FAMILY PLANNING FOR EVERYONE

‘‘THE WELL’

NESS CLINIC

The Well Ness Clinic would like to advise all the residents of GOLDEN PAINS that there has been such a demand for terminations that the waiting list has been extended to 10 months. We advise that you book early to avoid disappointment.

DOES LINTON NEED ELEVENTEEN COMMITTEES?

Ever since the arrival in town of Wilma Backert and her typewriter their seems to have been a broadside of correspondence to various groups and committees around the town with the main intention of creating dissention. Maybe she is attempting to divide and conquer this once close knit community and bringing us all under her autocratic rule.

The problem appears to be that only about 5% of the town care about the bloody place and are therefore becoming involved in several committees simultaneously. As a result we have heard of examples of the Secretary of one committee writing to the Secretary of another committee, upon which they are both the same person, and blatantly denying having received their own correspondence. Whilst this is a boon for a deprived postal service it has created an economic bubble in local mail delivery. One meeting it is said took more than five hours to get from Welcome to General Business. We did a breakdown of reports and minutes received from the Itty Bitty Titty Committee (ITBC) and found that:-

50% of time was taken up by matters arising from the minutes, 30% from the reading of correspondence, 15% by reports to the committee which had been discussed prior to the meeting, 10% discussing the latest town activity, the Miss Linton Titty Trophy often referred to as the Booby Prize, 8% by tea-breaks and pee-breaks and 5% by irrelevant interjections. Adding up to 118% this meant that everyone was very late getting home after negative discussions surrounding General Business. We checked out the sums with our Science Editor and he described it as a ‘Black Hole’

What are some of the other groups who cross each others paths on Sussex Street but don’t talk to each other and some of the matters they don’t discuss.

The Median Strip Playgroup (MSP) complaint about the C.F.A driving right through the middle of finger painting at the last callout. The Methane Reduction Group (MRG) writing to Golden Showers Council requesting a reduction in rates in return for their contributions to the Carbon Credit Contrivance (CCC). However the Council cited several unfortunate explosions of steers at Linton Park after the insertion of butt plugs and the cost of the beef collection.

The (name withheld) writes to the Progress Association (PA) in regard to the bench seat outside the Post Office (PO) being included in the Victorian Historical Register (VHR) and the exclusion of most of the towns historic churches.

Wilma has admitted writing to the Security Officer of the BBQ Subgroup from the Replica Railway Station Subcommittee which is part of the Linton Community Planning Group at the Golden Showers Council (BSGRRSSLCPGGSC) requesting that a heavy-duty security glass be added to the front of her shed to prevent her from being kidnapped or getting chilblains.

The Happy Valium Chamber of Commerce (HVCC) writes regularly to Linton Police Station (LPS)complaining about the Happy Clappy Church (HCC)seemingly getting far too happy about the Lord and the distinct possibility that it is not Hydrangeas being grown around the back of the toilets. The Happy Valium Progress Association (HVPA) has requested Council to reinforce the Happy Valley Schools (HVS) floor which may collapse if the Church attendees do not cease jumping up and down in such an exuberant manner.

Upsy Daisy, Secretary of the LPA has written to several groups asking them to refrain from requesting funds to buy their own barrows to push and sensibly suggesting that maybe they could share the one or two barrows already existing.

The Federation of Tracks (FAT) circulated a petition to permit the inclusion of barrows in the list of things that could be pushed along the Rail Trail and we finish with the Committee United for National Traditions and Services (C****)has requested that signage be placed at the five entrances to town saying that Linton has their support.

This is but a few examples of the maelstrom of mail that shoots back and forth over Sussex Street. We believe that the lack of numbers for working on committees, mainly due to the interminable talk but no action which bores everybody shitless, needs what in the private sector would be called a little ‘rationalisation’ by maybe either combining some groups or by everyone meeting on the same night in the same room and actually communicating with one another and to hold combined events according to resources and skills to break down the inexplicable historic barriers of parochialism in the best interest of the town.

We could start with the screaming minority joining with the silent majority in just one town activity and see where we go from there.

DEAR DIARY

MONDAY: Poor old Peppie has done his maths and has just asked me where two of his things have gone. The gender realignment surgery went very well except that he was not allowed to run for a week. We had only been home and hour or so when he saw a rabbit and that was the end of the ‘no running’ rule,

Having no longer use for his Cricket Box he wants me to advertise it on eBay and has also realised he has saved a lot of time washing and tending to them and he does have a nice new purse in which to carry his loose change.

TUESDAY: The rain has caused the grass to grow at such a rate that I have had to invest in yet another ride-on mower to blow-up. The last one got itself buggered driving into unexpected holes but I cut off its mower section and now use it like a very slow Dune Buggy around the property. Both of course were second hand and in my case it seemed to be a case of ‘Seller Beware’.

In Oklahoma and Happy Valium the grass is as high as a big goats eye. All I could see today was their backs floating along the horizon like clouds followed closely by the Alpacas appearing above the field heads held high like Loch Ness Monsters.

WEDNESDAY: It’s now the day before tomorrow and all through my house I’ve been searching for hours for one bloody mouse.

Yes the mouse plague has hit us yet again, at least at my place. Oh! The beauty of country life. Everybody else has been getting rid of them, but of course being a hoarder my 20ft Container has been filling up with fat Mickey’s indulging on rapidly depleting feed bins. Maybe I should have purchased a container twice the size to allow for my ever-expanding collection of de-motorised garden implements and homeless rodents.

THURSDAY: A neighbour suggested I really need to talk to an expert about the problems and gave me the name of a good Psychiatrist.

FRIDAY: Oh! Yes indeed the beauty of country life. People in the big smoke may wax lyrical about the neighbourhood in which they live but grey concrete has never appealed to my vibrant reds and blacks. The happy vista of grey skies blending with the city scenery and the even greyer city-folk around me would make me want to Paraglide from the tallest balcony without the ’Para’

Thank whatever deity you worship that I don’t have to rely on elevators beyond the ones that add an inch or two to my height.

The very thought of spending ten minutes rising and falling vertically in a coffin rather than horizontally on foot to my front gate and back for my mail is too tortuous to contemplate. What would I do if I couldn't smell horse shit, tread in goat droppings or watch Peppie crap on our daily ramble around the carport.

I was once asked during an assessment if I ever considered disposing of my soul prematurely after telling them of this contemplation. I replied ‘not before two things have happened’ and then went on to say ‘I’m out of this bloody office and I’ve spent all my superannuation’. Then as a final word I added that ‘anyone seriously contemplating an enforced taking of their last breath would not be stupid enough to tell anyone anyway.

SATURDAY: A nurse at St.John of God, exclaimed when seeing my weight on her doubtfully accurate machine that maybe I should get out and exercise more. Why don’t I buy a bike.

“Dear lady” I said, “ I am so far from decent civilisation that a car is a necessity. A bike ride just to Linton and back would be such a physically taxing hour that I’m afraid my heart would complain most violently, my legs wishing they could be detached and the dogs feet worn down to the extent that he would look more like a victim of thalidomide”.

Finally, to be healthy, I decided to consult my recipe books and watch healthy lifestyle shows on TV for exercise.

According to Gordon Ramsey, because he knows every f……..g thing we need to f….....g know, there is a f…....g cure.

1 Teaspoon of Birch leaves.

1 Teaspoon of Dandelion

1 Teaspoon of Hydrangea

Mix all the herbs, add boiling water and let simmer for a minute. Strain and drink two cups a day. Place the remaining gunk in the compost bin and ‘pray it doesn’t kill the worms’. (I added that bit after I tried it)

SUNDAY: Heavens to Betsy. Woke up this morning to the sound of animals acting the goat. On investigation I find I have another animal problem.

Timmay, the white one that impersonates dogs, had yet another psychotic episode. Now I have to get to the vet to find out what to do with a goat that has developed ‘Turette’s Syndrome’.

LINTON INQUIRY INTO CROP CIRCLES REACHES FINDINGS

From Police Reporter - Matt Recide

The local Police have released information regarding the mysterious ‘crop circles’ that appeared on a nearby property. After extensive investigations we are able to release those findings to the public.

Originally it was believed to have been the work of some local young upstarts out for a fun time and a bit of a hoon around. But after questioning it was discovered to be the work of a town personality that should have known better. The culprit who is closely linked to the building now occupied by Café 80 had apparently offered a Hotel Patron a lift home on a recent dark and gloomy night.

On entering the property the car slipped and slid a bit in the muck and the two men, getting excited, decided to exercise a few skids, doughnuts and burnouts. Naturally it was not long before their crop-circle adventure bottomed out the car. To make matters worse it was his partners vehicle and she (who shall remain un-named) was hastily called to the rescue in the bogged drivers own 4-wheel drive to tow them out of the situation.

On the last day of the inquiry one of the culprits appeared with his left arm in a sling. Apparently he had suffered a dislocated shoulder a short time later. He claims that it was caused by ‘just taking off my jumper’ but we believe, like walking into cupboard doors, there is something more sinister going on. Police will continue to keep a close eye on both miscreants for similar antics.

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?

Anti-Traumatisation

Removal of children from abusive situations is both a proper and responsible action to be taken by anyone with statutory responsibility for the protection of children, especially where child sexual assault may be involved. In the eyes of the law, the abuser, as an adult, is innocent until proven guilty and hence is permitted to remain in the family home unless the non-offending parent takes some action to remove them. As a result the child, the victim, has to be removed as protection against further assault.

These children are then isolated from their home to further protect them, but at the same time they are sometimes removed from the non-abusive parent, any siblings, local friends, school and school friends, supportive teachers and significant others who should maintain their relationships as part of the healing process.

Ideally any child should be placed as close as possible to their natural home environment, attend the same school, maintain the same friendships with other children and significant adult contacts. The schools responsibility and that of others would be to ensure that non-contact is maintained with the abuser. How one does this without ‘publicising’ the childs problem is a dilemma that will have to be addressed?

Removal in our present system almost exclusively means exclusion from everyone known and trusted by the child where in reality there need only be separation from the abusive adult/s. How can we expect any child to feel safe and secure in the unrealistic and traumatic environment in which we place them.

Some that I have known and worked with state that they feel that they are the one at fault by the way they are treated, especially so when accommodated in so-called ‘safe environments’ that actually resemble detention centres and who have similar policies and procedures. Before it was closed down as a ‘safe environment’ the Departments facility for these children, those that could not be immediately placed in foster care, maintained the illegal policy of locking all external doors and windows to prevent children from absconding.

If such an environment is said to be a ‘safe’ for children then why the need for such security measures? In a sane world we do not lock up the victims, hence the similar insanity in detaining refugees.

What we need to do is maintain effective contact with everyone in the childs realm with supervised visits home being made a regular occurrence and maintenance of contact with extended family and significant others encouraged. Supervision in this context would only be a precaution against the child coming into contact with the offender and not a check on the morals or behaviour of the rest of the family. I would even suggest that the child be allowed to spend time overnight with non-abusive parents and siblings whenever the abusive adult is not present.

This traumatising process is a hindrance when it comes to the counselling of victims, much the same as the protocols for ‘notification’ of any child who presents for sexual assault counselling.

One thing I learnt in my short sojourn into working with sexually abused children some time back, was that they must feel as though they are free to say what they want and confident that you are not going to go running off and blabbing to someone they don’t know about their most intimate disclosures as is required with the ‘team’ approach of the department.

The system of group confidentiality within agencies, whilst a good practice to be encouraged, must be tempered with the fact that informed consent must be obtained from the client before disclosure to others and not to be bandied around over a cup of coffee at lunchtime with other staff members.

The legal process is also demeaning, embarrassing and traumatic. One particular case on which I worked involved three victims of the same perpetrator. The fact that I could only work with one who did not have DoCS support meant a positive outcome for him, whilst the other two who did have DoCS support were worse off.

Over the two and a half years the case ran DoCS did not appear once, nor did it provide CSA counselling, legal representation or even transport to and from court. My client won his case because he did receive all the necessary support and several years later also won a case for compensation. Some improvements have been made to the legal process over the last few years but DoCS processes it seems have improved very little.

The one problem with this de-traumatisation process is that it will make it much easier for children to disclose and to receive counselling but with CSA services already thin on the ground we may not be able to handle the surge in demand.