GOVERNMENTS CANNOT MAKE MISTAKES

It is impossible for Governments to make mistakes. That is an awful truth that even they will admit.

I would be a strong supporter of any political party that stands up and admits their mistakes. I would be an even stronger supporter of any politician or party that includes in any Act of Parliament a clause which allows anyone damaged by a law (thereby admitting fault). The Government cannot be sued. Therefore the Stolen Generation, the woefully abused Children in State Care (which still occurs), the Children denied an adequate education because of some smart-arsed theorists who think they know what’s best for children but only manage to succeed in stuffing up the system. The children denied adequate and accessible medical attention in remote rural areas (both black and white).

Where are the paedophiles now that used to be employed at the State Children’s Homes (Mittagong as an example) when they were closed down. The excuse was a matter of economics the truth was more like they were so riddled with child-abusers at every level that they were closed and the abusers shuffled off to some other department away from children. All in the name of ‘the government does not make mistakes’. The only thing the government has admitted is that their care workers fuck children but deny it still goes on.

On a lighter note - Did you know that the highly publicised dog restraints in cars act was quietly rescinded recently because it contravened the ‘Cruelty To Animals Act’. Goes to show lots of fanfare to bring something in and nothing said when it goes out. .

But get ready to still be pulled over. It is against the law for dogs to have their nose out the window (the same as your arm or elbow). Now I’m no lawyer but I believe this is a blatant act of discrimination agains dogs with long noses. Anyone want to start a class action on behalf of everything from Whippets and up?

Of course it could be worse. We could live in America.

BRANDIS NOW LOOKS AFTER SOCIAL SECURITY

LA NOCHE DE LAS PERRAS

Translated into English this is 'The Night of the Bitches' and it is a tradition in the town of Cerro Mono Blanco (which sounds like White Ceremony but is actually White Cute Hill – just a bit more trivia for you to wade through) in the Province of Caternaco in Mexico. (Or joo purists will say Mehico). It's origin dates back over 2,000 years and celebrated on the first Friday of March each Year. It's origin was initiated duirng the time that many healers, sharmans and fortune-tellers existed and where many myths about what makes a husband hide in his shed and legends about women getting men to do things that don't want to do were born.

Translated into an Australian context 'The Night of the Bitches' could be when every woman over the age of 18 could be let free from the drudgery of work (for which they would still be paid) or the mind numbing boredom of housework (men would were the apron for the night) and they would all go out for a Girls Night Out or some older women would call a 'Knees Up'. (it would be interesting to find out where that term came from. Has it something to do with sex or childbirth?)

But you ask how this would promote tourists to our village. Simple. Imagine a few hundred women descending on your town determined to whoop it up with a lot of squeaking with delight and screaming for the male stripper to 'get it all off''. The dozens of 'chicken vol-au-vents' and mini-bottles of Champers. The cases of Gin and the litres of Tonic. The Porphry Pearl and that stuff in Chianti Bottles before you put a candle in them.

The local Police could decorate the cells at the Station with Lace Curtains and Petti-point Cushions for those ladies with arresting attributes. Of course female Solicitors would be handy too but they would have the night off as well and could possibly already be in the cells.

THOUGHT FOR THE MONTH

‘WHAT DO XENOPHOBES EAT?’

I would have called this last little bit ‘SPAM from the Internet’, but under the rules of vegetarianism we might have to begin calling it ‘TOFU’.

ANNE OF GRUESOME GABLES

‘It’s Edwardian’ she said waving her right arm over her shoulder as if she were doing backstroke. That was the first decent response I had received after checking into ‘Bed and Breakfast Accommodation’ for the first time in my travelling life. Up until now I had stayed overnight in everything from a one-man hutchie to Indonesian standard five-star luxury but never in a B&B. I had always equated them to dingy little dives where the almost homeless could guzzle on Metho in peace and quiet.

This one however boasted of ‘unparalleled comfort’ so I thought I might give it a try. I would learn later that unparalleled meant there was nothing to compare it with and they were bloody right. Actually my first impressions were that the place was a sort of ‘Fawlty Towers’ run by Mrs.Bucket.

Following a long verbal explanation of the rules which seemed more comprehensive than ‘Parliamentary Procedures’ she made sure her hands were on my dollars before I stepped any further into the Grand Foyer of her Edwardian owner-built hand-crafted two-storied splendiferous establishment.

The Edwardian outburst had come after I innocently asked whether the house was Victorian. She seemed quite put off that I would imply that she was that old. She assured me they had been built to the highest standards (her words not mine) as a grand family home. I still think it was Victorian even if it was into 1920’s Edwardian by the time it was finally finished. Her Father, the builder, most likely whittled all the banisters by hand on the front veranda.

Having got past the first hurdle, my Debit Card, she directed that I should ascend the staircase into ever increasing, windowless gloom before her, explaining that she could only manage stairs two feet at a time. Passing a door at the foot of the stairs I overheard somewhere in another room a gruff male voice apparently admonishing ‘Thing’ for not removing his shoes at the back door. Oh! Dear it’s the Addams Family.
Waiting for her to reach the upper landing I couldn’t block out the image of the ‘Hunchback of Notre Dame’ climbing the bell tower as she edged herself wheezing and spluttering along the rising banister. Having reached the same floor level ‘Mrs. Mine Host’ shuffled me around the corner towards a mine shaft style corridor. Walls of dark wood panelling were the prime décor of the upper hallways the type in which you would expect Lou Costello to come swivelling out.

Opening a Linen Press she showed me the en-suite which was really an out-suite. The door opened outward too, there being no space for it to open as a normal bathroom door should. This had to be closed before one could access the bedroom door, which she then progressed to do. With a large key that clearly fitted a century old lock she opened the bedroom door and ushered me in.

I’ve been called a hoarder too which I vehemently deny. I eternally recycle things and in that there is a big difference. Ornaments nick knacks and trinkets seemed to have ensconced themselves on every available flat surface and if I had a cat to swing I could have done some very serious damage.

I almost expected to come across a statue of the Virgin Mary made from toenail clippings and sleep under a doona filled with navel fluff. What made it worse was that the floorboards wobbled when you walked past which caused all the ornamentation to wobble as well. I had to literally tip-toe around the room to avoid any of these things shaking themselves onto the floor. A smell of mothballs assaulted the nose as I navigated my way around the bed. The room was taller than it was wide or long, the double bed filling a good majority of the room with the basic decoration somewhere between late Gothic and early Pentridge. There was no radio or TV in the room either to maintain the Edwardian theme throughout, they could have stretched it to at least a crystal radio set.

I began to doubt my sanity, if I started with any, booking into a B&B sight unseen but it was the only one listed on the booking service advertised on the internet. All the others listed only phone numbers, and feeling uncomfortable with modern telephony I opted for the one that could be booked via email. The place did not have the internet however. The tourist association did, and they would phone the booking through to the Thomas Edison wall phone where I wanted to stay. Not quite false pretences but certainly a bit of smoke and mirrors.

Breakfast is between 7 and 7.15 she said explaining how to get to the Dining Room and with that she scuttled out of the room as fast as a hunchback can scuttle. I struggled the window open to get some fresh air I doubt that had been tried since D-Day and then laid back on the bed to rest my aching arms.

‘Heavens to Betsy’ I said to myself (that’s the worst swearing I’m permitted in this story), was this a Tiffany Lampshade made from broken beer bottles hanging from the ceiling. I stood up on the bed to examine it more closely and found it was actually patchwork macramé with netting inserts. Above that, almost out of sight, sat the fire detector. It seemed so high up that it could only be set off by a passing cloud of volcanic ash. The heater light set so high in the bathroom, at least 11 feet from the floor could only have been useful to moths or maybe an earth circling satellite.

I had been in the place for just over an hour and already the walls seemed to be closing in on me and felt a bit like the ‘Prisoner of Zenda’, I could feel in my water that the stream of pleasure I wanted this week-end was going to strike a few rapids. Shrugging off the initial reception I proceeded to the out-suite for a shower. The little Negro jockey holding the roll of toilet paper next to the toilet was a quaint touch although I do feel he would be more comfortable on the front lawn. Maybe political correctness drove him to hide in the dunny.

I undressed and squeezed myself into the half-telephone booth or maybe double coffin called a shower recess, remember this room was converted from a Linen cupboard, not a mean feat for someone who prefers a shower recess the size of a shipping container. I sort of ‘Pop and Locked’ myself dance-style with a cake of soap in each hand. Bending over was out of the question as my bottom hit the eastern wall at the same time my forehead hit the western taps. Maybe we should have this style of shower recess in State Prisons, nothing could happen if you dropped the soap.

I turned 90 degrees and tried again. This time when my rear end stopped my top half was through the curtains and outside the recess. I was now looking straight into the bowl of the toilet. Aha! Maybe I could wash my hair this way and rinse the soap away with the touch of a button. Having sighted the contents of the bowl I recoiled back into the shower recess. How I hit my head with my left foot and got my tongue stuck in the floor waste I’m still too stunned to work out how but I did catch sight of a little puckered mouth between two fat cheeks which turned out to be my arsehole. I must start getting serious again – this story is supposed to be a drama.

Alighting from the shower I commenced the process of drying myself only to realise that my feet and elbows were hitting the walls with such regularity in the tiny bathroom/out-suite/closet that I feared the neighbours might begin complaining about the drummer next door doing a boogie-woogie in the bathroom. Moving back through the airlock to my room I noticed a little ceramic panel attached to the door which announced that I was spending the night in the ‘Rose Room’. I felt quite pleased about that as I actually ‘rose’ the next morning.

By the time I fell onto the bed again I was so hot and bothered that I felt I had wasted my time trying to relax. Maybe tomorrow night I should just stand out in the street and get run over to save a bit of time. I don’t know how but I did manage to drift off a little warmed by the afternoon sun. As I did begin to slumber all I could think of was ‘It’s Edwardian you know!’

At 7.00pm the beep of the watch alarm woke me to begin enjoying this stage of the week-end. Dressing in middle-class finery (Tracksuit and Joggers) I wandered down to the local Bistro. Apart from myself there was an aged couple that looked old enough to have arrived with Captain Cook and a relatively young couple, which means a third my age, with a boy about six and a girl about nine. I overheard the conversation with the waitress that it was the Dads Birthday. This might explain why the little girl was dressed like a Fitzroy Hooker and the boy, resplendent in a purple velvet cape, being either an effeminate Super-hero or an apprentice Vampire.

It appeared to be a fancy dress party, it had to be, Mother was dressed like Kath Day-Knight or was it that she was dressed quite normally and the kids had just dressed up real pretty for Daddy’s birthday. The only thing I didn’t hear her say was ‘Look at moi, look at moi’. Mum’s Afro would have looked better on either of the kids. But who am I to judge? In a certain light I’ve been told I look rather like a flattened cow-patty.

Passed tea without further incident, so it says in my Diary, and then noted that I waddled toward the Theatre Royal for a ‘meet-and-greet’ session before the CNAV Conference (Catering for the Near After, Victoria) started for proper. An offering of Coffee and Creams with Nibbles and Nuts was on the schedule of events and I had visions of sitting in a Grand Olde World theatre flanked by gorgeous coffee coloured nymphets with creamy complexions nibbling on nuts.

This was not to be so. What I encountered was being squeezed into a tiny Coffee Lounge needing a lot of cream to lubricate our thirty bodies into it, and then, by the condition of the interior start to panic if anything scampered up my track pants and began nibbling on nuts. The room must have been the original ticket box as it could not fit more than three two-seater tables and a lounge for an expected 30 overnighters. And that’s all that happened. The nymphettes looked like 1930’s schoolteachers complete with buns and the men, all sporting well proportioned beer-guts Sumo-wrestling to the food tables. It was described in the timetable as an ‘ice-breaker session’ where we could meet and mingle with like-minded twats.

In half an hour I was exhausted by the overcrowding and holding coffee cup with one hand over my head with the other holding my nuts. We sort of managed to rub noses with other guests for a while until we were plunged into darkness by a power failure and I could only tell who I was conversing with by either the smell of mint or garlic.
The much publicised multi-purpose art-deco theatre was exactly that. The Foyer area in which we found ourselves was divided into three small rooms of coffee tables which incorporated a coffee bar, wine bar and sidewalk café. The café counter also served as ticket office, multi-flavour ice-creamery, cake shop, souvenir stall and candy bar. All of this contained within a small area the size of a public phone booth.

I did not get to see the auditoria beyond the mock leather panelled doors. But I did notice that it was a Disco on Friday, Movie Theatre on Saturday, Thursday a Bingo Hall, and reserved for the ‘Church of the Happy Clappers’ on Sundays. I know that some towns, even around here, have progressed little further socially than the Stone Age and to prove the point the town I was staying in was promoting on posters and banners ‘A Festival of the Wheel’, but for some of us who have progressed can at least boast of a town with a Computer Museum. I’ve decided to donate my computer to them in favour of a new one in the near future. I have not yet seen my existing model on display anywhere. Three horizontal wires with coloured balls.

At least sitting here in the coffee shop, my face pressed up against the outside window pane by the crowd, I can see a fairly modern, well established Library with a steady stream of visitors. It seems some councils have risen above the mire of pre-history and actually loan out their own collection of books. Next to that a newly built edifice. Why is it that Government Departments have to keep moving into more expensive real estate whilst at the same time claiming they have no money. There are perfectly good landmarks all around Victoria sitting under-utilised, unrestored and even un-occupied. I detest seeing cheap shops despoiling once beautiful picture palaces, in fact next to the Library on a corner is a marvellous old Art-deco building, obviously an ex-bank office which houses the worst of showrooms, those selling carpets, called the ‘Rug Vault’.

One can probably tell that I have a ‘Masters Degree in Whinge and Whine’ what better occupation for a grumpy old arsehole who never has a good word for anyone. Oh, except for myself of course. And so I thought the first day had passed eventfully. Oh, No!, Oh, Yes! More trouble was brewing on the horizon. The fortune cookies did not foretell what would happen next, but it would be very soon and very traumatic.

Driving back to Fawlty Gables which just happens to be a little closer to its real name and parking the car I instantly went into panic mode when I felt in my pockets. Where were the room keys? Quick, check pockets again, check centre console and under seats, check pockets as if some miracle might make them appear there, floor mats, glove box, spare tyre compartment as if some idiot would put them there anyway and then front of underpants, no sign of any keys.

I don’t normally break into a sweat, at night, in winter, but I did and I began shaking like an outbreak of Parkinson’s. I knew that Morticia Bucket was going to be most displeased. Rule 14, Clause 7 Para 6(b) had been broken ‘Thou shalt not lose thy room keys’ I drove back to the Coffee Jar check there, back to the hotel Bistro to check.

‘Yes, we had found them on the floor and rung the B&B’, said the publican.

‘Oh! Bother!’ said I aloud. It was actually a lot worse than that but I have to keep this thing ‘PG’ rated for the readers.

‘The husband Gomez had driven down in his PJ’s to pick them up, they were most displeased’ said the publican. Funny, I thought, that’s exactly what I assumed they’d say. ‘He had driven down to pick them up about an hour ago’ he continued. That explained the clap of thunder and flash of lightening I had seen and heard earlier at the ‘Coffee Closet’.

Summoning up every ounce of courage at least worthy of a ‘Mentioned in Despatches’ I returned to the B&B. Morticia’s Gables seemed to loom out of the dark, silhouetted against the full moon, dark and menacing. I parked the car, lightening flashes seemed to strike the rod on the roof, thunder, flickering house lights, and everything but the rain was in place as I got out of the car.

I trod purposefully quiet along the path through the gate and the stairs to the front door. Do I ring the doorbell? Do I have to? Unfortunately yes, my bloody keys were on the other side of it grasped in the claws of Mrs.Bucket. It seemed an eternity before a light flickered behind the coloured glass of the front door, it opened, and a blood curdling voice came from within.

‘My husband and I don’t appreciate Guests who lose their keys’ seemed to reverberate through every one of my bones. It was dressed in a pink corduroy gown over an even more pink flannelette nightgown above, and I do not kid you, fluffy slippers that resembled either Gargoyles Talons or she was barefooted. The head was studded with rollers and all that was missing were the slices of cucumber. The marks where they had been were evident. Saying nothing more she stood to one side, dangled the keys in front of my face to take and permitted me to slink up the stairs with my tail between my legs.

Hang on, I’m the one paying $90.00 a night for this, I should be the Piper calling the tune. Let’s wait to see what tomorrow brings. Bed and Breakfast what a treat, I looked forward to breakfast. Maybe sausages, a lovely slice of bacon and two pert bouncy little fried eggs will soothe away the night’s angst. MMMmmmmmmmm.

In the middle of the night I think the whole house ‘settled’ for I kept waking to a series of creaks that seemed to vibrate throughout the bed and was that something hovering at the end of my bed or just the shadow cast by a passing car.
The thought of brilliantly cooked sausages or ham greeted me at the same time as the sun peeked playfully through the lace curtains and my alarm watch beeped gently on the side table. A groan, a satisfying stretch and my eyelids slowly creaked open. What a wonderfully description for a wonderful morning. The sudden realisation as to where I was turned my thoughts of a leisurely rise into more of an unwanted chore.

I had but 15 minutes to dress and carry myself to the Breakfast Room. I quickly laundered myself in the out-suite, jumped into whatever came to hand and rushed down the stairs as if I were about to miss the last bus to work. Coffee or Tea, a choice of two Cereals and a help yourself toaster with a limited supply of bread, and gold-wrapped butter slices. The table didn’t groan under the weight of a hearty breakfast for a houseful of guests. Where were the other guests? Had they failed to exhume themselves from their beds.

The coffee was instant hardly 23 beans filled my cup. So were the cereals, instantly dumped back where they came from. I could have got better buttered toast at home. The butter was too cold, shredded the toast rather than bathed it and was slowly compressed with what one might call a bread and butter rissole. It’s a pity that breakfast wasn’t itemised separately on the tariff. The bed I valued at about $50 so I figured this cup of coffee and bread rissoles had just cost me about $40. I could have made it myself for under $2. I shouldn’t be too harsh however, maybe Sunday’s breakfast might run to more than $3.

I sighted the husband Gomez this morning hovering on the other side of the glass petition which divided our breakfast room from his anatomy table. An ideal position for ensuring nobody took any more than there allocated ration of food. With cup in hand I think he was checking that I didn’t put too much butter on my toast or maybe counting the sugar cubes in their bowl. Why is it that hotels, motels and guest houses insist on freezing the butter before placing it on your table or breakfast tray?
The instant 7.15 struck on the mantle clock Morticia swept into the room and swept out again with the remains of my table under her wings. It would be 10am before I needed to swap one spot for another and report to Castlemaine Goal for the Conference. A walk perhaps?

Out on the front lawn a middle aged guy dressed in white pyjamas was standing on one leg and waving his arms in the air whilst mumbling something like ‘Wax On – Wax Off’. I did a circuit of the residential block without striking any other human beings and returned to my room via a tour of the remainder of the house to familiarise myself a little more thoroughly. There were three other bedrooms three times the size of mine but apparently all booked as I had been advised that the house would be full for Saturday night, or maybe they thought I was a Leprechaun going by the size of the bathroom. Mine might have originally been the Maid or Nanny’s room.

In the late afternoon and the end of the Conference day activities I decided I might relax with the local rag and read about the goings on in this town until it was time for the Conference Dinner cum Awards Presentation Night. The lounge was furnished with deep, body consuming lounges with wooded arms and dark timbered side tables. In the corner I spied an old Pye Black and White round-shouldered TV set next to a wooden cabinet radio with a speaker face resembling cathedral arches. I didn’t turn on the TV not seeming to be in the mood to watch the original screenings of Gilligan’s Island. The light fittings throughout would suggest that electricity came after the house was completed as their art deco look suggested, the radio and TV slightly later.

I was sitting quietly in the Lounge reading when over the top of the magazine I was sure that I saw Baby Jane sweep down the staircase looking for Joan Crawford. Looking to the stairs I realised that my imagination was running riot and I don’t think I’d have paused from my flagon of red even if Bela Lugosi ran into the room swinging a headless chicken.

By the time I returned after the Official Face-feeding I had shickered myself into an earlier night than usual. I found it hard to fall asleep and having no paper upon which to make notes for this story had to resort to the margins of my ‘Time’ magazine. I’ve gone down the white tie of Obama and now writing around the hem of Hillary Clinton. But I digress again.

The other residents of the B&B were as elusive as the Lintonian Aristocracy only being sighted when opening their doors to peek at passing strangers. The corridor actually reminded me of a row of giant Cuckoo Clocks.

In the middle of the night I got up for a little light relief, passed out the bedroom door and was confronted by what I thought was young Pugsley crouched in the corner of the corridor, or was the Golem that creature from Lord of the Rings. Popping quickly into the out-suite I did what I had to do and raced back to the safety of the doona. The next morning I discovered that the little huddled figure was in fact a vase of plastic flowers on a low table which I hadn’t noticed before. The last time I was ever that horrified was when I saw my partner lathered in night cream and sleeping with a brick under her head so as not to disturb the highly inflammable birds nest hair-do which was the fashion of the time.

The imagination plays nasty tricks on you when you think of spending a night in a big old house where many people have decided to move inconveniently on to the spirit world. I lasted through the second night secured in my room with terrifying noises coming not from the house where it might have been Lurch being admonished by Uncle Fester for putting the bins out in the wrong spot, but the nefarious hooligans after closing time at the pub, putting the frighteners on people who retire before 10pm on Saturday night.

Well dear reader that’s about it for this story. Not a lot happened after that. Sunday Breakfast didn’t surpass the three bucks I set for it, the daylight allowed me to banish thoughts of vampires especially now that I had a string of garlic around my neck.
I quite simply packed up and fled the scene as quickly as was polite to do. I don’t think the smoke from my tyres stopped until I was a few kilometres out of town. Who said that Ford Ute’s cant do 0 to 100 in less than 5 seconds?