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?

HickRoads Acts Quickly

True to their word the State Department of Woads and Bwidges has acted upon a problem created recently by an errant vehicle running amuck and plunging into a Sussex Street house.

After contact with council we discovered that they were going to facilitate the installation of a safety device at the corner of Sussex and Clyde to reduce the damage from similar events.

If a vehicle hits the median strip at the trigger it will only take a micro-second to activate a large set of roller doors on the corner opposite.

Once raised a hand on a spring will pop out telling your car to stop immediately.

If it does not then the moment your vehicle hits the outstretched arm it will activate a giant airbag.

As we can’t let the bag off for a picture we have provided an artists impression of the outcome should a car hit the switch.

As with safety devices inside your vehicle Hickroads have been very inventive in designing a big outdoor airbag for motoring safety.

Hickroads ‘Going To Any Length To Impress At The Cheapest Price’

GO-SIP COLLUM

*** Latest vegetarian polls show that the incumbent Prime Minister Rabbit unchallenged by any ex-Goldman-Sachs millionaires is now less popular than Spinach. But that is not to say that Jug- Ears will be Dear Leader into the next election.

His habit of increasing fuel and decreasing Doctors payments by $5 (a co-payment by stealth) has not endeared him to anyone who needs to drive themselves to the doctor.

The propaganda coming from both sides about Australia being conquered by Muslim terrorists in leaky boats is creating great swathes of misinformation to wash over us like a Tsunami of Chinese Whispers. The misinformation and lies, not quite to the extent of throwing babies overboard, is stirring up an element of hatred not seen in Australia since World War 2.

We believe that our elected representatives in our democracy have been going down hill morally and uphill financially for the last twenty years at least. Not since the hey day of God Gough has any leader of Australia been surrounded by so much self-service and incompetence that we are just waiting for this governments Judy Morrosi to throw a spanner into the house.

*** At a State level questions have been raised in Victorian Parliament about the ramifications of the impending legalisation of gay marriage by the federal government in 2015. Australia has always trailed 12 months behind America’s instructions. Predictions are that one of the first moves by whichever government we elect will be addressing that anomaly in law. Obama has already sent the email instructing it be done.

Discussions around the matter in Spring Street this week brought to light several concerns about who will most likely be Australia’s first openly gay Governor-General. It was said that Bob Brown (ex-Greens) may be on the list, along with Alan Jones (Fascist Faggot) or maybe Jacqui Lambie (Army Dyke) to shut her up. What will be the protocol when two Queens meet on official occasions. More tellingly should the Victorian Government elect to have the same proportional representation as the electorate it governs and how are we going to select 17 good and true Gays for the States Lower House.

*** Historians have made representation to parliament regarding the misinformation about illegal migrants. They have pointed out that this country was invaded by boat people without valid Visa’s a couple of centuries ago so the latest arrivals are nothing new. Australia had no problems with migrants from Europe, as long as they were white Christians. But now the new arrivals are the same colour as the people we invaded, and God forbid because there are several Muslims, we suddenly get all het up about it. At best we are hypocrites at worst we are xenophobes. Back in the 70’s there was not a word of protest about the Vietnamese illegal boat people. Was that because they were Catholics?

*** All the politicians in this election are saying that we should ‘GO FORWARD’ what bloody moron would suggest otherwise?

*** Linton, forever ahead with community cohesiveness, is to get a new religious community group establishing its headquarters here. The Astonisher has been given exclusive heads-up advance news and exclusive details about “ TURN THE OTHER CHEEK’ a Christian Spanking Club are interested in purchasing the St. Paul’s Parish Hall.

*** There is no mention of Black Holes and other Solar Systems in either the new or old Testaments. These missives suggest that God created the Heavens and the Earth but did not mention of Jupiter, Mars or even poor defrocked Pluto. Scientists at the time worked out that the Stars were actually attached to a huge black background, the size of which was beyond human contemplation, that the Sun revolved around the Earth (which they suspected was flat) and just like modern day backward peoples still clinging to the fact that unless it was in the Bible could not believe anything until they saw it with their own eyes.

2065 THE YEAR THAT LINTON STOPPED STANDING STILL

(from Ellen Degenerate of News Very Limited)

Hoards of disgruntled rate-payers decided to picket the century old council and its even older chambers

Cries of 'maintain the rage' rang out through the crowd and a plea to remember November 11 from the leader of the mob.

‘It's not Kerr's Cur any more it's Curtin's Curtains’ screamed another referring to either an ancient hero or today’s mayor. ‘I rather like them’ said the woman next to him.

With council rates well above the national average of 10% of the value of your real estate a retired Accountant gave a cry from the heart 'shame, shame’ the Mayors not worth $30,000 a year in miscellaneous expenses and another 12 Grand in Sundry Watnots.

The Ball on the War Memorial was nearly toppled by one overzealous by-stander trying to get her hands around the Mayor’s throat.

Taxes, Fees, Levee’s, Surcharges and Compulsory Donations raised by Council for the delivery of services has angered some residents. With 94% going in wages, lurks, perks and investigations in Monte Carlo voters are demanding some form of explanation. The recent increases in water gathering fees (dependent on the length of your guttering) along with the new carbon tax if your driveway has covered up any potential flora growth has raised some concerns amongst residents of Linton.

Penny Yaw Wong explained “If you have more than 100 metres of guttering you are also required to have an additional water meter to measure the extra flow. Downpipes and underground lines are not included because they do not collect water but merely redirect it.”

He/She went on to say that “there was no truth in the rumour that 10% went to Pope Frank II for the Acts of God”.

The demonstrators finally broke up for a cup of tea and a little lay down before watching ‘Antique Roadshow’ being televised from the Recreation Centre.

THEY’VE FINALLY DONE IT

The Historical Society celebrated it's 65th anniversary by announcing the recent completion of the cataloguing of it's photo collection. The evening at the Letty Centre was marred by some adolescent upstart quite loudly querying 'what is a photograph?'

PLUMBER CRACKS

Not everything can be purchased over the internet despite the refrigerators encyclopaedic knowledge of food, recipes and what's on special at SWIGS (Safeway Woolworths Independent Grog Shops) although people have been known to asked the freezer ‘who won todays Lotto?’.

A resident discovered they could not get a plumber over the internet. “I had to phone one to come and check out my bidet which for some reason had increased its pressure and was now nailing my arse to the ceiling whenever I flushed.” Apparently plumbers have decided not to engage the internet because its powered by electricity and they have an active demarcation issue with the Electricians Union.

When repaired he presented his $4,740 account. After hearing the loud gasps of a customer having a heart attack he kindly deducted his callout fee of $400.

LOOKING FORWARD TO LINTON

The main news from Golden Floodplains Council this month is the final approval for a 24 hour Hamburger joint to be sited in Edinburgh Reserve.

A representative from ‘BURGER ME’ held a Press Conference straight after the decision was reached.

We are delighted to be able to provide an alternative to the Golden Arches at Happy Valium. For too long they have been the only fast-food outlet with the facilities to provide the village with caffeine, cholesterol, pigeon fat and pork belly chips within this Shire.

We are competitive on price and quality and nobody sells better shit than us.

LAST PUBLIC SPACE IS UP FOR GRABS

News that the Walt Disney Group are looking keenly towards the impending sale of the Linton Replica Railway Station with Replica Bikes and Historic Skate Boards has led some townsfolk to start putting up signs warning about the health hazards involved in exercise.

Riding on narrow planks of wood with ball-bearing wheels or careening across wooden trestles with two wheels between your legs is un-natural and can lead to someone falling over and skinning themselves.

Only last year two children fell over one of which ended up in hospital having a cast stapled on to his left arm. We cannot continue to allow our children to run around just having fun. Allowing them to use their imagination and to even invent imaginary friends is not how their brain should be employed.

PUBLISH AND BE DAMNED

The recent promise by local politician Sarah Ferguson in the Courier to make available to the public the names and addresses of sex offenders initially sounds like a sensible idea until you drill down into the ramifications of such material being openly available. On reading it my blood boiled. Who advised her to even entertain the idea?

In a past life I spent nearly 23 years in and out of situations dealing with victims of sexual assault. At one point in the mid-80s I was offered a position to become one of only three male sexual assault counsellors for adolescents in NSW. The difficulty I faced was to decide if I could also include perpetrators. Although I believed that both should receive appropriate counselling the warning bells rang when it was pointed out I could never tell anyone outside the industry what I did, could not publish my address, what about the effects on my family, I already had a silent phone number, be ready at any time to evacuate my place of work and move house but worst of all possibly face being labled, as a counsellor for perpetrators, that I must be one of them too. I declined on the grounds of personal safety.

It is this perception by the community that rings alarms about public lists. Police, Courts, Welfare Departments and a huge majority of people working with children in these situations are determined that such a publication never comes about.

Whilst the intent of publication is benign and meant to protect the community the available data shows that most paedophiles act within the family. They are principally step-fathers but include fathers (and a few mothers) uncles, cousins, brothers and sisters. Stranger danger is but an infinitesimal part of solving the problem. In fact a counsellor in the United States studied that countries information and calculated that if you put your child on the street at birth they would be seventeen by the time any adult tried to interfere with them including sexual advances and only about ten percent would go any further. By comparison the figure of 1 in 4 children are sexually assaulted at some time in their lives suggests 1 in 3 are within the family.

Any sensible person would see the results of publication. Vigilante groups attacking people with the same name (there are at least three of me in Australia), offenders would move house and become ‘of no fixed abode’ and untraceable, the name of the offender would then expose the name of the victim in cases where it is within the family resulting in severe trauma for the child and terrible consequences for their future socialisation by making them an outcast in their own community. They could not go to school, join clubs or play sport due to the stigma attached to being a sexual assault victim. ‘They brought it upon themselves you know’.

It is also dangerous in that it may lead perpetrators to ‘eliminate the child’ so they cannot talk, and no amount of ‘Sorry’ will ever make up for the death of innocence.

I implore the local community not to buy into, or support such a move. Sarah Ferguson and her like, that want to play on the misplaced fears of the electorate to curry favour and gain votes. It is a cynical and dangerous exercise to attempt to convince the less thoughtful, more knee jerk voters that such moves will help. They won’t, they can’t and they shouldn’t.