day because of his work.  Where was I at age twelve?

Now for today’s twist, use short, medium and long sentences to compose the response . So, here goes.

For three years, up until I was aged nine, I lived with mom, dad and his brother in a vast, rambling, government supplied residence that went with my dad’s job. The house had covered verandahs all round, expansive rural views and massive front and back yards.

Our backyard was so large that dad’s brother, my uncle, taught me to shoot, using his Browning .22 rifle. We used targets set up against one of our big backyard trees. It was just after the end of WW2 and no one seemed concerned about kids learning to shoot. In the backyard. With real guns.

Even in other peoples backyard. Not any more.

Anyway, to say I was surprised when I first set eyes on our new accommodation when we returned to Sydney would be the understatement of the year.

Three years later, at age twelve I was still uncomfortable there. Dad’s brother had moved somewhere too. I can’t remember where.

The weather board house with a tin roof we lived in was tiny by any standards. It was on a vast corner block and occupied a minute corner of the land it was built on. It had an outside toilet. There was no sewerage connection and the night soil man, the ‘dunny man’, as he was universally know, came at night, once a week. He removed the existing ‘pan’ as it was called and replaced it with a fresh, empty one.

I’ll always remember the smell! It was of fresh hot tar. All the ‘pans’ were hot tar dipped at the depot prior to delivery to ensure hygiene standards were maintained.

The house had a tiny verandah. It faced the main road. I’ll never forget the address, 726 Woodville Road, Villawood. I can use the address freely now. Over 60 years have passed since I lived there, and that address no longer exists. The house is long gone, replaced by factories and warehouses. Any trace of the old house has long vanished, as have my mom and dad.  In different ways of course.

One thing though has remained. The traffic. In the 1950s, Woodville Road was a main two lane thoroughfare connecting the City of Parramatta to it’s southern zones.

In my day, the constant northbound traffic flowed about 6 metres( 20 feet or so) from my bedroom windows. I can still smell the exhaust fumes. No wonder I’m an asthmatic.

The rest of the house was equally dismal. We had a kerosene stove in the kitchen, an ice chest to keep things cool, no hot water unless you lit the chip heater and as for the bathroom. The less said about the galvanised tin bath the better.  Dad had first bath on Saturday morning, mum jumped in next and I came a very very poor last.

Dad did no manual labour, mum stayed home as did the majority of mothers and as for me, I was a perfect little boy, no aroma at all. Not like the two adults with whom I shared the tiny, noisy, draughty, shabbily furnished, cold, miserable place we called ‘the house’, not ‘home’. Mom and dad were both chain smokers, they either rolled their own or smoked untipped Benson and Hedges. Both reeked of tobacco smoke. That didn’t matter because so did every other adult I remember from those days. Everyone smoked, left their cigarette butts all over the place and visitors always left full ashtrays as evidence of their presence.

At that time, WW2 refugees, or ‘reffos’ as they were referred to or, alternatively, ‘Baults’, because they came from areas around the Baltic Sea, were accommodated in a ‘camp’ comprising accommodation in Nissan Huts and it was located not far from our house.

As I said, our house was close to the road. It was also close to a bus stop. So close in fact, that when it rained, the Reffos or Baults took cover on our front verandah to wait for the bus. I’d sometimes wake up in the morning and see strange faces peering at me through the window.

Mom was tolerant and dad was the opposite. When Mom stuck her head out the door and asked them to be quiet and move, sometimes in French, never in German, both of which she spoke fluently,  they generally complied. With dad, his appearance had the opposite effect. He never had to utter a word. His ferocious countenance said it all and using many words in foreign languages our uninvited visitors would retreat to the bus stop.

Once I got used to their presence outside my window, I’d smile and they would smile back. I wasn’t afraid of them, in fact I felt sorry for them. We always moved voluntarily because of dad’s profession. We always had somewhere safe and warm to go to. On the other hand these poor blighters were victims of circumstances over which they had no control.

I hated that house in Villawood. I had no friends my own age living nearby. That probably accounts for the fact that I’m somewhat of a loner. I was allergic to the bark, flowers and the leaves of the tea trees(Leptospermum/Melaleuca) that were prolific in our back paddock.

We had no car and I walked to school, six miles each way as there was no public transport. I hated that school and the kids that went there. Then came high school. A four mile walk to the railway station, a forty five minute trip on the train, then an uphill walk to the high school. I hated that school too.

Yesterday I had a yarn with some local blokes about where they lived when they were twelve. Two of them still lived in the same houses and have been here in town all of their lives. Unlike me, they all had great memories of being 12 and the houses they lived in.

Not like me. I wasn’t happy at 726 Woodville Road, Villawood. When I occasionally have to drive along Woodville Road and have to pass the corner where the house used to be, I breathe a sigh of relief that there is not a vestige of the old house remaining. That’s the one good thing about 726 Woodville Road Villawood.

ADDENDUM TO WRITING 101-DAY 4, PART 3

~ creakingbones

Today when I posted episode 3 of Serially Lost, I left off one image that train buffs might find interesting. What a boof head. No need for a comment there thanks.

I found one of these blighters hanging from the side wall of one of my front tyres. A flat tyre that is. Almost new when I left home and unrepairable after the visit by ‘spike’.

Without further ado, here is the missing image.

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DOG SPIKES COLLECTED ALONG THE OLD GHAN RAILWAY LINE.

WRITING 101: DAY FOUR – SERIALLY LOST -PART THREE, THE LAST.

~ creakingbones ~ 3 Comments

Last night I’d programmed my body clock to rouse me well before sun rise so I could be on my way bright and early. This time the clock worked and I was up and breakfasted on coffee and toast with marmalade jam well before 0500 hrs.

I packed the Landcover in record time and started my navigational preparedness  for the day. First up, I programmed the Magellan with the old Ghan Railway coordinates at the point where I wanted to meet it.

On the image below, the vertical black bars you can see on the screen represent the strength of the data from the satellites the GPS is receiving. The numerals around the concentric circles are identifiers for the satellites.

By pressing the NAV button on the left of the instrument, I can scroll through various screens until I reach the one where I key in the destination coordinates and any way points I may be interested in.

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MY MAGELLAN GPS AND ITS OUTSIDE BOOSTER AERIAL AS MOUNTED ON THE LANDROVER’s DASHBOARD.

Then, after returning to my map, I oriented my compass to the same destination point and recorded the direction by the numbEr of degrees onto the compass card. I’m really attached to this compass, it’s been my constant companion for over 50 years and has never let me down. Probably one of the reasons I’ve never been really lost.

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MY MILITARY ISSUE MAGNETIC COMPAS.

Now, in addition to following the directions by GPS, I can sight along the bearing line on the compass, identify significant landmarks and drive towards them. Few obstacles can defeat the Landcover, except fences. Although uncommon where I’m travelling a fence does cause an immediate stop and creates the necessity to find an opening. It’s an absolute no no to cut a fence, it’s not only irresponsible, it’s also illegal.

In addition to my trusty 1:250,000 maps, I also carry the Australian Gazetteer. No wonder it’s heavy, it has a total of 1017 pages and the volume measures 130 cm( 11 and 3/4 inches)wide, 21.5cm(8 and 1/2 inches) high and 8.5cm(3 inches) thick. Not a back pack item, that’s for sure.

Well, after about another half hour fiddling around I was underway not long after 0530hrs and it wasn’t long before I came across one of the local inhabitants.

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This camel is one of over a million wild camels that inhabit inland Australia’s arid zones. They were first brought to Australia in there 1800s with their Afghan cameleers to provide goods transport to the then inaccessible inland outposts. Would you believe we now export them as racing camels to the Middle East. Our camels are disease free and outstanding examples of their place in the animal kingdom.

It was from the Afghan cameleers that the fledgling Port Augusa to Alice Springs railway got its name, The Ghan.

Now it’s time for a little bit of history. Construction of The Ghan railway commenced in 1878. It was a 1060cm line, more commonly referred to as three foot six gauge. Once the steam trains started running they rapidly gained a reputation for arriving at their destination late. Not by an hour or so, the lateness was measured in days.

Dust storms often covered the track with deep sand, occasional floods washed away the lines and bridges and numerous other incidents caused delays. Each train had a large flat bed car attached behind the locomotive. This car was loaded with rail lines, sleepers, tools and other bits and pieces needed to repair the damaged lines. Both the crew and conscripted passengers were required to carry out the repair work.

Anyway, the line was closed in 1980 after a new line was constructed, eventually stretching from Adelaide in South Australia to Darwin, capital of the Northern Territory.

The new line and its rolling stock are still named’ The Ghan’ and the old Ghan line where I’m headed is now popular with outback tourists like myself.

Well, it wasn’t too far into the day’s run when I came across this abandoned truck just rusting away, all alone. What great yarns it could tell. Just looking at it I could see it had lived a hard life and certainly earned its keep.

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After a few more hours there I was, at the start of the run along the abandoned Old Ghan railway line. This  solitary stand pipe had served the locos and their passengers and freight well and stood as a solitary monument to those bygone days:

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Everything out here gets dusty and when changing camera lenses there is always the chance of the demon dust getting on the camera’s sensor or onto film, if that’s your choice. You can see the spots on this image, it’s clumps of dust on the sensor and sometimes even the built in sensor wobble and shake can’t dislodge it. ‘Them’s the breaks’, as the saying goes.

The trip proceeded without  incident, apart from the almost compulsory punctures and without my onboard air compressor I would certainly have been up the proverbial creek without a paddle.

The following selection of images will give you of an idea of what’s to be seen along the line, it’s well worth the effort and it’s a great glimpse into the great Australian outdoors.

As I got closer to my camp site for the night, my path was crossed by another camel, it seemed to be a fitting end to my run along the old Ghan line. I’m not sure if the camel was grinning at me as it wandered past:Camel near Chamber's Pillar copy

Finally, after changing direction and leaving the line, I arrived at Chamber’s Pillar to camp for the night. The pillar was a navigation aid for the early explorers and is easily spotted in the basically flat surrounding country. I set up camp in the early afternoon, no one else was there and I enjoyed the solitude.

CHAMBER'S PILLAR
CHAMBER’S PILLAR

As you have gathered, today I was never lost, misplaced or even bewildered by my surroundings.

Tonight as I snuggle into my sleeping bag laid out in my sway, I’ll think about the next few days and the real reason I’m heading for Alice Springs. The following image should give you a clue so stand by for a post about it at some future time. Hoo roo for now.

THE REAL REASON FOR THE TRIP
ALICE SPRINGS AND THE REAL REASON FOR THE TRIP

WRITING 101, DAY TEN: HAPPY SNACK AT THE BEACH,

~ creakingbones ~ 11 Comments

When I was just a kid living in a small country town there was no money to spend on take away food. Anyway it was just after WW2 and there was no such thing as a take away place, not in our town anyway.

You can imagine my absolute amazement when my dad was transferred to a place called Cronulla. Three great surf beaches within walking distance of our house, and public tidal salt water swimming pools galore.

Suddenly I became a beach boy, no silly, not a singer, but a ten year old surfie, of sorts.

Then, joy oh joy, I was introduced by my beach going mates to apple pies with cream. There was a take away bakery in the main street, just a short walk from the beach that had all these fresh beauties on the shelf, ready for the application of lashings of fresh cream at customer request.

I can’t remember how much they cost but I can certainly, vividly, remember how wonderful they tasted.

Our little mob would buy one each and have them completely gobbled up by the time we got back to our spot on the promenade outside the surf club building.  Then it was a quick dash into the surf, catch a few waves and back on the promenade to dry off, minus the crumbs and spots of cream from the pies that had been stuck to our little chests and bellies.

How I miss those carefree days in the sun and surf. It lasted for another thirty years. The original pie shop disappeared, to be replaced by two or three more, all competing for our business.  Our gobbling eating habits remained the same and the ritual swim to get rid of the evidence on our skin remained a constant.

Now I ride a motor bike instead of swim and live hundreds of miles from the surf. However, all is not lost, we have two great bakeries in town, both sell apple pies with fresh cream. As I’m sure you will realise, it’s most unwise to ride a motor bike and eat an apple pie with cream at the same time. Remedy, sit on the bike at the kerb, watch the passing parade, gobble down the pie and cream, flick the pie crumbs into the gutter, wipe the cream off the leathers, then lick it off your fingers, put the gloves and helmet back on and quickly ride home for a quick wash. The bike that is.

At seventy five years of age you’d think I had more sense, but an apple pie and cream, what would life be like without one. In fact I think I’ll go and get one right now. Hoo roo.

WRITING 101, DAY NINE: POINT OF VIEW

~ creakingbones ~ 7 Comments

I simply couldn’t believe it, today of all days. All I wanted was for George to realise he wasn’t alone and that I was there to help him.  I’d suggested the park for our outing today because he had told me it had, in the past, been a happy place for him. As we entered the park he indicated a distant bench and suggested we sit there for a while.

As we got closer,  I saw an elderly woman seated on his bench, knitting what appeared to be a small red sweater.  George saw her too and I sensed a growing agitation in his demeanour.

I tried to distract George and turn him away but it was to late. I couldn’t see his face but he seemed to be sobbing. Taking him firmly by the arm I thought I could feel him shivering as I steered him towards the nearby park rotunda where I thought he would have some privacy.

In a low tone of voice I said to him,’ it’s alright George, it’s alright’. George didn’t appear to hear me and although his face was still turned away from me, I sensed that he was continuing to sob.

Looking over my shoulder as we walked away, I saw the old woman staring at us, on her face, an expression of surprise, or was it recognition?

George stumbled up the few steps into the rotunda and collapsed onto the vacant bench. His face and posture gave the impression of a man crushed by an unbearable weight.  I couldn’t understand what had caused his behavioural regression.

After a time, the colour began to return to his face and the vice like grip he had on my arm eased.

I had been taken totally by surprise by this turn of events and I didn’t quite know how to handle it. My instructors had never covered such an eventuality during my training.

I’d read George’s file many times over. I thought I knew enough about him and what had brought him to our notice. From my many interviews with George I’d formed the opinion, supported by my superiors, that he would benefit by gradually reentering the community as his time with us was drawing to a close.

How would today’s situation impact on him I though? What triggered his reaction to the old woman? Should I quiz him about it? What impact would today’s event have with the decision makers on our Board?

I could see that George was still agitated and very ill at ease. Although we still had many hours before we were due to go back to base I gently suggested to him that perhaps we should go back early.

George seemed quite relieved at my suggestion and simply nodded.

With that, we walked straight to our car and drove off, leaving the park and whatever spooked George. On our way back to base I thought it odd that George remained unusually mute, stared straight ahead, emotionless. This was not the George whom I’d taken to the park only a short time before.

Back at base, after the perimeter gates had closed and the car was parked, I walked with George through the massive entrance doors to our main building.

Once inside, George, without a word, went straight ahead towards his room and I went to my office to write up the events of this most extraordinary day.

Tomorrow, I thought, after debrief with my colleagues I’ll see George and encourage him to open up on why our park visit upset him so dramatically. By that time too, my superiors will have read my report and may be able to shed some light on why the park visit was such a drama for both George and myself.

At the time, I had absolutely no idea of what would occur over the days and weeks.

Meanwhile, back at the park, the elderly knitter had not been idle. She watched intently as ‘George’ and the person who appeared to be his escort entered the rotunda. Packing up her knitting she quickly walked to her car and moved it onto another parking spot from where she could observe access and egress to the rotunda.

In her mind travelled she travelled back in time, ten, perhaps fifteen years years ago?  In those days, she had a thriving psychiatric practise and was often called to give evidence at court, sometimes for the Crown and sometimes for the defence.

Could it be her patient, from that long time ago, whom she had just seen have what appeared to be an adverse reaction to her presence in the park? Same build and stature, same gait, same shock of unruly auburn hair. Only the face seemed a little different, perhaps through the passage of time, perhaps not. Whatever, he was certainly her ex patient.

Her thought process shifted into top gear and she began to recall the GP’s referral of the patient to her. It was not long before her retirement. At the time her rooms were in another city, almost a thousand kilometres away.

Despite her advancing age, she had an encyclopaedia like recall of patient detail and her diagnosis of their problems.

Yes, she thought, that was Fred, he looks a little different now but it was him I just saw, no doubt about it. She remembered that Fred had been referred to her for what the GP thought was some form of functional psychosis.

After a number of sessions with Fred, she had diagnosed him with the most potentially severe and disabling of the psychoses, Schizophrenia.

She recalled reaching this diagnosis based firstly on his highly disturbing experiences during his childhood and early adult life.

In her presence he revealed a withdrawal from reality, delusions, hallucinations, apathy, and most disturbingly of all, an inability to feel any emotions whatsoever and preoccupation with bizarre fantasies.

She remembered vividly his hatred of anything coloured red and the pleasure his thoughts brought him when, in his imagination, he began throwing babies and young animals from bridges after he had dressed them in his hated colour, red.

After discussing the patient with a number of her peers, she suggested to the GP that Fred should be scheduled under the Mental Health Act and be placed into a secure facility until deemed sufficiently recovered for reenter open society. She added that she was prepared to authorise the scheduling and indicated that there should be a police presence to convey Fred to the selected secure institution.

Unfortunately, the GP, in his wisdom felt it prudent to advise Fred’s elderly parents with whom he resided, of the psychiatrist’s determination. Of course, they informed Fred who immediately decamped, never to be seen or heard of again.

Until now she thought.

She was well aware that without continuing to take his medication, adequate support and regular psychiatric help, Fred was extremely likely to carry out one of his bizarre fantasies, that is,  murder a child or torture a small animal after clothing them in red, particularly something knitted in wool.

As she sat thinking, she recalled that  shortly after her retirement she read a newspaper article about the murder of a three year old female child, found floating in a river with her dead pet dog tied to her body by its lead. Both were dressed in red woollen outfits. The gruesome discovery was made not too far from Fred’s former residence.

She remembered immediately informing the local police about Fred and he was placed at the top of their people of interest list. The police kept her informed of progress as they knew she would be a vital witness should Fred be arrested and charged, but, over time the homicide became listed as a cold case and placed on file with many others. Fred had never been located, despite extensive inquiries as to his whereabouts.

Until now that is.

It wasn’t too long before she watched Fred and his escort leave the rotunda and get into a car. By chance the car was facing in the same direction as hers and she followed it at a safe distance as it was driven away. Stopped at the first set of traffic lights she noted down the car’s registration number, considered calling the police on the triple 0 number but decided against it.

After following the car containing Fred for half an hour or so, she saw it turn into the entrance driveway of what was obviously a secure psychiatric hospital.

After noting the time and the address, she drove to the local police station, saw the detectives and related everything she had seen and what she knew of Fred’s history. The detectives took her particulars and promised to let her know the outcome of their inquiries.

The next day, after contacting their colleagues at the police station where the cold case had occurred, two detectives arrived at the psychiatric hospital and by appointment met with the psychiatrist in charge.

They were informed that George was a voluntary inmate and had been in their care for over ten years. He had recently been assessed by a panel of psychiatrists as fit for return to open society after a period of supervised outings, of which the park activity was the first. The detectives were also brought up to date with the report on George’s demeanour in the park and arrangements were made for George to be interviewed, with appropriate representation the following day.

On return to the police station, arrangements were made with their interstate counterparts to be present at the upcoming interview with George.

George knew that his routine was being changed. He had an idea that it arose from the park incident but thought that nothing untoward could come from it. He felt that he’d not been recognised as his act had got him out of the park before any damage was done. Perhaps today would bring news of his discharge date. When he got out, the world would just forget about him. He’d simply disappear again.

When he entered the interview room he suspected that all was not as he had assumed. There were four men in suits, plus his doctor and another man he didn’t recognise.

It was when the introductions were made that he knew his years of relative freedom were probably coming to an end. He felt anger and antagonism towards every one in the room. He just wished his escort to the park had been there. If things didn’t go his way she was going to be the first to get it in the neck. Bitch.

One of the four suited men was obviously in charge and he introduced himself as a Detective from the Homicide Squad.

He said, “My name is Detective Inspector Baker, What is your full name” The George replied, ” “George Green”.

The next question stunned him,” we have been reliably informed that your correct name is Frederick Green. Is that correct”? George thought for a moment, I’ve been through interrogations for years now, this isn’t any different so I’ll deny it. ”No” he replied, just call me George”.

“That will upset em”, he thought to himself, “They’ve got nothing on me unless I give myself up and that’s not going to happen, no way, they can all go and get stuffed”.

Baker then said,” George,we are making inquiries about the death of a young girl 14 years ago. She was found with her dead dog tied to her by its lead. I’m going to ask you a series of questions about it and I want you to understand that you are not obliged to say anything unless you wish as anything that you do say will be recorded and may later be used in evidence. Do you understand that?” George, with a grin on his face replied,” sure, go for your life but I’m not going to say nothing to youse and I want a can of coke”.

Over the next half hour or so the detectives asked George a number of questions to which he gave unrelated and inane responses. The interview was then terminated. George left the interview room elated and thinking ” I’ve done well,they know damn all and I’ll be out and about in no time at all”.

The detectives recovered Georges’s empty coke can and preserved it for fingerprint and DNA comparisons . They then left to continue their inquiries after suggesting to the hospital staff that perhaps it would be advisable to restrict George to the institution until his identity and possible involvement in a homicide had been be concluded. Their suggestion was unanimously adopted.

Days turned into weeks and George was becoming more and more concerned about his future. He wondered why his outings had been curtailed, why his doctors were showing a lot more interest in him and why his sexy outing supervisor was nowhere to be seen when he was allowed out to exercise in the grounds. Then he thought, “those bastards are letting me stew, they reckon I’ll give myself up, like hell I will”.

The more he thought about it, the more he remembered  the fun he had abducting the little girl from her playground and the added bonus of getting the puppy she was playing with. He remembered with absolute joy the pathetic struggle she put up when he stripped her naked and wrapped her in a red jumper he’s bought for a dollar just for such an occasion from the St Vincent de Paul’s opportunity shop. The best part he remembered was getting an erection as he choked the life out of her before tossing her and the dog into the river. “Christ that was good”, he thought to himself, ” I’ll knock off another one when I get out”.

It was then he remembered the woman in the park. It was his old psychiatrist and the bitch was knitting something red

He thought,” That bitch knew I’d be in the park, I bet my bloody escort sheila told her. How else would she know. I put on a pretty good performance for that bitch with me though. I reckon I’m home and hosed there but they’ll both be first on my bloody list as soon as I’m out of here”.

A day or so later George was back in the interview room and the same line up of men in suits were there too. They introduced themselves again and the bloke named Baker said,” G’day George, I’ll get straight to the point, I’m going to caution you again”. That out of the way,  Baker said,” We had that can of coke you had analysed for DNA and fingerprints. The results are back. You are not George Green. Your correct name is Frederick Green. Have you anything today to say about about that?”

The suspect subject just shook his head which was duly noted. Baker continued,” Your DNA has been identified on the red woollen garment worn by the three year old girl found dead in the river near the dwelling you occupied with your parents. Would you care to comment”? George thought,”They’re bluffing, I’ll deny it”. To the detectives he said,”Not me”.

Baker then said,”Your fingerprints were found on the dog’s lead. Have you anything to say about that?” Again George said,” They’re not mine”.

Baker then said,” I believe that you fantasise about the colour red. Would you like to tell us about that?”

Before he could answer, the appointed solicitor tugged George’s arm and whispered into his ear.

George considered what he had been told and said to the detectives,” there are a lot of horrible things I’d going around in my head. Been like that for years. I’ve been advised by this solicitor here that before I say anything more  I should ask you if you will take my mental illness into account?”

Baker said,” We are not in a position to make any promises. Whatever you tell us will be provided to the Crown Law Officers to determine if criminal proceedings should ensue. Please keep in  mind that the homicide we are talking to you about occurred in another jurisdiction where the processes may vary. I can’t add more than that”. George thought about what had been said and replied,” OK, I admit it was me that killed that little girl and her dog and tossed them in the river near home”. Immediately, Baker cautioned George again and George said,”Yair I know that. It was seeing that old bird in the park knitting that red thing that brought it all back to me. She was my psychiatrist years back and she predicted that one day I’d live out the things going on I’m my head. When my Mom told me that they were going to have me locked up in the nut house I decided to shoot through but before I went I thought I’d show my old quack that she was right after all. That’s when I sussed out the girl and knocked her off, just like you said. I really got my rocks off over that. What happens next”.

Baker said,” I’ve a Schedule 2 under the Mental Health Act in your name here. I’m taking you into custody now. The medical staff here will hold you in a secure unit until the authorities decide what course to take”.

George nodded to the nearby orderlies and without a word was escorted from the room.

Later, detectives briefed both the elderly woman from the park who was knitting the red item and the Mental Health Official who had escorted George/Fred to the park with the outcome of their enquiries.

The man known as George or Frederick was later extradited to another jusrisdiction.  There, after exhaustive psychiatric analysis he was found fit to stand trial for murder. He was found guilty and sentenced to penal servitude for life without parole.

As for the demise of the puppy, it was only considered collateral damage and not worth the expense of pursuing a prosecution under Prevention of Cruelty Animals Legislation.

A short time after commencing his sentence, George or Frederick as he once again called himself was found dead, hanging in his prison cell. The subsequent inquiry had a positive outcome. No Corrective Service Officer was found to have neglected their duty in relation to this death in custody.

WRITING 101- DAY EIGHT: DEATH TO ADVERBS.

~ creakingbones ~ 6 Comments

The following image is of our local War Memorial situate on Rocky Hill. This prominent position   overlooks our city laid out below it.

Rocky Hill_0009 copy
ROCKY HILL WAR MEMORIAL OVERLOOKING THE CITY OF GOULBURN.

Fearing that the use of an Adverb would bring the wrath of fellow bloggers crashing upon my head, I’ve decided in true Aussie fashion to use a word that is extremely popular in our vocabulary. The word can be used either as a verb or an adjective, depending entirely on the tone used by the utterer or how the recipient of the word decides to interpret it.

How should you interpret the word in this piece of writing? That decision is entirely up to you. However be advised that as the writer of this piece I am using the word as both a verb and an adjective.

Hereunder I am going to show you the significant attributes of Rocky Hill and the Memorial:

Rocky Hill is bloody steep.

The War Memorial is bloody old.

The War Memorial is made from bloody sandstone.

The War Memorial is bloody high.

The Memorial’s inner stairway is bloody steep.

The panorama seen from the top of the Memorial is bloody bonza.

If you can get to the top without getting puffed you are bloody fit.

There is not much space on Rocky Hill to park your bloody car.

There is a bloody museum there too.

The Memorial and the Museum are bloody popular.

The road to the top is bloody steep.

It gets bloody windy.

Look at the bloody Aussie flag.

It’s stiff as a bloody board.

Overall it’s bloody worth it.

The whole bloody site has recently been upgraded.

It’s a bloody ripper mate.

The bloody end.

WRITING 101: DAY SEVEN- GIVE AND TAKE.

~ creakingbones

I thought that for today I’d approach the subject with a twist and try writing in the form of a script for an play to be called GIVE AND TAKE.

To set the scene, Character 1 is a well accredited photography judge.

Character 1 has been invited to judge at a very large club with a reputation for having a member totally lacking in ethical photographic practices, particularly when it comes to copyright. =TYhe meeting is at night.

Character 2, a member of that club, is determined to win the ‘Photographer of the Year’ title by hook or by crook.

Character 1 is aware of Character 2‘s take no prisoners approach, total disregard for copyright and the general rules of camera club competition.

Character 3 is the Club’s President and emcee for the night.

SCENE 1

Character 1 and Character 3 enter the Club room where there are many images on stands.

Character 3 addresses the assembled camera club members,” Friends, tonight we have Fred Bloggs here to be our judge for the night. Fred is well experienced and has been here before. I know that many of you know him and know what to expect.  Fred, the floor is yours”.

Character 1,” Thanks Mr President. It’s a pleasure to be here again. If I remember from last time, you want me to award Distinctions for the best works, Credits for those that are almost as good  and comment on images where I think it’s warranted. If you have any questions, please ask them as we go along. There are lots of images to evaluate so I’ll get started straight away”.

Character 1 then begins to inspect the images and comments as he works, firstly along the rows of monochrome images.

Turning to the members, Character 1 says, ‘Well folks you have all done exceedingly well. It’s not often that I am able to award 7 Distinctions and 12 Credits in the monochrome section of an ‘open’ competition. If I could award a ‘Highly Commended’ classification I’d gladly do so for every other monochrome you have displayed. I admire the originality of each image and the effort you have all made. It’s been a pleasure’.  The audience responds with applause.

Character 1 then turns his attention to the colour prints, He is aware that Character 2 has a work in that section. but is not aware of which one.

As he examines each print and makes the appropriate awards, he occasionally pauses to make a comment. Of one work he says,’ I’m particularly impressed here. The author has shown originality, understanding of light, composition and aperture. It’s an outstanding example of the photographers craft. Well done. Who created this great photograph?’

A voice from the rear of the hall says,” I did, I was on holidays and the landscape scene appealed so I made the shot. Thanks for your encouraging remarks”.

Character 1, replied, ” My pleasure”,  awards it a Distinction and continues along the lines of photographs, making award after award.

Finally, Character 1 pauses at a landscape image comprising a number of dead trees forlornly silhouetted  against a background of what appeares to be a red sandhill. After examining the work closely, he asks,” Whose work is this?”

From the centre of the hall a voice replies,” It’s mine, I liked the scene so much I couldn’t resist making the shot”

Character 1 recognises the voice as coming from Character 2 and says,” What an interesting image, where and when did you make it?”

Character 2,” Last year on holidays in the Flinder’s Ranges in South Australia”.

Character 1, ” Interesting work” and advances to the next image.

Character 2, “Wait on Fred, you haven’t commented on my work and you haven’t given it an award. Everyone I’ve shown it to reckons it’s a winning image and I’d like you to tell me why you’ve ignoring it”?

Character 1, “If you don’t mind, I’d rather not discuss your work right now, let’s talk about it after the judging is completed”.

Character 2, “You’re discriminating against me, I demand that you talk about my work here and now or I’m going to complain about you to the Federation and you’ll be sorry!”

Character 1,” You can take any action you like, I’ll complete the judging and talk with you later, preferably in private”.

Character 2 grunts and sits down.

Character 1 completes the judging, making numerous the appropriate awards to the applause of the gathering and then joins with everyone for light refreshments. Character 2 remains within hearing but remains mute and just glowers at the judge.

SCENE 2

The meeting concluded, everyone leaves. In the car park, Character 1 is confronted by an hostile Character 2 who launches into a tirade of abuse.  At the conclusion of the rant, Character 1 says,” There was no need for that, you know full well why you didn’t get an award and why I didn’t comment at the time on that image you purport to be yours”.

Feigning surprise, Character 2 says,” What do you mean by purport?”

Character 1, “You know damn well what I mean. That image is copyright. It was made by Ian Plant in the Namib Desert and is part of his famous Namibia portfolio. I’d recognise it anywhere”

Character 2,” So what, everyone thinks it’s mine, I changed the contrast and upped the saturation a bit and I reckon that it’s mine now so what are you going to do about it?”

Character 1,” I’ll make a deal with you. If you give me your undertaking that you will never again breach copyright and claim someone else’s image or images as your own, I’ll not refer your conduct to the Federation and ensure that you are banned from ever exhibiting in any club or competition in Australia or overseas ever again and have you turfed out of the Federation on your ear. Think yourself lucky that tonight I’m feeling benevolent”.

Character 2,” I’ve not much choice have I? I’ve been stupid and I give you my word I’ll play it straight from now on. As soon as I get home, I’ll rip the image up and take Ian’s images off my hard drive. I’ve one question though, why are you being so accommodating?”

Character 1,” Because young man, I’ve seen your own photographs before, you have a lot of talent and you have a great eye for composition, colour and perspective. If you put all of your effort into your own work you have every chance of becoming a well known and great photographer in your own right. That’s why I want to give you the chance”

Character 2,” Thanks Mr Bloggs, I appreciate the chance, I won’t let you down and I’ll honour my promise and never cheat again”.

Character 1,” That’s good, I’m pleased to hear it. I wish you all the best for your future and we will put tonight’s episode behind us. I’d like you to always remember that a little bit of give and take can achieve a lot so goodnight”.

EPILOGUE

Character 2 drove off in his car and drove straight to an all night bar where he had arranged to meet up with his mates. He boasted to them about beating the camera club rules, the system generally and how the stupid old judge so readily accepted his word that he wouldn’t cheat again and how the judge waffled on about give and take, what a lot of garbage.  He told the mates that as soon as he got home he was going to create another masterpiece using the work of another overseas photographer whose work he had downloaded from the internet.

Give and take is sometimes strangely balanced by fate. On his way home, Character 2, well under the influence of intoxicating liquor, lost control of his car, left the road and crashed into a tree, killing himself instantly. The subsequent fire destroyed his misrepresented photograph. That was the element of take. He was alone in his vehicle when it crashed. No one else was injured. That was the element of give.

THE CURTAIN CLOSES. THERE IS NO CURTAIN CALL.

WRITING 101- DAY SIX – A CHARACTER- BUILDING EXPERIENCE

~ creakingbones ~ 8 Comments

Everyone in the organisation knew it. It was one of the worst kept secrets. The only thing we didn’t have was a name. Most of us that is.

The local newspaper and radio news were full of it. A new Chief Executive Officer had been appointed and was on his way to shake up our organisation.

In my case it was old news. A reliable mate in another organisation had filled me in. Besides the name, all he had to say about our incoming CEO was,’ruthless, cold, unsmiling, uncaring, unforgiving, unapproachable, unmovable, undeterrable, unreasonable, unsympathetic, unlikeable, 100% self assured  and totally performance oriented’.

He also added a vivid description of the individual’s parentage and a few other colourful adjectives that I’d never commit to print.

The only comments I thought were positive were the self assured and totally performance oriented tags.

It was armed with that background information that I met the new CEO at a civic reception held in his honour.

Our new CEO is of impressive stature and upright posture. Well over 2 metres(over 6 foot) tall, solidly built with a shock of silver hair, he made an impressive figure as he stood with other dignitaries receiving and being introduced to the invitees, myself included.

As the evening progressed and the CEO worked the floor,  I had the opportunity to observe him in action first hand. He had a disarming smile, proffered his hand to all and appeared to be almost bowing in a most gracious way as he spoke with the ladies who seemed to gravitate towards him.

Finally it was my chance to engage with him and I was most surprised when he greeted me by name in a well modulated Aussie tenor voice. Immediately he had runs on the board. His elongated face was surprisingly smooth for a man in his early fifties. It was the eyes that drew my attention and held it. They were ice blue and almost unblinking. His gaze was piercing and I could sense that he would use it and his towering height to make people feel ill at ease if he thought it would be to his advantage.

We engaged in some light hearted banter and when the opportunity presented itself I said,’ You have a tough job ahead of you’. With a coldish smile, not at all like the ones I’d seen on him during the evenint, he replied, ‘What makes you say that’?

I said,’ Being a change agent in a bureaucratic organisation is never easy’.

His reply gave me window to the man himself when he said, ‘Oh no, it’s my way or the highway’, and without another word he turned on his heel and walked away to the next group of people.

My thoughts went to what my mate had told me. I decided to keep an open mind and allow coming events to shape my opinion of the man himself.

Over the following days, weeks and months his strong reforming activities in the organisation gave the press and radio commentators lots of opportunity to conduct a running commentary on his activities, some positive, some negative. I should add, not a balanced commentary either, a typical press approach. Appropriately though, the reporting was on a purely business basis and nothing on a personal nature was promulgated.

He was certainly  a mover and shaker in the organisation. The strategic plan was re written, job descriptions changed, staff came and went, with the emphasis on went. If streamlining was part of the job description then at his annual review he would get 10 out of 10.

In the process, he created an anxiousness within the employees yet at the same time, productivity increased, community relations improved and the newly set objectives were being achieved in an economic and expeditious manner. What a positive change for the customers and the employees as complaints rapidly diminished.

My mates description of our new CEO’s modus operandi was spot on. However, in a past life I’d had a similar change agent’s job and what my mate had described were, in the main, essential CEO attributes. They had to be learned too and were generally required to achieve organisation objectives and outcomes.

I knew that in time, staff anxiousness would settle, promotions would occur and esprit de corps would be renewed.

As time went on, I met the CEO at a number of social and community events. His physical stature and cold blue eyes were natures gifts, not an acquired accessory.  I came to the conclusion that his apparent chilly aloofness was part of his body armour.

I came to appreciate his fine sense of humour,  raconteur’s ability to enthral an audience and a natural gift of the gab, coupled with his pleasant, well modulated  tenor voice. In fact, it’s now always a pleasure to be in his company, away from business. I should point out, we are associates, not friends.

He had rapidly absorbed local history, the communities’ wants and needs, their approach to expansion, development, transport and amenities. This has won him much support and the palpable apprehension that existed prior to his arrival is rapidly dissipating.

I can’t pay the man a greater compliment than to say if I was in need of mentor I could think of no one better than our new CEO. I don’t envy his physical attributes. I’m a big man myself, but, if I’d possessed his change agent skills in my previous existence I could have written for myself a far greater success story.

I’ve conveyed my positive feeling to my informant mate . Oddly, he wishes that his previous foe would return as do most of the workers in his organisation. Apparently the individual who took his place is an abject failure, has created many uncertainties but this time through total disorganisation, lack of clarity and a wishy washy approach to everything.

Disorganisation, lack of clarity and a wishy washy approach! Certainly these tags could never be applied to our CEO.

Thank heaven that I didn’t take on board all the negatives that had been conveyed to me.

We’re lucky to have our new incumbent at the helm. I’ve learned a lot of positive things from him.