DOES TRAVEL REALLY BROADEN THE MIND?

Was this a true statement or just another whimsical philosophical stupidity as 'How long is a piece of string?'

Maybe in the days of the Grand Tour a few centuries ago when cultures even a few hundred miles away were so radically different to yours travel did broaden the mind, but today when Western civilisation begins breeding a boring sameness should we spend money on traveling anywhere.

Up, up and away on a big monoplane, thousands of dollars just for a seat to sit on. The hassle of security at both ends, I had to remove my pants belt at Avalon and I'm still holding my bag in one hand and my trousers up with the other.

So you land in another country, as strange as New Zealand or as dangerous as Puckapunyal and even before you get out of the airport you are assailed by the sights of Mc. Donalds, KFC and Subway. Why?

Why do we need to eat a Big Mac in Abu Dhabi, a deep fried chicken leg steeped in a host of secret herbs and spices in Bangladesh? For that matter does a Zimbabwean Sandwich Artist decorate your roll in Subway any different to those in Ballarat? I don't think so.

Then of course there is the accommodation. An Acor Hotel in Madrid is run the same, looks the same, is serviced the same and has the same beds and coffee as your Acor room in Nambour. The staff are just as friendly and inefficient and all have the same inability to speak English.

Today in a world of electronic wizardry including big screen 3D television (which is still trying to take off) why could we not just save thousands of dollars, hundreds of hours of differing opinion and the constant whine of 'whatever' in our ears can we not just stay where we are, or maybe travel as far as Bendigo, and make believe we are really somewhere both exotic and erotic of which Bendigo is certainly not, with the exception of the Chinese Temple.

'Hell Yes' I scream and by doing so save at least $50 in tips, whether that be in Drachma or in Dong.

So here we go on our latest overseas adventure. Pack the car with all the non-essentials of travel and drive off into the sunrise, a smile on our faces and an unpaid booking for 'Treasure Island' in the glove box. We are off to broaden our mind, experience the exhilaration of the wind in our hair, let the kids imagine they are flying with the Red Baron for five silent minutes and then Eye Spy for two bickering hours. Who f........ cares if Yew Tree doesn't start with an E.

No lectures about seat belts or placing our table in an upright position. Not having to watch someone mime how to blow a whistle, and no mention of how you don't blow up your floaties until you land in the water outside the aircraft. Why this is needed on a flight between Griffith and Dubbo is really open to debate.

On arrival at Shangri-Low because Treasure Island went bust due to them failing to install 3D television, one alights to the merry greeting of 'G'Day' instead of a polite shrug to indicate they can't understand a word you say.

Find the remote for the Travel Simulator, a big screen 3D TV outside the balcony, which instantly throws up the sights and sounds but not the smells of Calcutta and start unpacking the bags. The kids get onto 'Wigglespace' on the internet which will keep them amused for the week and the parents retreat to the bar to get pissed just like at home.

No hassles in crowded shops where pushing and shoving has been elevated to a high art, no stupid mime act to ask someone where the bus stop is, and the same room service that brings the same Kiddy Meal as they had a week ago at home. What makes the trip all the more exciting is the room service person who gives a polite shrug to indicate they didn't understand a word you said.

Oh! Linton ..... you're missing nothing except the Squatting Ewe Car Wash..

LINTON GOES MENTAL

An idea promptly stamped out by Frazer following the demise of Whitlam in the 70’s was the concept of decentralising some statutory authorities and government departments to regional areas of the country to stem the greed induced unfettered growth of our capitol cities. Despite the fact it’s choking on its own vomit but still supposedly one of the worlds most unloveable cities Melbourne is growing faster than any other city. This may be due to the fact, like Stanley Kramer’s movie ‘On The Beach’ that it would be the last major city on the planet to survive a nuclear winter or nowadays a warming planet.

NSW did it moving the State Planning Authority to Orange, and the State Emergency Services to Wollongong and now Victoria is talking about moving VicRoads to Ballarat. These days with information technology booming and the NBN supposedly sending things around faster it matters little where anyone is provided there are enough trained people to do the work required.

It is now possible for Linton to invite semi-autonomous organisationss or quasi-authorities to relocate to Linton, after all we have the expertise here. This is why we are suggesting that ‘The Centre For The Criminally Insane’ be relocated to our village. With lots of tender loving medication and new modern padded wards and private rooms it would be an asset for the future as our world becomes more insane by the year. We would never have to fear running out of customers thus assuring permanent employment for many local residents.

One only has to think of the supply of occupants coming from within the workforce of Golden Pains Shire Council alone. One drawback may be that we will need many more qualified Psychiatrists with multiple personalities to understand all those of Linton who suffer from the same malady.

Where there is a will there is a relative who would also need to be accommodated near their loved ones. The flow on effect would be most beneficial as medicinal needs would also extend to a need for the Take-away to be able to stock more anti-depressant and anti-psychotic medicines.

An Outfitter specialising in white coats and nurses uniforms, a Farrier to make leg irons, a Milliner to make the many different hats that the inmates would want to wear, Quilters for security blankets, Fancy Dress suppliers to make happy those residents who think they’re Jesus, Napoleon or the Count of Monte Cristo. There are endless possibilities.

Lets start a petition now for the ‘Linton Centre for the Criminally Insane’ I’ll happily sign it if I can also have the opportunity to be the first to go there.  

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?

“ITS GOLD, GOLD, GOLD FOR LINTON””

Despite constant denials to the contrary the recent find of an enormous lump of gold (about 300 grands worth) in one piece at Edinburgh Reserve has prompted a surge in Detector Sales and a flurry of activity by hump-backed tourists swaying from side to side around the artificial lake.

Once the site of the Edinburgh Gold Mine, which it is said still consumes much of the rainwater running along that part of the highway, it had only a short period giving up its treasures and the mine along with its Stamping Battery closed around the early 1900’s.

Not deterred by the fact that gold became too expensive to mine for the better part of the 20th Century, the sale of the Ballarat Gold Mine to Japan has seen the value of gold ascend to record highs and made it a profitable pursuit for those willing to put in the time and effort to sell our birthright at fire sale prices. Will the recent find set off another Linton Gold Rush? We would be astonished if it did but it might put us back on the map so that even our neighbours in Ballarat can find us.

We believe that the current Gold Bubble, which is reminiscent of the famed Tulip Bubble as recently as 1637, has seen unscrupulous speculators in the precious metal move from offering to repair pensioners roofs to pawning their gold teeth. Someone will lose out and it will be those who can least afford it.

ADVANCE LINTON FAIR

In recent times one would note that the most exciting thing to happen to Linton in the last six months was the kidnapping of Wilma from her office allegedly by Boko Haram with the intention to marry her off. When a town becomes totally fixated on a bloody doll then maybe we should think about the sanity of the population. I was just sitting around the other day playing something from J.S Bach on my Shoe Horn when it came to me that Linton and its environs which includes the residents of Clappy Valley need to do something other than make off with life size dolls for some bizarre purpose.

Could we hold a Linton Charity Auction involving all the local community organisations together and for them to divide the spoils amongst themselves according to their input of saleable donations? Is this a good time financially to be drawing on the restricted incomes of our small population?

The Progress Association holds a Firewood Raffle once or twice a year but is that enough? I’m not sure that potential Tourists would stop on the way through to buy wood that may have to be transported back to Kazakstan.

One idea I thought of might be to promote the local Roman Ruins. We have holes in the ground scattered throughout the district that may have been Roman Baths and enough derelict brick structures to explain away as ancient Villa’s. A few old walls, the display of some broken terracotta pots or even some spearheads. We have enough Victorian Iron Lacework to scatter a few pointy bits around and I’m sure several disfigured old Pennies might find their way into the bottom of an abandoned well.

Do we have to have something tangible to draw in the Tourists? What about popular annual events such as an ‘Athiest Conference’ where even Agnostics of Golden Pains, Ballarat and Pyranees could get together to explain scientifically how God doesn’t really exist. Father John could be a Guest Speaker and a Raffle held for a new Stature of the Holy Mother for the Sussex Street Median Strip.

Every year 600 Million Dollars goes overseas in Internet Gambling which sort of ruins the idea of Mandatory Gambling Limits in Australia. Linton could get in on this act. Establish in the Blue Room tables, chairs and lounges and a dozen laptop computers hooked up to Wi-fi and connected exclusively to overseas Gambling Sites. Roulette, Black Jack, and Poker could all be played in a relaxed community atmosphere and we could all lose our money together. This would draw in people from Skipton and Smythesdale to lose their money as well. The $5.00 an hour charge to use the service could then be ploughed back into the Linton Community Groups. It’s a win-win situation for some of us.

A side benefit would be that we could qualify to be a high-rollers site and thus like Crown be exempt from Australian Smoking Laws. Of course we would need to prove we were smoking Imported Tobacco and not locally grown Hemp.

In Malaya they have formed Obedient Wives Clubs maybe we could establish one in Linton. Of course the Leaders would be men as ordained by God. Then maybe I should rethink that idea in the light of the iron laden purse heading for my forehead. Maybe the thought of each man being allowed to have four wives would leave nothing for us fat ugly ones.

Now that the town appears to be awakening from its economic slumber it could eventually lead to us being able to establish one of those popular Fishing and Surfing Shops. With Cape Clear so close it’s a badly needed resource for the area. The new Café 80 could redecorate with a Surfing Theme and Suzie’s specialise in selling Board Shorts knitted exclusively by Country Comforts. 

A BIGGER OPENING THAN BEN HUR

The Astonisher attended the official opening and delayed breakfast of the Linton Replica Railway Station and Rural Pursuits Centre adjacent to the Linton Sporting Complex and the Bridge Over Non-existent Waters.

All three levels of government were present, those with lawyer black suits (one with sunglasses probably from A.S.I.O) along with a scraping from the Community Co-ordinators Group and a disparate cluster of delegates from the Historical Society. The event was of such major importance that even a representative of the towns Tradesmen was in attendance.

Much was said about this magnificent ‘Bike Station’ and the fact that it was decided to locate the Linton Replica in Linton. Mention was made of the half million spent on the project, which we hope was for all three projects in Linton, Rokewood and Teesdale as it seemed a bit excessive to this observer for just this complex alone. There is also some question as to the origin of the $10,000 contribution from the community considering that there are no groups in the community that could afford to be that generous. One might hazard a guess that maybe it was left-over ‘encouragement money’ from local political or corporate interests.

We noted that there was a comment from one of the speakers about how lovely it was to have so many of the towns children attending the event, and (despite it being School Holidays) suggested that they probably should have been at school.

Despite this rag giving the impression that the Precinct Project as a whole would be a ‘white ellingfant’ we must unequivocally retract any such suggestions to make a positive comment that since completion it has attracted a good spattering of tourists to our ‘One Stop With Shop’ at one of the towns entrances and we would also like to congratulate the Progress Association for not standing in the way of Progress.

The headline was generated by the reporter who was reminded of the film Ben Hur when some undersized stunt riders from Linton hurtled themselves around the dirt track to the applause of an appreciative audience. The skateboard display was marred a little by the fact that O.H & S has banned the use of skateboards in Shopping Centres and on Council property and some of the children had to be satisfied with running up and down the skateboard ramp just wearing their safety helmets. Despite several calls the Lady Mayor was not inclined to give the thumbs down to any of the participants in the ’Linton Arena Spectacular’.

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 telephony I opted for the one that could be booked via email.
The B&B 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 Victorian 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. 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 half 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 walk-in closet. 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.
I predict that by 2050 when I am really old and grumpy we Socialists will be greeting our Comrades under the beloved Red Banner and proclaiming the Peoples Democratic Republic of Happy Valley when local councils and the states will be abolished and we’ll all stand united behind our Dear Leader Kevin Rudd III.
I have even written a new Anthem for our Republic which is sung to the music of the Mickey Mouse Club.
Who's the leader of the land
That's made for you and me
K-E-V-I-N-R………U-D and D again.
Hey! there, Hi! there, Ho! there
You're as welcome as can be
K-E-V-I-N-R………U-D and D again

K-E-V-I-N-R………U-D and D again

K-E-V-I-N-R………U-D and D again

Forever let us hold our banner
High! High! High! High!

Come along and sing a song
And join the labor clan
K-E-V-I-N-R………U-D and D again

And so, bringing myself back from fantasy land to the present story 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 ‘G’ 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?

ADVANCE LINTON FAIR

In recent times one would note that the most exciting thing to happen to Linton in the last six months was the kidnapping of Wilma from her Office. When a town becomes totally fixated on a bloody doll then maybe we should think about the sanity of the population. I was just sitting around the other day playing something from J.S Bach on my Shoe Horn when it came to me that Linton and its environs which includes the residents of Clappy Valley need to do something other than make off with life size dolls for some bizarre purpose.

Could we hold a Linton Charity Auction involving all the local community organisations together and for them to divide the spoils amongst themselves according to their input of saleable donations? Is this a good time financially to be drawing on the restricted incomes of our small population?

The Progress Association holds a Firewood Raffle once or twice a year but is that enough? I’m not sure that potential Tourists would stop on the way through to buy wood that may have to be transported back to Kazakstan.

One idea I thought of might be to promote the local Roman Ruins. We have holes in the ground scattered throughout the district that may have been Roman Baths and enough derelict brick structures to explain away as ancient Villa’s. A few old walls, the display of some broken terracotta pots or even some spearheads. We have enough Victorian Iron Lacework to scatter a few pointy bits around and I’m sure several disfigured old Pennies might find their way into the bottom of an abandoned well.

Do we have to have something tangible to draw in the Tourists? What about popular annual events such as an ‘Athiest Conference’ where even Agnostics of Golden Pains, Ballarat and Pyranees could get together to explain scientifically how God doesn’t really exist. Father John could be a Guest Speaker and a Raffle held for a new Stature of the Holy Mother for the Sussex Street Median Strip.

Every year 600 Million Dollars goes overseas in Internet Gambling which sort of ruins the idea of Mandatory Gambling Limits in Australia. Linton could get in on this act. Establish in the Blue Room tables, chairs and lounges and a dozen laptop computers hooked up to Wi-fi and connected exclusively to overseas Gambling Sites. Roulette, Black Jack, and Poker could all be played in a relaxed community atmosphere and we could all lose our money together. This would draw in people from Skipton and Smythesdale to lose their money as well. The $5.00 an hour charge to use the service could then be ploughed back into the Linton Community Groups. It’s a win-win situation for some of us.

A side benefit would be that we could qualify to be a high-rollers site and thus like Crown be exempt from Australian Smoking Laws. Of course we would need to prove we were smoking Imported Tobacco and not locally grown Hemp.

In Malaya they have formed Obedient Wives Clubs maybe we could establish one in Linton. Of course the Leaders would be men as ordained by God. Then maybe I should rethink that idea in the light of the iron laden purse heading for my forehead. Maybe the thought of each man being allowed to have four wives would leave nothing for us fat ugly ones.

Now that the town appears to be awakening from its economic slumber it could eventually lead to us being able to establish one of those popular Fishing and Surfing Shops. With Cape Clear so close it’s a badly needed resource for the area. The new Café 80 could redecorate with a Surfing Theme and Suzie’s specialise in selling Board Shorts knitted exclusively by Country Comforts

NEVER THE TWAIN SHALL ARRIVE

WHAT WE SAW AND WHAT WAS PLANNED WAS NOT WHAT WE GOT

It’s a bit of a mixed bag with the new Town Tourist Precinct. Actually we like the fact that people are already stopping and enjoying the facility and, at least on the day that I was down there, stopping about three or four families and preventing them from having a picnic somewhere else.

It is still to be seen if Kris and Mal benefit from the new facility or whether the highway traffic, still doing 80 kph by the time they ‘hit’ the area, will be slowed enough for pedestrians to cross safely with their Chico Rolls and it will be some time before we notice any increase, if any, in the main shopping precinct atop the hill. Rarely do people stop twice in the same town unless they’re fat lazy buggers.

We got half of the original design. As Golden Pains Council had decided that it would come in on time and on budget and they didn’t have to pay for the States largesse. The project kept getting smaller with each new tender, and from what I hear, it had to be re-tendered several times due to errors. One error being a declaration that there was definitely no water on site but it was later miraculously divined and the replica rooms became much needed toilets. They did not read the Dial Before You Dig publicity.

The horse troughs went, seats went, signs were reduced, the platform reduced in length, a picnic rotunda wiped off the map and imaginative crossing barriers, which could have been a great safety feature migrated up the hill under a set of bushes and only a token of their original size.

Only time now will tell whether the State of Victoria has used its money wisely, or as usual, pissed it all up against the wall inside the toilets. For a newsletter that is famous for its whinging, whining and self aggrandisement I think we should shut our mouth for a while until the town, the tourists and the intoxicated pass their judgement.

TENECE ANYWON

THE PATH TO THE DEVIL CONFUSES TOURISTS

The Astonisher has always thought that it was only Americans who get really stirred up by the thought of going to the Devil. We were wrong. Several Australian tourists had voiced there concerns to the us about getting lost for several hours before finding the relative heaven of Cape Clear.

Even though there was an itsy-bitsy sign off the Linton-Naringhal Road (a.k.a Geelong Road) giving the right direction the sign that should get you to that point is AFTER the intersection and not before it. One complaint was even about the fact that whilst looking for the Devil’s Kitchen they actually ended up at St.Paul’s Anglican Church which seemed to have taken them in the wrong secular direction altogether.

We were aware that several representations had been made to council, one in particular related to town signage, and we had written to council regarding this problem as well. It’s no good endeavoring to get tourists into town if we leave them only confused and eager to leave. I’m not sure that council would be too happy if, after completion of the expensive Town Entry Precint, all the tourists ended up at the Snake Valley Hotel as a result of incorrect signage.

We were astonished that Golden Pains Council continued to ignore the error, probably because it didn’t take people to Bannockburn.

Good on Damien Waite of Golden Pains Council.

Last year as part of the community consultations over the simulated railway station the Astonisher made a point that the Devil’s Kitchen sign did not point the way to Devil’s Kitchen. One would end up at the rather loftily named Linton Recreation Complex.

Everyone should note that the main sign has now been relocated to the corner of the Linton-Naringal Road (Geelong Road to some) and smaller signs placed on poles to support changes in direction for tourists.  It only took Damien a year, but it took council eleven years to move the sign 100 Metres.

On a really positive note now we know that there is at least one person in local government that is not entirely incompetent and this leads us to believe that this year we might finally get to sit on the platform of an impressionist station and wait for a non-existent train.

Still on our TO DO list is the special rack for the Railway Hotel and a big skip in which to dispose of all our old things.

WHEN DO WE START MOURNING?

Nothing stirs up bizarre rumors in Linton than something fairly major happening without warning or explanation. It certainly didn’t make the ABC 24 hour News or the pages of the Miner so it is still unclear why the Grocer Shop doors remain firmly closed.

Have costs, corporations, conspiracy, councils, competition or complacency caused the closure? Only recently we took two steps forward when businesses began opening in Linton. Craft Shops and Hairdressers among them.  After 150 years (there was a grocer style business here in 1860) another icon of Linton looks headed for listing in both meanings of the word. Listing in the records of the Historical Society as yet another business that ‘used to thrive’ and listing in a register as a significant village building.

Maybe it could open again in another guise. I would like to think that there is still some life in the Economic Store as it was known for a long time. Some of the forebears of the Grocery are still around and may be mourning the loss of what in the past was their livelihood. We have to ask what is the future of small businesses in Linton. I’m optimistic that with the increases in on-line trading and the NBN maybe coming through Linton this decade that the village reduces its dependency on passing trade like the ’Cars That Ate Paris’ to really concentrate on Good and ServicesTrading On-line if we can create or find our niche market.

My idea for a Tea Cosy Museum fell flat at the last attempt so this time around would the idea of starting up a Cryptozoology Gallery wave anyone's flag?

In today's economic climate where the supermarket vampires are sucking the life out of small business maybe the return of Jesus has more chance of being successful than a resurrection of another grocery shop in the town.

As an eager supporter of anything positive about Linton the Astonisher is always on the lookout for Australian made widgets and fizz-gigs rather than something produced for Apple by a worker on a 60-hour week for 30 cents an hour. We need to create employment in Linton not in Long Jowl.

Real - Chinese Garlic at $6.99 a kilo while Australian Garlic is $19.99 a kilo. Something's got to give. Protectionism anyone?