janettebruckshaw-healthy kids.blogspot.com

The Weed Eating Cat

2021-06-12T04:02:00.001-07:00

Without Prejudice Apart from a tree climbing dog, Bonney, who died sadly of old age, ( a German Sheperd, aged 12. who was the best pet the family has ever had) There Was Nick,A.K.A. Nicholas James Hawkins,a feline of magnificent proportions also known as Satan by Alena, Dickonface by the Boys ( being black and white , with what looked like a dick and balls on his handsome face. Zach picked him from the litter, saying " I'll take the one with the dick on his face " From the moment Nicky came through the front door, he was Kyles. Kyle swooped him out of Zachs arms and took him to his room. That was it. No argument. Kyle being the oldest of seven boys certainly had sway over the rest. One time when Kyle was incarcerated for the second time ( dont ask) we ignored him that time as he hadnt learnt his lesson from the first time. Nick trying to pinch food from a frying pan on the stove set his whiskers alight. They were forever bent out of shape from then on. Kyle just happened to call from one of those dreary phone calls from jail. the phone call that starts with the mechanical voice stating " This is a call from Barwon or Sale or Geelong, wherever, You may accept the call or hang up now " Deb used to just hang up when it was Kyles father, Simon. Apple doesn't fall far from tree and all that. Kyle said, frantically, "Nicky could die from that" He didnt. But Kyle, 22, then, had just seen a guy stabbed in the face, in the next cell but one to his , so was perhaps a bit emotional. Nicky was King. He turned from a tiny scrap of a thing into a great big Alpha Male that took no quarter from any other animal, including, two German Sheperds that tried to bounce him. They lost. Nick was grumpy, greedy and disdainful and everone adored him. He would come to my unit after being fed in the main house and demand food. And I mean demand, food. I dont know how he did it ( I never caught him at it in 11 years) but he would pound, yes pound, on the door until let in. He would swipe bacon or ham out of your hand and if you were lucky you would get to keep one one of your fingers. Yvette had a trick where she would insert a finger deep into his paw and he would retract all his claws for her, never, ever, did it for me. I still have the claw marks to prove it. We never knew his real age We knew he was getting on in years but he was robust, healthy and still very active. Yvette could get him to play in the backyard with a long piece of grass that she would sway in front of him and he would pounce on it, chase it and eventually shred it to pieces. I could get him to roll on his back by stating " Whos a handsome boy then?" He slept on the couch until I went to bed and once I was settled would jump up next to me, settle and would not budge an inch, even if I tried to nudge him out of the way with my foot. He slept more and more as he aged. When Pee Wee Dee was staying here and renting out the lounge room, Nick would steal his weed out of his bowl. He thought at first it was someone pinching his " stash" but caught ick red handed or white pawed, crunching on it and was scaling the curtains at 2am in the morning. One day Nicky started vomiting a little in Kyles room. Kyle by then a man, and a fussy one ( no more incarcerations, thank God ) threw him out. Yvette did the same when he perked up in the hall. I took him in, feeling sorry for him. In February this year he was rushed to the Vets, barely moving. He couldnt even twitch his tail. He was put on a drip, kept overnight, given meds and allowed home. I was convinced he had been baited, as a lady neighbour had her staffy poisoned. For both of us it was over a thousand dollars to save both our pets lives. The vet told Kyle, Nick had feline aids, a condition quite common in cats, apparently. And something Kyle didnt tell us, was Nick also had kidney disease and would be lucky to live another six months. Nicholas James HAWKINS died in my arms, the day after Mothers Day. May 10th 2021. He died as he lived, quietly and with dignity. No sound, just died. I stroked his head and asked him not to die. I told him I loved him, and what a great cat he had been. Then I ran to get Yvette. We had his body cremated. His ashes are in an urn of silver decorated with his paw prints in gold. He is with Kyle.

Sex Trafficking—The Phillipines

2021-04-04T13:36:00.000-07:00

Without Prejudice My Sis and others at her Soroptomists group work hard to raise money to help stop the sex trafficking trade of young girls and no doubt some boys in places like The Phillipines. Some countries are so poor that the money these kids raise by giving up their bodies to strangers is what keeps their families alive. I speak of the Phillipines only because of some personal knowledge I have of the place. A good friend is from there and moved to Oz 15 years ago, she informed me of the sex trafficking but also my ex husband traveled there many times in the late eighties. He went with two business associates.Two middle-aged Men, both long past their prime, overweight, balding, carrying their paunches before them in an honoured way, almost as a trophy to many beers, juicy steaks, and pork crackling. What he was to discover over there was a shock to him, he said. His good friends and business associates introduced him to the night life, the food, the bars where the good looking " Hostesses" served drinks and compliments. They also introduced him to their mistresses, the humble homes they had bought them and their kids. Kids that their wives back home in Oz had no idea existed. At first my ex was in shock, he told me, but then

Hoarberry Farm

2021-03-02T18:30:00.010-08:00

Without Prejudice Lauren shivered as the number 116 bus, headed for Ossett, pulled into the depot with a swish of air brakes, Sending a pile of slush , made up of ice,water and rubbish, grey and soaking onto any unwary passengers legs. Lauren gathered her new bought woollen coat tighter into her tiny frame and adjusted her scarf just so. She knew the bus would be warm and might, just might,thaw out her freezing cold feet. Her supposedly all leather boots turned out to have soles of thick cardboard which turned to mush the minute they were wet. If Lauren had but known her chilled feet were going to be the least of her worries that night in late October,1964, she would have endured them a lot more stoically than she did. As it was, she was not blessed with the power of second sight, so she grumbled and moaned to herself with some veracity. Berating herself for her stupidity and cheapness. The dampness had soaked into her knee high lace socks. And her misery was complete. Lauren had idly thought as she stamped her chilled feet that she would have been better off going barefoot. and laughed to herself at the thought.No one went barefoot in England, not even in the height of Summer when temperatures could reach a dizzying height of 18 degrees or so. No wonder the boots had been such a bargain at 5 quid, she thought. Her Mother had warned her about buying cheap goods at the market but Lauren couldnt resist the sight of them. with their Faux lace up fronts, shiny gold zips on the inside of the legs. A block stacked heel that made her body tilt forward just slightly. She imagined that she looked not unlike a Pigeon pecking at seeds on the ground as she walked. Not exactly pigeon chested, however, for an otherwise small girl, Lauren had a decent sized bosom inherited from her Grandma Lucy whose bust was so vast, deep and wide that she placed her hearing aid in it, battery pack and all. When Granny didnt want to hear what Grandad George was saying she just reached her hand into her ample chest and turned down the sound. George never knew. But he was usually pissed half the time so it didnt much mstter anyway, even if he had caught her. The bus ride took 35 minutes exactly, from Wakefield to Ossett. The route of 116 was one Lauren knew by heart, she ticked them off mentally as she shuffled forward with the other passengers, anxioys to be on their way. The night was closing in very fast. Wakefield - Wakefield Bus Station, Union St, Northgate, Bull Ring, Marygate, Westgate, Westgate End, Dewsbury Rd, Horbury Rd, Northfield Ln, Cluntergate, High St, Westfield Rd, Sowood Ln, Horbury and last stop Ossett, Lauren repeated to herself. Ossett was where she lived, down Headlands Road, in an old Gate House that had once been part of an estate. Her Dad had turned what had once been the old stables into a large garage from where he operated a panel beating business, sprayed cars and sold retread tyres. He bought a Bedford Van, second hand, and did it up and would travel up and down the highways and byways to Sunderland where he bought the tyres cheap as chips. Then he would flog them all around Wakefield, to car yards, markets, boot sales and the like, always cash on the nose. He loved a bit of cash, her Dad, Eric. Mum always called him a bit of a " wide boy". Lauren had no idea what that meant but she knew who " Flash Harry" was from the St Trinian Films and that was another term Mum would come up with when talking about Dad. Lauren tended to hero worship him and this only seemed to aggravate her Mum. That and being a 16 year old teenage girl that is. Mum seemed to be going through a bit of a " funny stage " Dad said and he should know, he hsd seen her through many a "funny stage " since the War. She had been badly injured both physically and mentally in the War, serving in the RAF. She never talked about it, not ever. It was a secret. Within a family of secrets, shhhhh, careful they might hear you. "Loose lips, sink ships " Mum always warned them. Dad said nothing when she said it.

Natalie Bruckshaw

2021-02-19T18:21:00.002-08:00

Without Prejudice My Mother,Natalie Wilsher, as was, was born a middle Sister into a poor working class family in Wakefield,in the West Ridings of Yorkshie, U.K. in the Autumn of 1923. her father, George Wisher, was a miner, who hated Winston Churchill. He hated Churchill because he fired on the striking Welsh miners, (The TonyPandy Riots of 1910-1911) George,who had worked all his life in The Lofthouse Colliery and had the blackened lungs to prove it, sat telling me all this as he smoked and spat into a hankie. The coal dust was embedded in his lungs and he had no bother coughing the grey colored sputum up. Lucy Wilsher his wife, nee Dickinson, was a tiny massive chested lady who was my darling Granny and bought me chips with vinegar whenever she saw me, uptown in Wakefield. I was a twelve year old girl then , who along with my family returned to the U.K. ( our birth place- except for my younger brother, Dave, who was a dyed in the wool Aussie) after emigrating to Australia in the fifties. We were all Aussies as far as we were concerned. Especially as us 4 kids contemplated the stark reality of lashing wind and rain, grey skies and looming and gloomy clouds of The White Cliffs of Dover. Where were we again? Australia? Papua New Guinea? Greece, Port Of Aden? North Africa ? Surfers Paradise? Adelaide, Melbourne? All the places we had stopped at on our five week journey to the U.K. All those places had been warm and sunny. Here we were facing a long and longed for ( by my parents at least ) future that us kids, being kids had had no say in. On the trip across the choppy English Channel, Dad had excitedly bought us all giant blocks of Cadburys Dairy Milk. Which promptly came back up an hour later in stringy arcs of watery vomit, which made us retch even more. I , for one, thought I had died and gone to Hell. Things got darker danker as I gazed balefully out the window of the train that was taking us to Kings Cross Station.I had pictured snow as pretty soft, white with marshmallow softness but what I was looking at was grey, patchy mounds of ice. my immediate thought was " How can people live here?" It was the early hours of the morning and cold, so cold. i wasnt dressed for a U.K. winter. still in my short leather ?? boots, Mum had bought me in Pireaus. the full leather boots turned out to be cardboard soled that disentegrated into pulp the minute I walked on my first tentaive steps from the train. Our journey had not yet come to an end, not by a long chalk. kings Cross was a roiling sea of steam and humanity. A sticky bun and a mug of sweet tea was provided to us all by a Salvation Army lady as we sat on our trunks and watched a window in an office above us as Dad negotiated free tickets on The Royal Flying Scotsman from the Station Master who was probably a Mason like my Dad. A golden handshake would get you many things in those days, the mid sixties. I remember the day, so vividly, ias it was the day of Winston Churchills funeral. it had been on the newsletter we received every day on the Ellenis. Along with the shuffle deck times, what was for morning tea, lunch, dinner menus and any other facts that seemed pertinent to the day. I longed to be back on the boat with its whiteness and heat. I wanted to be back at the neck off the Suez as we made one of the very last sojourns through it. And Pireaus, so hot, Rome the same as we received pinches to our bum, even me with my twelve year old skinny body. Jackie and Mum were black and blue but they had boobs. une were just budding. i remember the Breakfast Captain who Mum and Dad adored, tickling me on the fanny as my little brother, David and I descended down the stairs of the back staircase. I looked sideways at David, thinking he, at 8, had accidently touched me to get my attention. He was oblivious to me and I realised to my horror that the Breakfast Captain had tickled me on the fanny. Reaching his hand back and tickling me over my dress. sight useen by anyone. On my untouched, virginal fanny. " Dirty old man " I thought. I avoided him like plague after that and my parents couldnt understand why. For ours was a family of secrets. Not least our Mums mental illness, or our Dads crookedness. We were stiff upper lips kids. Nothing was stopping our progress forward and upward except for our poorness and denial of anything wrong to others. We couldnt let on what we really were going through. We were little British, Scottish Soldiers. Brave, strong, determined. " Loose lips, sank ships" Everyone knew that.

Laddie

2020-11-12T21:29:00.000-08:00

Without Prejudice He wasn't the best looking dog in the World. He wasn't the smartest, the most loyal, the Best in Show. He had greying fur ( more salt and pepper, really,} a portly body and a smallish head. His eyes were milky with cataracts ( apparently he could see straight ahead, but little periphereally. He seemed to shuffle when he walked, until he saw a cat or a stranger and instantly he would transform into an Alsatian or Rottweiler, arthritis gone, shuffling gait gone and he would launch, bounding wacross the concrete, stiff legged, his ridge fur standing, his bark loud and strident. Laddie was our protector. When he would be going off outside I asked Alena, my daughter, what he was doing. " Protecting" she'd say, laughing with delight and running outside to chide him or pick him up and bound up the stairs. The wooden stairs he found it so hard to navigate with his arthritis and all. nights were starting to get cool then and many an evening we spent tiptoe on the porch, calling him. to no avail.You would have to go fetch him, everytime, every single time. i'd be trepadacious of fetching him as he would always act startled and when Laddie was startled he would bite. I said to Alena " Is he deaf as well?" She always maintained he wasn't but I was convinced he was, deaf, just a little. He could really nip you too. I had to go to a wedding in Ballarat, (back in mid Feb 2020; just before CORONA) with a bite mark on my wrist that looked like an egg with a smilie face on it. My gaggle of nephs urged me to grab a pen and join the dots of Laddies sharp teeth marks. We were all pretty much totalled by then, shitfaced,( free bar ) An Aussies favourite two words, apart from Fuck You. We had taken Laddie to the wedding.He slept in the back of the car the whole way But he disgraced himself by not getting along with the people we were staying withs huge Staffy. Just a pup, Bayleigh,a female of big proportions, who was as gentle as a lamb and was genuinely puzzled that Laddie didn't want to be her friend. We left them in the house together, Laddie in one room and Bayleigh in another. We were going to be staying at theirs that night, but changed our minds when we returned to find Laddie shaking in fear or adrenalin so went home instead. i drove. I didnt want to but Alena is inclined d tp speed or take the kerb on two wheels which can be tad disturbing for her mother. I hated to drive at night back then but was delighted to find I could see fine. (new glasses Alena thinks I am too slow, and shes probably right, but I can cover ground if I need to. Alena took Laddie to innumerable vets, "He's got a bit of arthritis" said one and gave her a script. "Hes getting old" said another. "He has cataracts" said one more. Cataract removal was $3,000 an eye. I think of him now, toddling his way to the side gate. Alena he said he liked the side entry entry as he could see out to the street through the gate my old father in law made. The gate was timber and shade cloth and I loved it as Tiny made it all those years ago, when Laddie was a pup. The thirteenth of April 2015. Laddie was fifteen and a half when he breathed his last breath. Nothing wrong, they said. Old age and a thirty percent lung capacity because of bronchitis, just a touch of it. Alena hadnt slept the night before, listening to him wheeze. The wheezing getting louder by the minute. She ran out into the streets and screamed for help. Someone rang the RSPCA and Laddie was gone. To Burwood. Alena was allowed to spend time with beloved Laddie before he was euthanised. "It didnt look like him," she said after. Laddie had an oxygen mask on, there in place since he was picked up. He had been struggling to breathe. She kissed him many many times. They asked her if the wanted to be present for the end and when they told her he might convulse she said. " No" I had suggested to her when she knew he was going to die, to put away all of Laddies things. His food, his water bowl, his blanket that he liked to devour into bits. She gave his food to the neighbours upstairs and they invited her up in return, for dinner Laddie was a "well loved " dog And would not we all love that ? To be well loved. I think of him now with his intrepid walk. Just a dog, not even that good looking. But for Alena he was there for her, through the last five years of a very low period in her life.The end of her twenty year marriage The time, (apart from when her little sister died,) of the worst pain of her life. Laddie was the one thing she didnt lose. She lost her house, her car, her kids. But she never lost Laddie, not once xxx(x)

Love And Corona

2020-04-12T03:04:00.001-07:00

Without Prejudice

I wanted to call this story Love In The Time of Corona, but it sounded too much like Love In The

Time Of Cholera and one doesn't want be called a Plagiarist, so I didn't.

So clutching a real Corona with a frozen Kaffir Lime leaf dropped down its neck, and The Great

Escape on in the background I attempt ( attempt being the operative word ) to write a story about love

in the time of Corona Virus or Covid 19.

I think the owners of the real Corona rang up the Powers

That Be and asked politely if they could call this deplorable illness something else. Perhaps a more medical term, like Covid 19.

But it doesn't seem to have caught on.

My Sister said the symbol of Coronavirus makes her feel dizzy and sick, ( no, she's not ill )

I think it looks like two hairy green testicles, but that's just me.

I have found love in the most unexpected of places.

NETFLIX

First it was Travis Fimmel in Vikings. He of the mesmerising blue eyes and raggedy

dirty blond locks. But he was a bit young for my taste. I was interested to find out via my Sis ( same

one that's not ill ) that he's an Aussie and hails from Echuca. Fancy that, an Aussie and a fellow

Victorian.

Talking to young Elise at the Supermarket this a.m., about all things Travis we decided

we need to take a trip to Echuca and track him down. I will do the Rugby Tackle and she can do the

binding of wrists and ankles. We could set up camp beside the Mighty Murray, light a fire, talk bull

shit and just gaze upon this wondrous treat of Vikingness while feeding him peeled grapes and sips of

sparkling bottled water.

We have to stay healthy in this era of Social Distancing after all.

But I am daydreaming again and getting carried away and I know it. But I can dream, can't I. For

what is life without dreaming. Pretty bloody dull. And with what's going on in the World at the mo,

it's far better to daydream. And eat chocolate as it's Easter.

Then I fell in love with Policeman Ben Miller from Death In Paradise and binged on

him for a long time. An uptight Englishman in a Carribean hotspot, with a hot suit and flannelette

pyjamas. Yum, gimme, gimme, gimme. who solves murders with a beautiful mind, and no clue

about socialising. ( Now he would be perfect at Social Distancing)

Ben Miller is not a typical heartthrob but he is to me. Go figure.

I've always liked accents and having an English Mum and Scottish Dad it's no bloody wonder.

Which brings me to Detective Jimmy Perez of Shetland fame. Aaaaaaaah. The accent,

the windswept cliffs, the roiling grey skies, the bleakness of the landscape. Sign me up for a boat trip

to Skye, or Iona. I might meet Bonnie Prince Charlie upon the way. Jimmy also a detective. Am I

sensing a theme here ?

.

Kobe Bryant And Clint Anderson Aged 41

2020-01-29T05:21:00.001-08:00

Without Prejudice

I didn't know Kobe Bryant personally but the world is mourning for him and his lovely child. The fiery crash engulfing the helicopter after its rapid death spiral which horrified you as you watched with Jiorgina, your neighbour. Looking away at the end, the inevitability of it all making you shudder at the massive loss. Witnesses crying and moaning as all human beings would do. The helpless futility that you feel at not being able to help.

I am saddened.

Kobe was 41 and unbelievably just a few days beforehand I found out my best male friend died, also aged 41. Clint Anderson.

I am bereft.

Clint wasn't wealthy nor famous. He didn't have children nor a wife to speak of. He didn't tread the boards of celebrity, nor mentor others. He didn't dine with powerful people, nor appear in the media.

He was just a simple, humble man who inexplicably died in his sleep. Went to bed one afternoon and never woke up. He had no alcohol nor drugs in his system. His death was marked inconclusive. He simply went to bed and died.

And yet we are all bereft. Stunned, sickened at the loss of a simple life lived well.

Clint was a gentle giant. A 6'2" Apollo, Hercules or Adonis, although the word Adonis intimates a bit of a self lover and that wasn't Clint.

Clint liked everyone and everyone liked him. I asked him once if he had ever thrown a punch or been punched himself.

" No " he replied.

I asked him if men get heartbroken and he replied in the affirmative.

" Have you been heartbroken?" I asked.

" Yes" he replied.

I will miss his presence forever.

He was born into this world on the 12th of the 12th 1978. A first born son to his Croatian mother, Susan and his New Zealander father, Dennis.

After Susan and Dennis had their first born and only daughter they wanted more kids but they just didn't happen along. 8 years later out of the blue Susan gave birth to two sons. The first Clint and 18 months later Dean.

My ex husband and I knew Susan and Dennis through my brother Georges best friend, Ivan. Susan was Ivan's sister. We all hung out together in those long hot summers of our youth when the sun seemed hotter, the sky more blue and life was to be lived for each moment.

We hung out at Elwood beach where Ivan with his bleached blonde locks and permanent tan could ogle the " chicky babes and " Sweet 'Arts " to his hearts content. We used baby oil as our SPF factor Zero sun protection and burned. We sat on vinyl seats in our cars driving back from the beach and peeled off them on arriving home.

The summers were endless and barbecues were the social norm. As were dick togs, thongs or slaps ( some wicked people called them flaps ) but we won't go there. I bought a pair of black velvet hot pants, with a frilled sheer blouse underneath and four inch high cork platforms. I was seventies Style with a capital S.

Countdown started on T.V. and we tuned in at 6 o clock to the ABC to catch Shirley Steachan and Skyhooks Living In The Seventies, Ted Mulry trying to persuade girls to " Jump in his car "

Crazy

2019-11-20T15:55:00.003-08:00

Without Prejudice

It's been a crazy few months. I feel like I am back in April and nothing in the last six months happened. One minute I was smelling the scent of burning autumn leaves and the slight shiver of winter approaching and now I am here semi dressed and semi wilting with the sudden heat. I feel we skipped Spring and dove headlong into the crystal blue of Summer.

Headlong into days of breathless heat, where sunburn, melted thongs, Christmas Roast and Cottees ice cold red cordial belong. The cordial these days can be bought sugar free, and preservative free, and it tastes bland and uninteresting. We of the baby boomer age who refuse to get old, remember when cordial put hairs on your chest, made your fillings ache and coloured your tongue virulent shades of green and orange.

Cordial in the sixties came in a concentrated small bottle. Cold water was added and six cups of white sugar and boiled and poured into sterilised bottles or jugs. Now, that cordial was made for tough kids. Kids who missed front teeth, had freckles, had blisters from endless hours swinging on monkey bars, tight calves from playing hopscotch, elastics, gymnastics and rounders. And played in the streets, backyards, breathlessly hot parks and had to be home by dark.

Ron Tin Tin, I love Lucy, Maverick, Bonanza ruled the the small black tv screen crouching in the corner of the lounge. Black and white T.V. but for us who knew no different, it might as well as have been in technicolor. I can't remember having takeaway except for a meat pie injected with sauce under the crust that burned your mouth and chest if you let the gravy slip. I am sure some of us baby boomers have permanently scarred upper palates from hot pies. And if you have ever had a burned tongue you know full the horrors, the excruciating damage, a mouthful hot food can do.

Even ice didn't help and trust me I've tried it.

We knew not of air conditioning, nor fans, swimming pools were only the local ones, Olympic sized, that you could crack ice on in winter and jump into the shallow end of in Summer. Chlorine turned your hair green if you were dirty blonde like me and just had to be endured. I remember soap and bubbles but not shampoo. Soap was solvol for dirt and was grey and gritty and bath soap was Lifebouy or for the very posh who could afford it, Cashmere Bouquet or Imperial Leather.

We were not posh. Just poor as most baby boomers were in the day. We might know of one wealthy family in a nice house but we vowed them as different, a cut above, superior to us commission kids. My parents emigrated from the U.K. With five kids. I was the youngest at that time. After me came two more, our only Aussie, my younger brother, Never Sweat and after him came a younger sister born in the U.K. Surprising all of us. I was 14 and disgusted at my parents and told no one at my posh Grammar School. I was incensed at my parents stupidness.

Someone came up to me at school and said with delight,

" I hear your Mum had a baby "

I mumbled something and stalked away but I grew to love my baby Sis, we all did. We were all teens and Never Sweat was 10. We taught Helly Belly to talk at 8 months and she hasn't stopped since. Just like me.

We had returned to the U.K. For 4 years. I was 12 and turned 16 when my parents decided to go back to Australia. I hated Yorkshire at first. I was delighted to meet relatives. They were magic. I had never known or remembered having a granny of granddad , an aunt, uncle, cousin and we had loads of them. And the U.K. was the best place to be at that time. Jimmy Hendrix had arrived and the Moody Blues, Otis Redding, Wilson Pickett, the man from Uncle and Daleks, Top of the Pops and cricket and Wimbledon peppered our conversations.

Hippies rose up in the U.S. seemingly out of nowhere and taught a whole generation, Peace and Love. I wore flowers in my hair and cow bells in my ears and a Paisley mini with matching Granny frilled bloomers. I found a burgundy pleated skirt of my Older Sisters and assumed, wrongly, that she had forgotten about it. I cut twelve inches off the bottom and when she found out she half killed me. She wore my beautiful brand new frilly pure satin top to bed and completely ruined it forever.

Gone were the days when she dragged me off to see Elvis in Blue Hawaii 14 times. And Oliver, West Side Story and Bali Hai. I was the annoying younger sister then and next we were in a strange country and teens and it was all so weird. My older sis was dating and singing in shows and I was the virginal dweeb that had no idea of kissing or boys or sex and didn't want to know. I just wanted to take advantage of the fine education I was receiving and try and understand Sergeant Peppers lyrics.

It was always a bit crazy but when you come from a large family times are always going to be a bit mad. We lived in an old Georgian coach house in Ossett with two reception rooms, two floors, a cellar that filled with water and was bloody horrible, the cellar that is, not the house. The house was lovely with a careworn interior and a grand manner. Coal fires adorned every room and it was one of my chores to clean and light them. I soon became adept at lighting them, plying bellows and big twist s of newspaper with small twigs on top. A cold coal fire is dank and smells but once you got one going there was nothing that could outweigh its warmth and comfort. We toasted muffins on it, roasted chestnuts and potatoes and burned our toes trying to get too close to it.

................

The Noonit 3

2019-09-24T15:56:00.001-07:00

Without Prejudice

My birthday is the 17th of September. I have noticed that on Facebook I say the same thing every year.

" Best Birthday, Ever "

I am at the venerable age where I can say.this without lying.

30 was shocking. They say be careful a few months after and a few months before a person who is reaching a Milestone Birthday.

At 30 I was on a British Airways flight with my Mother In Law to the U.K. At about 5 that night/ day she said.

" Oh, that's right it's your birthday, Happy Birthday "

I just gazed at her not saying a word. I didn't want to be 30 and I had seriously hoping to just wipe the whole day from my mind.

A certain phrase had been going around and around in my head for months.

" Who am I and what do I want ?"

We were delayed by fog coming in to Heathrow, flown to Glasgow, stayed on the ground for two hours, sweltering in our velour track suits, Gwen, my Mother In Laws, burgundy and mine navy. I even had short ugg boots on that a lady in England insisted on buying off me.

Gwen and I were dressed for Winter and I have no idea why we thought this was sensible when the month was September, the first month of Autumn. We were there for six weeks and it went from " bloody hot" to hot to mild and fair. It was never Winter, not once.

When we walked around London I took my shoes off, earning more than a few glances and a couple of open sneers. I didn't give a shit. I was hot and my feet were swollen to double their size. When we first entered our hotel room in Paddington our feet felt like we were walking on tennis balls. We had been in the air for 28 hours.

I, who had probably suggested the Winter wardrobe, then had another brilliant idea. Against Gwens protestations to the contrary I wanted English Fish and Chips. Gwen was happy with her dry bickies and vegemite that she had carefully saved from the plane. But not me

I wanted English fish and chips and NOW.

So patient Gwen trailed along behind me in her spongy sneakers, ( kangaroo shoes ) and her swollen feet and I immediately found a fish and chip shop, three doorways from our Hotel. The smell was divine, hot, greasy, vinegary. Just what I had remembered from the four years spent in the U.K., when I was just a girl.

I ordered fish and chips, mushy peas, bread and butter, H.P. Sauce ( brown sauce) and a big pot of tea.

The cafe was jumping with people and hot. There were fryers frying, people chattering, urns steaming with boiling water and I started to feel nauseous.

Nauseous.

I had just ordered a giant meal that had cost me 12 quid. ( $25 AUD ) sensible Gwen had ordered a pot of tea and a glass of water.

The enormous. " Nosh " eventually turned up, a beautiful golden brown, glistening with fat and flakes of salt. A big blob of mushy peas on the side, a full plate of bread and butter ( I suspected, cheap marg ) my requested H.P. Sauce and a large white China pot of tea.

Gwen raised the lid on her China pot and sniffed.

" Irs a tea bag " she muttered, not happy. obviously.

" Arent you going to eat ? "

I stayed silent and swallowed thick saliva that had leaked into my mouth.

I had never in my life felt so weird. In Australia it was the middle of the night ( Gwen had kept her watch on Aussie time. )

I gazed at my meal and literally didn't know whether to eat, shit or die

I could not place a fork to my mouth.

I looked disgustedly at the delicious meal. The batter on the cod was perfect, crisp and golden. I knew the batter would be just the right consistency. That the cod inside would be melt on the tongue textured. The peas, the perfect olive green. Softened overnight with soaking and a teaspoon of bicarbonate.

And I could not eat one thing. Not even a crispy morsel.

" What's wrong" Gwen said.

I couldn't even speak, just bolted for the door.

I berated myself for " showing off " .

Because I had been to the U.K., before, I had allowed ego and selfishness to enter into my puffed up little body. I wanted to show Gwen my superiority in all things British. And she had trumped me by doing nothing. She was sensible, I was a twit and it would get worse, far worse, from then on ........

The Noonit 2

2019-09-07T22:30:00.001-07:00

Without Prejudice

Shilo. The only girl child

My child

Renovating from yard

My Child

Alena standing in the kitchen

Yorkshires

The Bedroom

You will have to forgive me for breaking my story in to parts, but Google blogs that I use, seems to have no idea of length for a blog and once I reach a certain amount of words I can't add any more without breaking off and starting a new page. So you will just have to bear with me.

Also I no longer have a share button. Thank God, some of you may say, but then I figure if you have read this far you must be slightly interested.

When I first decided to " cocoon" with my child it was mainly a financial decision. OK, yes I am cheap. But I was heartily sick of paying over $300 a week private rent. A woman of a certain age like me was not brought up to be a career girl, just a wife, homemaker and Mother. Not JUST a wife and Mother as to me there is no more important job in the World, but they were our choices in the seventies and we hardLy knew of Women that went to work full time.

I had lived at my last address for two years, and every year without fail, the Chinese couple who were my landlords put the rent up. They spoke not a word of English and did any necessary repairs themselves. It drove me nuts. My Chinese was very limited ( none ) and their English was the same so it was fun and games when the dishwasher leaked all over the kitchen, or one of the many heaters shat itself.

They were very nice people and nodded and smiled a lot but really made little difference to my day to day comfort so I had no qualms in jumping ship and leaving for destinations anew. My child and I had discussed a shared property situation before but a Son In Law talked me out of it as he said the kids would be on my doorstep night and day.

I had lived under the same roof as my child many a time and apart from a few years we lived in Main Beach, Surfers Paradise on the Gold Coast with just one child, it never seemed to work. The boys were too rowdy, I needed peace and quiet and a sense of self, my child needed to be Mistress of her own domain and scream at her boys as she saw fit. I had had four girls and had no concept of male children. Nor how to raise them.

My child did. She had five sons and went on to have two more and finally a girl child, last. The last three in the nine years I have lived behind her. The "Noonit" took exactly one month to install in her sizeable back yard. Forty men came with lorries, forty men swarmed all over the place putting up walls and roofs and ceilings. Installing a kitchen, bathroom, one bedroom and lounge. And left.

That took a week.

The rest of the month was spent waiting for inspections and connections to be done. That seemed to take the longest time but finally it was done And as the two inspectors handed me the keys, I cried.

I had a choice of two units, one a square of 5 metres by 5 metres or a rectangle of 8 metres by 5. Of course I took the rectangle as I wanted all the room I could get.

My child and two of the boys.

Downsizing was daunting. I kept muttering to my self about fitting a gallon into a two pint pot but persevered through lost runaway dogs, mud, EBay sales, lashing rain and howling wind, flooded floors ( twice ) excited kids, and criticism,

The Noonit

2019-09-07T03:29:00.001-07:00

Without Prejudice

The Noonit, stands on crummy foundations, I've been told, by the intrepid Engineer slash building

Inspector who came to asset inspect it, just last month. No one has been to inspect it in the nine years

I have resided in it.

" That wasn't so painful, was it ? " he asked, but it was more of a statement

I just laughed and thanked him.

I had hovered outside while he inspected, poked and prodded and photographed, skulking in the cold

damp backyard, dressed as if for the snow in trackie dacks, windcheater, a beanie, gum boots and

gloves. I looked not unlike a Yeti.

Attacking dead leaves, broken branches and dog shit with abrisk gusto I didn't really feel.

Melbourne Winters are shite. Cold beyond belief, with a wind that blows arctic cold as it sweeps in

from the Bay and originates in the South Pole. We used to have a Husky once and she loved the cold

weather, fat as she was and when she shed her Winter Coat the backyard was covered in white hair

that looked like snow.

If she escaped she would flee as if the Hounds of the Baskervilles rode on her heels and Brock would

fly out of the side door of the van like a 15 year old Batman and leap on her back, pinning the big

fatty to the ground. Trust me. It was the only Thing that would stop her.

But the rest of us hate Winter with a vengeance, that borders on the insane, and we are, all of us,

insane. Winter and Cranny, leaves us whiny and cranky, cursed with Cabin Fever, Winter Blues.

S.A.D. Seasonal Affected Disorder. And gives us all the Shits.

Cranny or Cranbourne or now the more Posh, Cranbourne East lies in lowlands. Wet boggy, foggy

lowlands, that are interminably dank and cold, the ground steel blue freezing and rock hard in Winter

and splits open in Summer like over ripe fruit. I have literally stuffed fruit and veggies in to the soil in

the backyard when I first came here. I had heard that it would enrich the soil and stop the splitting. I

await results.

" So why is the unit leaning?" I asked of the diligent Engineer, Peter.

" Looks like the foundations were never put in properly in the first place " he answered.

I know that the foundations are what they call " floating " . That because the units are moveable.

Mines, mine for life and can be relocated to anywhere in Victoria free of charge to the Tenant. I

should move it to Swan Hill, Albury or Upper Kumbuttcha. Somewhere warmer.

But my grandkids live here.

And I mean literally.

I live behind one daughter, who has eight kids. Seven boys and now a girl

Thank God the girl came along As now she might stop.

Not all the boys live at home any more. The four oldest have jobs, cars, girlfriends. Kids.

I cried when they left now I cry when they arrive, only joking, but " little kids. Little problems.Big kids, Big problems." Every Mother, Grandmother knows this.

I heard of a Woman the other day that was 89 and still had hopes her Son of 63 would still come

good.
.

Windward Passage. Description

2019-07-24T17:11:00.000-07:00

Without Prejudice

Windward Passage runs from Brisbane up to the tip of North Bribie in the Pacific Ocean. It is now a sailing route only but once carried merchant ships from every country and discovery ships with entrepid explorers who had sailed from countries, half a world away.

Australia then was akin to sailing off the edge of the World, only the really resolute would endeavour the trip. The landscape could be beautiful but the land was harsh and mainly uninhabitable. Mangrove swamps crept down to waters edge.Swamps that contained wildlife that European had never laid eyes on before. Crocs, snakes, eels and the deadly stone fish further " Up North "

Jen oftenwondered what the first explorers had made of this wild and terrifying land.

Golden Beach is a coastal suburb with the Pumicestone Passage forming its eastern boundary. It is mostly fully developed with low density residential housing. A canal from the passage passes through the suburb from east to west leading into the canal developments of the neighbouring suburb of Pelican Waters. The long sandspit at the northern tip of Bribie Island protects Golden Beach from the Coral Sea.^[3]However, this section of the Pumicestone Passage is very narrow and very shallow (less than 2 metres (6 ft 7 in)) with shifting sand and mud banks, which makes the northern sandspit highly dynamic in shape through natural processes of sand/mud buildup and erosion. During storms, waves may cross over the sandspit from the Coral Sea into the Pumicestone Passage, with the potential to break through the sandspit to create new entrances to Pumicestone Passage. The creation of new entrances would impact on Golden Beach and Pelican Waters, which would then be exposed more directly to the stronger wave action of the Coral Sea as opposed to the calmer waters of the Pumicestone Passage.

Home » Moving to Queensland » Queensland's History

QUEENSLAND'S HISTORY

Queensland has had a colourful past over the centuries. It’s seen indigenous Australians, natives from Papua New Guinea, Dutch, English and possibly even Spanish Explorers land on its shores, all before it was even colonised by the British.

The state’s been part of New South Wales, an independent colony, a penal settlement, war time training grounds, and of course, a favourite with tourists.

While Queensland is a popular holiday spot now, it’s important to know where it all started. There are still signs of old colonial and prison life throughout Queensland, and if you head to the right places and ask the right people, you’ll hear some pretty spectacular stories about this great state’s past too.

Early History

For thousands of years, before European explorers ever caught a glimpse of Australia, the Aboriginals called Australia home. Because of its warmer climate and abundant wildlife, Queensland was the most populated region of the country prior to colonisation.

It was in the 1600s that the first recorded explorers noticed Australia. Dutch explorers landed on Cape York Peninsula and the Gulf of Carpentaria in Queensland in the early 1600s, as well as Portuguese and Spanish explorers, even the French came within sight of Queensland’s coast line.

However, none of these nations ever settled. It was Lieutenant James Cook that first took claim of Australia for England when he sailed the HMS Endeavour up the east coast in 1770.

Colonial History

At first, Queensland was considered part of the British administered Colony of New South Wales. Brisbane was established in 1825 as a convict settlement for the more uncontrollable convicts. By 1839 the Brisbane penal settlement was closed, and later opened up to free settlement in 1842.

With the influx of farmers and other free settlers in Brisbane, the state became quite productive and a separate identity began to emerge. The port of Brisbane became important primarily for wool, but was also a source of plenty of other produce.

In 1951 a public meeting was held to consider the separation of Queensland from NSW. Queen Victoria gave her approval and by June 6 of 1859 the new colony of Queensland was established, with its own constitution, Legislative Council, Assembly and Governor. To this day June 6 is acknowledged as the birth day of Queensland.

More and more towns were founded and explorers begun setting out in central and north western Queensland. Some of them found new places to settle, some of them didn’t survive, and some became legends. If you travel around and visit the museums you'll hear tales of John Oxley, the Archer brothers and the extraordinary journey of Burke & Wills.

The latter half of the 1800s saw a series of small Gold Rushes in Queensland, with discoveries made in Canoona, Gympie, the Palmer River and plenty of other locations, bringing an influx of people into the state, as well as Chinese settlers arriving to work in the gold fields. It was this time that saw the growth of a number of industries, particularly sugar production, and by 1888 sugar plantations had made it as far north as Cairns.

On the 1^st of January 1901, the Commonwealth of Australia was created. The majority of Queenslanders had voted ‘yes’ in a referendum asking if Queensland should join the Federation. The result was Queensland losing its colonial status to become a state in the new country of Australia. The colonial era was over.

Twentieth Century

At the start of the twentieth century the population of Queensland was at the half a million mark.

It was a time of establishment for the new state; Brisbane was proclaimed a city in 1902, women voted in state elections for the first time in 1905, the first National Park was declared in 1908 (now Tamborine National Park), in 1909 the University of Queensland was established, and 1920 saw a small airline called Qantas founded to serve outback Queensland.

In World War II thousands of Queenslanders volunteered for the Army, Navy and Air Force as the outbreak of war with Japan made the state a virtual frontline amid fears of invasion.

A number of cities in northern Queensland were bombed during air attacks including Horn Island, Townsville, Cairns and Mossman. There was a massive build-up of Australian and US forces in the state as MacArthur established his headquarters in Brisbane.

In 1974 a major flood devastated the city of Brisbane causing widespread damage. The people rebuilt though and by 1982 Brisbane hosted the Commonwealth Games. Later the city hosted the World Expo 88 on the southern bank of the Brisbane River.

The site was due to be developed for commercial interests but a public campaign successfully lobbied for the site to be redeveloped as parkland for the enjoyment of all people of Brisbane. Today, the South Bank Parklands is a popular place for tourists and locals alike.

The 1990s saw a massive population growth, particularly in Brisbane as a result of interstate migration led by the appeal of Queensland’s buoyant economy. In 2003 Townsville and Brisbane co-hosted the 2003 Rugby World Cup.

Devastating floods hit Queensland once again in 2011, this time striking Emerald, Toowoomba, Brisbane and several other towns in the state.

However, the people of Queensland are resilient and the weeks after the floods saw the community rally in the clean-up and most of the damage has now been rebuilt.

Never Come Lightly To The Blank Page.

2019-07-24T17:10:00.000-07:00

Without Prejudice

I am gazing out at The Passage. The Passage runs from Brisbane up to the Sunshine Coast, where I am. A vast body of water that can be sailed up before you turn right towards the Ocean, proper. The mighty, Pacific. I can't imagine sailing off into blackness the way the fishing trawlers do. But early every morning, sail off they do and I stand watching the bobbing lights in awe at their tenacity and stupidity.

I imagine what it is like for them, the intrepid fishermen, with the pungent smell of sea water mixed with fish, ropes, engine oil and sweat in unequal measure, coursing its way, down to their memory banks, calming them, soothing them. A Mantra of " I fish " echoing in their subconscious. I imagine their hands, calloused and brown, scarred from ropes hoisted too heartily and ripping flesh as it escapes their hands.

A slip on a wet deck, roiling with water and fish guts, wrenching a knee or a shoulder, that aches when the weather darkens and clouds over. The life of a fisherman never easy.

Sun ( that strange golden orb, we call it in Melbourne ) blazes in to my dark filled eyes and nourishes me with its warmth and candour. Open faced it laughs at my reluctance to go outside as the metal on the outdoor chairs will be chilly. I will wait until the bold sun has crept its way around the side of the building and peeped in at me, this cold, dullard, Melbournite, who knows not much of sun and light in " down south " winters.

I have been here in Sunny Queensland, almost a week. A refugee from a cold, dank, Melbourne where everyone has two favourite subjects, property and the weather. A seemingly inexhaustible excuse for conversation, a safe subject for small talk to strangers beside you on planes and in waiting rooms. People you will never see again. And if that should happen ( not likely ) you won't remember where you knew them from, nor why they set off that " little tinkly bell " in your sub conscious.

My Sister, ( older, wiser, wealthier,) calls intuition her " little tinkly bell ", just as our Mother did. Our Mother knew before Doctors did when she was expecting again by listening to her little " tinkly bell " she had seven pregnancies and she always said,

" Kids, I should have had a dozen. "

Lucky for us, she didn't. As it was we vied for attention from her and Dad. And meal times were what Mum called

" Stretch or starve "

Looking back I would call it feeding time at the zoo. All of us hungry and forever famished, sure we would never be satiated, wolfing down food like starving animals and keeping elbows out in case an interloper tried to steal a luscious morsel from us. In our family it was either a feast or a famine and mainly it was famine. Feast coming rarely as we were constantly poor and lived off " tick" more often than not. " Tick " being an account somewhere in the future that had to be settled or fled from. Fled from, mostly.

Groceries came in wooden boxes from the Grocers, delivered on the back of a truck, boxes that we kids loved to help unpack. Apples and potatoes, and biscuits in bags with a twist at the top. Milk delivered, everyday, and bread, unsliced. Flour and salt and dry stuff was boring, mainly oats and sugar and currants and sultanas. Tins of powdered milk and condensed milk, if we were lucky, that left sticky marks down our sleeves as we snuck it from the tin with spoons. It was supposed to be saved for " Scottish Tablet " a delicacy that only a Scot would be brave enough to eat, as it set the fillings in your teeth, zinging and your thirst raging.

Something like two pounds of sugar and condensed milk and butter and full cream milk and a smidge of salt, just a pinch really to bring out the flavours. Stirred for what seemed like hours and poured onto a tray to be cut and broken with excited fingers even before it had cooled. It had to be a dry consistency so that it could be snapped, a creamy tablet,not as good as a dry crumbly tablet. And we ate it with relish until we were almost sick with it. Tablet and scones, shortbread and oats with sugar. Just dry oats and sugar, eaten from a cup as our afternoon snack.

Murder At Windward Passage. Chapter Two

2019-07-24T17:09:00.001-07:00

Without Prejudice

Delvene Radic, the receptionist at Silver Bay Police alerted Ray Gibe
( the on duty Police Officer , that day) of the discovery of a body at Bledisloe Creek. She knew Wayne Chesterville was away till Saturday on annual leave. A well earned break for Wayne as he was not only the Senior Police Officer of the whole of the Waysunday Islands and Windward Passage but a recently bereaved Husband.

Katie Chesterville, aged just 56, a year younger than Wayne, finally succumbed to her drawn out battle with stomach cancer and now rested on the side of the hill beside their infant son, Dean Joseph, who had also died of cancer, aged just 18 months, many years before. Wayne had a daughter, now fully grown, Jessica. Jess as she like to be called was married with twin boys. Jesse was from a former union of Wayne's and he was visiting with her, her husband Erik and the twins, Lars and Liam aged 8, their elderly Labrador dog, Marcus and an ancient grumpy cat, named Nick, on Shoal Island, a small Island connected to the Mainland by the longest wooden bridge in the Southern Hemisphere.

Delvene was tempted to pick up the phone and dial Wayne's number but stopped herself.

" Let him rest " She thought.

No one deserved it more than Wayne.

He had been pushing himself hard, ever since Katie's death, burying himself in work, cold cases and paperwork as if the very devil of evil sat on his shoulders and urged him on. Delvene saw His behaviour as a bit of a " Mea Culpa ", not that Wayne had anything to be sorry for.
He had been a good and devoted husband to Katie and a good father figure to both Jesse and Deano, as they nicknamed their infant Son.

Katie and Wayne had met at 14 and 13 in detention at Westport High and had remained devoted to each other ever since. Even now he felt her presence all around him in the old house overlooking Windward Passage. The breezes whispered her name as they rustled through the palm fronds, he lay a pillow beside him in their brass double bed, so he felt like she was still there. She had nicknamed the land Wayne's breezy block, as it was so windy at the top.

No matter how high the temperature in the sub tropics where Windward Passage was located Wayne was always guaranteed a breeze at the top of Mango Hill. Most of the year he kept all the windowns open to allow the fresh smelling sea air in. Only closing them when a tropical storm threatened. He then would stand on the verandah on the Lee side of the house and watch the lightning flashes across the water and feel the fresh air from the gusting winds across his bare feet.

Thinking of the fishermen, ( Wayne's Dad having been one, ) hurrying in to the shelter of the shore and jetty. Crab pots hoisted in a hurry. The smell of the storm assaulting their senses. Tasting it on tongue and lips, smelling it in starting to block sinuses and thinking of home, just home.
And their patient wives. They, who would be preparing something warm and nourishing for their man as they suckled a baby or quietened quarrelling kids. An ancient radio, yellowed with age playing Linda Rondstadts Blue Bayou, in the background.

Waiting with one ear cocked, waiting for any warning bells or sirens, just as a miners wife does, at
the top of the Beaconsfields mines far away in cold Tassie. After the cave in. After the great mining disaster of 2006. Katie's Sister, Sandra had been one of the wives of the miners.

The Beaconsfield gold mine collapsed on 25 April 2006 in Beaconsfield, Tasmania, Australia.

Murder At Windward Passage Chapter one

2019-07-24T17:09:00.000-07:00

Without Prejudice

Danny Kegoe had never seen a dead body before, until now. He wasn't sure what to do. He wanted to poke at the white clouded eyes with his stick but thought of his Mothers ire at interfering with a dead body and thought better of it. He had no wicked intention, just a simple morbid curiosity. A longing to see if the eyes oozed milky fluid like they looked they would or even ooze out of their sockets in a sick vision he shuddered at.

Danny Kegoe, aged 11, then proceeded to throw up. The vomit hit his thonged feet with a hot liquidity and the smell and the heat made him puke again and sent him running back to the safety of home. Strings of snot and vomit trailing behind him in mucous ribbons. His heart beat in his chest as a thudding tattoo accompanying the music in his ears and he pulled his earplugs out with a wrench, causing him to stumble, onto his knees, skinning them, a pain he didn't feel, as he regained his footing and ran on.

The watcher in the mangroves gazed at the boy with a solemnity he didn't really feel. The watcher felt like giggling like a naughty child, but bit back the urge. Slowly the watcher tracked the frightened boy, the watcher was in no hurry, killing one witness could come later, or not at all. The watcher liked the feeling of being in charge of life and death. He had done it before and felt sure he could do it again. A simple backwards snap of the neck, unexpected and quick. Then silence, just pure silence. The watcher liked that bit best.

Danny burst through the back fly wire door with a clatter, the old door rocking on its hinges and banging against the frame. His heel was barked under the door but once again he felt no pain. His Mother, Jen, looked up from her scone making, startled and watched her sons working mouth that gave out no sound, saw his heaving chest and vomit stained tee and Cried out, alarmed,

" Danny, what's wrong ?"

Danny stuttered as he tried to get the words out.

" A body, there's a body in the creek, dead "

His Mother looked at him unbelievingly at first. But when she realised his distress she ran for the phone. Ran in bare feet and found with her tender underfoot the drawing pun she had dropped last night. Jen hopped in the air but before pulling out the pin dialled 000 and asked for the Police.

She covered the phone mouthpiece and whispered to her son,

" Was it a man or woman, old, young ? "

" A lady " he stammered, " A big fat one "
.

The watcher returned to his seaside cottage, it was really more of a seaside hovel, not even that close to the sea which the watcher abbhored The seaside part brought families, kids, and curious dogs that
rooted around the mangroves, sniffing and snuffling. The watcher hated the dogs most with their excited yips and loud barking. The watcher wanted silence and in the Winter received nothing but. Occasionally a fisherman or two could be seen on the shore, casting a line out to sea, but the beach
for the most part remained empty and desolate. Just as the watcher liked.

Jen's fingers trembled as she dialled the number for emergency services, she had sent Danny for an immediate shower, alarmed at his pallor which was frighteningly pale. She kept one ear open as she waited for emergency to answer, for any slight thud if he fell or fainted.

" Emergency " stated the nasal twang of the operator,

" Police, Ambulance, Fire. "

" Police " answered Jen with a surprisingly calm voice that belied her shaky hands.

Jen relayed to the Silver Bay Police receptionist that her son had discovered a body floating in the Bledisloe Creek, gave her address and hung up. Not daring to speak, less she conveyed some of the terror she felt.

" A body " she thought.

A human body. A big fat one. Danny had said.

" A female one, probably bloated from extended time in the water, " he said that it Jen thought.

" At least the cavalry were on their way, " was her thought as hysteria almost tripped her up and she sat down firmly on the kitchen chair she had painted only two nights ago. A gentle shade of apple green, that by all accounts, should be calming but made her feel anything but.

She heard the old plumbing pipes squeak in protest as Danny turned off the taps in the shower and she rose up to greet him as he exited the bathroom clad only in a towel, his hair still dripping, wetting the floor, and he disappeared with a grunt to the sanctuary of his room.

Jen's greeting died on her lips and she sat back down. Waiting for the " cavalry" and her son. Neither of which came in a hurry.

" Typical " Jen thought.

Creation of a state

Settlement

Queensland was first seen by Europeans in the 1600s. Dutch explorer Willem Jansz landed on the Cape York Peninsula in 1606, and in 1623 Jan Carstens explored the Gulf of Carpentaria. An Englishman, Lieutenant James Cook, is acknowledged as the first European to encounter Queensland's east coast in 1770 in HMS Endeavour.

Europeans settled in Queensland in 1825 when Brisbane was selected as a penal settlement for the more difficult convicts. The penal settlement was officially closed in 1839 and the land was prepared for sale for permanent settlement.

Queensland was originally part of the British-administered colony of New South Wales. This occupied a large part of the Australian continent.

A desire to separate from New South Wales began to emerge as Queensland's economic significance increased and its productivity and population expanded. The people of Queensland began to realise the importance of Brisbane as a port and urban centre.

The physical remoteness of Queensland from the centre of government in New South Wales and concern about the maintenance of public infrastructure, contributed to a desire for independence.

Independence

In 1851, a public meeting was held to consider Queensland's separation from New South Wales.

Queen Victoria granted approval and signed Letters Patent on 6 June 1859 to establish the new colony of Queensland. On the same day, an Order-in-Council gave Queensland its own constitution.

Queensland became a self-governing colony with its own Governor, a nominated Legislative Council and an elected Legislative Assembly.

Queensland Day is celebrated on 6 June, recognising the birth of the state.

Early development

After the separation from New South Wales, towns outside Brisbane began to develop. In 1860 Ipswich and Rockhampton were officially declared towns. Maryborough and Warwick followed in the next year.

Queensland's first elections were held in 1860. Robert George Wyndham Herbert led the first elected government as Premier. On 22 May 1860, Queensland Parliament opened for the first time. Immigration, communications and development issues broadly occupied Queensland's early politics. The railway network extended as towns demanded their own link.

One of the earliest decisions of the new parliament was to increase the population of the new colony as rapidly as possible. A land-order system was devised to attract new settlers. Over the next 3 years, nearly 25,000 people landed in Queensland attracted by the idea of owning land.

The discovery of payable gold near Rockhampton was one of many discoveries that encouraged development in Queensland and helped to protect the state from the effects of the 1866 Depression.

Queensland pioneered the state secondary education system in the early 1860s when the government subsidised municipalities to set up grammar schools—the first free education in Australia. In 1866, Queensland Treasury banknotes were issued for the first time.

The Constitution Act 1867 defined the formal institutions of government including parliament and the executive government.

In 1876, the current design of the Queensland flag was officially adopted. Local government was established in 1879 with the passage of the Divisional Boards Act 1879.

By 1891, wool had become an enormous industry in Australia. Thousands of shearers, already dissatisfied with their pay rates and conditions, refused to work when a Darling Downs Station employed non-union men. When Aborigines, Kanaka Islanders and Chinese immigrants began working for even cheaper wages, the potential for revolution dissolved. The strike is remembered as an event that created camaraderie among Australian workers from all backgrounds and launched Labor politics. The first branch meeting of the Australian Labor Party is said to have been held by striking shearers under the gum tree now known as the Tree of Knowledge in Barcaldine, Queensland, in 1891.

As fears were expressed that Aboriginal people in Queensland faced extinction, the Government decided to establish new governmental reserves to accommodate the remaining tribes throughout the state. In 1897, the Aboriginal Protection and Restriction of the Sale of Opium Act was passed, authorising the removal of Aboriginal people to reserves. These powers of removal continued until 1971 when the Act was amended.

Federation

On 1 January 1901, the union of the Commonwealth of Australia was created. The majority of Queenslanders voted yes to a referendum asking whether Queensland should join the Federation. The referendum was passed resulting in Queensland losing its colonial status and becoming a state.

Last updated:: 20 July 2018

Queensland Government

For Queenslanders

Business and industry

Queensland Government

A King Hit To The Face

2019-01-24T17:11:00.003-08:00

Without Prejudice

Domestic Violence in every shape and form is one of the biggest hidden secrets in Australia. The real statistics would shock everyone, the same as one of the other biggest secrets, homelessness. The real statistics are hidden as everyone is scared if the truth came out it would reflect badly on the Government. Being the elephant in the room I am going to drag it out in to the light and examine it. It hits ( sic ) close to home for me as it happened to one of my daughters.

Just before their shared daughters 5th Birthday my daughters ex partner King Hit her in the face, causing her pretty face to completely collapse on one side. She was one inch away from death. There had been rumbles of anger from him in the past. Always verbal. He was an unhappy man, not working, addicted to gaming, ( mainly the game, Fortnite) no money, no secure place to live,

He started off a very happy go lucky young guy. But a darkness set in very quickly when he and my daughter started sharing a life together. They had 3 great little kids. Two boys and a girl. My daughter could not believe she finally had a girl. She had five boys to a former partner. I think she was always grateful to her new partner for giving her a girl.

They bumped along for ten years. No relationship is perfect and theirs certainly wasn't. But they had shared interests, became best friends, parents. And one day he just went feral.

And tried to kill her.

I will do a bit of background of Australian society here. Australia tends to be a Patriachal society. Not Matriarchal as in the U.K. Or the U.S. I was surprised to know that the U.S. Is Matriarchal but apparently it is and it's mainly the African American women that rule the families. Think about it ! U.K. men tend to be very focused on Family, and are on the whole, respectful of Women.

I am sure there are exceptions to the rule.

But I'm generalising here.

We still have a society in Australia that idolises our most famous larrikin, the Bushranger, Ned Kelly. An Irish born rebel who was armed and dangerous. A Robin Hood character who robbed from the rich to give to the poor. We are also a big beer drinking culture. Both rebellion and alcohol, ( a heady mix) can make us armed and dangerous. Armed with mouths, fists, legs, and tanked up on alcohol, we can cause severe damage without weapons.

Australia, when I was growing up in my adopted home, was a hot, desolate and boring existence. If we little ten pound poms ever went to a party men stood outside and drank and the women gathered in the kitchen and gossiped or talked about kids, their errant hubbies or cooking. Women didn't have careers they raised families. These were the days before The Pill.

Men viewed women as Marriage material, Mothers or Whores, there was no in-between, women were "Shielas", and were expected to Love, Honour and Obey. Especially obey. We as a Family were puzzled by this attitude as Dad was Scottish and Mum was English and Mum definitely ruled the Family. Also both our parents were tee totalers so that tended to make them not go to parties and barbecues where alcohol was being served.

At the very most they might have a soft drink or Scoosh as my Father called it.
I can never remember going anywhere where there was violence. Except for at the Migrant Hostel where we lived for two years.

It was post Second World War and tensions still bubbled up in the different nationalities housed there. We heard there were knife fights between European Nationalities, and I was terrified for my oldest brother who jumped the back fence one night to see these kind fights for himself. He was 9 or 10. I was 3 and sworn to secrecy. I was so relieved when he came back. The night was quiet, no knife fights, for once.

More to come ...

janettebruckshaw-healthy kids.blogspot.com: My Blessed Life ? Sue Grafton, Stephen King et al

2019-01-14T19:51:00.001-08:00

janettebruckshaw-healthy kids.blogspot.com: My Blessed Life ? Sue Grafton, Stephen King et al: Without Prejudice This is a blog about family. How managing a large Family, for me, is the most daunting of tasks, the scariest of roles. ...

My Blessed Life ? Sue Grafton, Stephen King et al

2019-01-14T15:09:00.002-08:00

Without Prejudice

This is a blog about family. How managing a large Family, for me, is the most daunting of tasks, the scariest of roles. But given I am not sport mad, a good singer or a scientist, I figured a long time ago I would be ideal as a Manager of a Large Family. I come from a large family, seven or eight of us or even nine of us. I have half brothers and sisters. My Dad was a randy old sod.

There are seven main siblings. Ian Lachlan Bruckshaw, James Stuart Bruckshaw ( dec ) Jacqueline Ann Benton, née Bruckshaw, George Ernest Bruckshaw, Janette Lucille Bruckshaw née Hancock, ( divorced ) David Alistair Bruckshaw and coming along as a sweet surprise when I was a teenager, Helen Lorraine Quelch née Bruckshaw.

My Dad was married 12 months at around 18 and had a child, Joyce, who was raised by my Grand Mother, Marion McKenzie and Grandfather, Ian Bruckshaw. My Dad had an affair when my Mum was pregnant with Helen, and that lady produced a Son, John . He looks exactly like my Dad and can sing just like him. I doubt whether he can play a 24 string Hawaiian guitar, but he runs a tattoo business in the U. K. And does very well for himself.

My half Sister, Joyce was an accomplished band concert cabaret singer, married to Composer Arranger John Fox. I've lost touch with John as according to scuttlebutt he married a " lady of colour " only 18 months after my half Sister, Joyce died from breast cancer. She had beaten it once and had survived the five years after safety net. She was on Tamoxofen for a long time to prevent reoccurrence, but it came back.

So, back to Family.

2018 was a crap year for the fam. As there are now 14 grandkids added to the family, ( my family ) and about 8 great grandkids. The more kids the more likely the drama I always say.

( I am sure My oldest Grandson is trying to populate the entire South Eastern Suburbs as we speak ) I joke about this to him and he said he is done with more kids, some of the girls just wanted to have him Father a child with them? DW I have seen the correspondence!

2018 for me began sadly with the death of my favourite Author, Sue Grafton at only 77. Sue wrote the Alphabet Murders, A is for Alibi, B is for Burglar, right down to Y and didn't finish Zed is for Zero.p

Stephen King wrote on his Twitter Account

" No Zed. Damn "

We of the Sue Grafton Fan Club, understood.

Mystery writer Sue Grafton dies; ‘the alphabet now ends at Y’

Originally published December 29, 2017 at 11:47 am Updated December 29, 2017 at 4:23 pm

In this Oct. 15, 2002 file photo, mystery writer Sue Grafton poses for a portrait in New York. Grafton has died in Santa Barbara, Calif., at the age of 77. Her daughter, Jamie Clark says her mother passed away Thursday night, Dec. 28, 2017, after a two-year battle with cancer and was surrounded by family. (Gino Domenico/AP)

Sue Grafton was the author of the so-called Kinsey Millhone Alphabet Series in which each book title begins with a letter from the alphabet. The last was “Y is for Yesterday.”

JOHN ANTCZAK

The Associated Press

LOS ANGELES — Sue Grafton, author of the best-selling “alphabet series” of mystery novels, has died in Santa Barbara. She was 77.

Grafton was surrounded by family, including husband Steven Humphrey, when she died Thursday after a two-year battle with cancer, her daughter, Jamie Clark, posted on the author’s website.

“Although we knew this was coming, it was unexpected and fast. She had been fine up until just a few days ago, and then things moved quickly,” the posting said.

Grafton began her “alphabet series” in 1982 with “A is for Alibi.” Her most recent book, “Y is for Yesterday,” was published in August.

“Many of you also know that she was adamant that her books would never be turned into movies or TV shows, and in that same vein, she would never allow a ghost writer to write in her name,” her daughter wrote. “Because of all of those things, and out of the deep abiding love and respect for our dear sweet Sue, as far as we in the family are concerned, the alphabet now ends at Y.”

Humphrey said Grafton had been struggling to find an idea for “Z” while undergoing treatment and losing weight.

“Nothing’s been written,” he told The Associated Press in a telephone interview. “There is no Z.”

He added with a laugh, “Nobody in this family will ever use the letter Z again.”

The fictional heroine of the series, Southern California private detective Kinsey Millhone, was Grafton’s alter ego, she told The Seattle Times earlier this year.

“I’m an introvert, so doing half of what Kinsey is beyond my poor capabilities,” Grafton said. “But it’s fun to get to live her life without penalty.”

Her husband agreed that Grafton was Kinsey.

“Yes, as Sue said, ‘We’re one spirit in two bodies, and she got the good one,’ ” Humphrey said.

While Grafton aged, her heroine didn’t quite as much.

“So when I started, she was 32, and I was 42. Now, she is 39, and I am 77. So there’s a little bit of injustice there, but she is single,” she told NPR in an interview earlier this year. “She’s been married twice. She has no kids, no pets, no house plants.”

She said she was looking forward to reaching the end of the alphabet with “Z is for Zero.”

Grafton began writing at 18, and wrote her first novel at 22. “A is for Alibi” was the eighth novel she wrote, and the third she had published.

janettebruckshaw-healthy kids.blogspot.com: A Year Of Loss-And Don't Worry, Be Happy- Bobby Fe...

2018-12-06T18:29:00.001-08:00

janettebruckshaw-healthy kids.blogspot.com: A Year Of Loss-And Don't Worry, Be Happy- Bobby Fe...: Without Prejudice In 1989 the song that played on the radio, over and over was Bobby Ferrins, Don't Worry Be Happy. With its strong c...

A Year Of Loss-And Don't Worry, Be Happy- Bobby Ferrin

2018-12-06T14:42:00.000-08:00

Without Prejudice

In 1989 the song that played on the radio, over and over was Bobby Ferrins, Don't Worry Be Happy. With its strong calypso beat ( a sound I adore as I visited Trinidad and Tabago at 16, and being me fell in love with a cute merchant seaman named Derek Harper)

It was to be a year of loss for me. There was no Don't Worry Be Happy, in my life. It was to be a year of loss, a year of heartbreak, a water shed year of epic proportions. How I survived it I will never know. Why I survived it I know now, looking back in hindsight, almost thirty years down the track.

But even with the years that have rolled by, even with all the grace and blessings I have in my life, now, even with the fact that physically, mentally and emotionally I am in such a better place in my life, I would love to go back to that time. Just one more time.

I would love to go back to Nusa Dua when Bobby Ferrin warbled his song and we swam to the swim up bar and ordered cocktails we couldn't really afford. When coconuts were bounced down the stairs to make them break and they never would. They were too green we found out later and could only be opened with a grim determination and a sharp knife and still took ages to saw thru leaving the dark green skin with ugly open slashes that looked like a body hacked to birds.

Ah, Balu Bagus. Beautiful Bali. With its heat and smell and humidity and smiling open faced people. The streets of Kuta swarming with beggars and merchants that invited us to try their wares. Loud. Noisy, confusing hot Kuta.

The only relief found in an Aussie bar where fans whirled on the ceiling, where half darkness gave the illusion of coolness and a cold Pilsner soothed our dry dusty throats. We sat, Deb and I trying to coax cute little kids towards us with what is considered a rude hand gesture to the Balinese, a crooking of the index finger towards our bodies. We were corrected immediately by the Aussie bar owner and barman.

Thereafter we bent our hands, turned downwards and scooped air towards us in an act of supplication. And the children understood. But with a few short sharp words in Balinese the barman stopped the children's hesitant approach and ordered them no further. We thought he was mean and left the bar and approached the sweet morsels of brown skin and plumpness, dropping coins in their hands and watched them scurry away with delight.

Then we were swamped once again with adult beggars and merchants and learned immediately the Bali words for " No Money" it was a relief to get back to the Putri Bali hotel and its coolness. With its Balinese Troubadours, who sang Welcome To The Hotel Putri Bali to the tune of Hotel Californua and sent us into paroxysms of laughter. We laughed so hard I had to make two of the girls hide their heads under the table. And we could still hear them still erupting in gasps of laughter.

Deb and I hid our mouths of mirth and tried to pay attention to the music.but it was impossible we also erupted in guffaws and acted interested in what was beneath the table. We came back up for air and smiled at the chubby older men troubadours which to them meant we were delighted and they pressed closer to us and played even louder than before. We nodded and smiled and left, erupting in explosions of laughter all the way back to our room.

Ah, Bali Bagus

A trip never forgotten. A memory seared in our minds, a memory encased in shining amber, glossy

Bi Polar Discovered and Stephen King Chapter Two

2018-09-07T06:48:00.002-07:00

Without Prejudice

The day of the 17th of August 2018 began as an ordinary day. Late Winter meant grey clouds a light misting of rain and a low of 3 degrees. I hung out washing anyway as one lives in hope. There was no sound in the early hour, I remember the silence distinctly. No dogs barking, no birds chattering, just complete dead silence.

I pondered the silence as usually there were noises emanating from next door. Stainless steel dogs bowls dragged across the ground, dogs barking at my presence in the backyard. Especially when I wound up the Hills Hoist washing line as it creaked ever since Acer swung on it and bent it over. I had oiled it and tried to level it back but it had a spiteful lean no matter what I did.

Usually if I was hanging out washing I would angle my body sideways as I always had the feeling that if K., my next door neighbour was home he watched me silently through the fence. I only went on gut instinct that he watched me, he was an unusually noisy person and once he realised I was out in the backyard there would be profound silence from his side.

I hate being spied on. In the wee small hours I am dressed like a dag in sweats and boots and a tank top as I am always hot even if it's freezing. So bending over to grab wet clothes out of the washing basket will show off my cleavage from one angle and my derrière from another. Not a good look on either angle. I always pretend he's not there as does he.

Out the front garden I usually have something to take care of, mail, de ice my car, pull weeds or pick up rubbish. I noticed K's work car was home. He has three cars and a tiny sloped driveway, so two cars are parked on the nature strip and one in the driveway. All three cars were there and no sign of my neighbour. I assumed he had the day off from work but it was odd as it was a Thursday. He might have every second Monday off, being a Tradie but not a Thursday.

Feeling a bit chilled I scurried back to the warmth of my unit.and blessed the powers that be that I had left the heating on. I warmed myself with a cup of hot milky coffee and hot buttered toast with avocado, vegemite and cheese. It was just what I needed, comfort food. My grown daughter lives in the large brick house at the front of the property along with four of her eight kids. Four males already having moved out to jobs and hot cars and hot girlfriends and kids.

My daughter has not done too badly for herself being a Single Mum. Four of her sons working and none of them smoke, drink, do drugs, swear or think they are great. Considering their real Dad is grossly affected by multiple addictions and is a recidivist it's a miracle they are all so normal, even a bit nerdy. But we like them.

We were feeling a bit low, Yvette, my daughter and I. Not 36 hours before we had attended a funeral of a young man who had died suddenly and tragically. So not having slept a lot for the previous two weeks we were tired. And it was now brightly cold. I could not get warm no matter how I tried so I had the good idea of turning the electric blanket on and listening to True Crime Podcasts in bed till I either was hungry, needed a wee or felt guilty.

Yvette was knocking on the door, rapidly, panicky. I told her to sod off but she rapped none the less but louder this time. She sobbed out some words and I didn't quite grasp what she was saying. It sounded like someone had killed themselves. I told her I had to get my pants on and a Police Officer
???? standing behind her said they would wait while I put my pants on.

I dragged my sweats back on and some socks and opened the door. If I had known what was about to be said I now think I should have dived back in to my by now warm, toasty bed and not emerged for days. But it was not to be.

Yvette finally was able to get her words out through chattering teeth and tears.

" K next door has killed himself "

" What ? " I asked.
For a moment I was struck deaf, dumb and blind, my head reeled and I had to sit down. The Police were excellent. A man and a woman, both young. They grabbed chairs and sat and counselled us. We were hysterical with shock and disbelief. We had both seen him the previous day. Yvette at 6pm as she was putting a cat out and K was walking his dogs.

How he did it and why he did it we were about to find out and what we did find out would shock our very lives to the core "..............

Bi Polar Discovered and Stephen King Chapter One

2018-09-06T17:45:00.003-07:00

Without Prejudice

" Never come lightly to the blank page " so says Steven King. Seeing as he is the most prolific writer in the current world I will take his advice. His book Carrie is one of my favourite books of all time.

Steven is probably a genius, can write for days, and has the weirdest imagination of anyone I have ever known. He always liked horror even as a kid.

He is probably on the Autistic spectrum, Aspergers, maybe. That's only a rumour but good on him for just being him, and introducing people to the Bi Polar, Aspergers, Autistic and other Mental Illnesses that plague the World, through his characters in books.

That by reading about what we consider " Scary Things" we demystify them and as we all have a dark side, reading horror is one way we exorcise and exercise that side of our brains. That's why people love True Crime, Horror ( think about the popularity of Stevens Mini Series, IT. ) and generally gory shitty things.

If we strip ourselves back to our basic humanness we are obsessed by shit, piss, food and sex.

But of course we have what Freud describes as the Id, the Ego and the Superego keeping us in check. We decide in our illustrious brains how we behave, how to get along with the World, where we see ourselves in the world, our beliefs, our pride in ourselves, values, morals.

I'm mainly guided by instinct, intuition, my self worth, ( good, as I had great parents ) and couldn't give a crap about what other people think.

I have a mental illness called depression and its worst in the Winter when I get a condition called. S.A.D. Seasonal Affected Disorder. It's when you feel tired, sad, weepy and want to eat a lot of Ice cream.

So, the man right next door shot himself on the 17th August this year. Our neighbour of 14 years. One day he was here and the next day gone. Just like that. He had a beautiful home, a boat, three cars, two powerful bikes and three sons and three wives. He was also Bi Polar.

I had no idea what Bi Polar was but I now know they often kill themselves, especially if they don't take their meds, often self medicate and that other people have more often than not, known one. I hadn't. My Mother was mentally ill but with depression, clinical depression. She had been injured in the Second World War both mentally and physically.

In her late forties she was unblessed with an overactive thyroid which she refused to have operated on and her latent mental illness was triggered by the diseased thyroid and vice versa. In a few short years she became very ill and committed suicide at age 53.

So when K. Next door killed himself I went into overdrive. My Mother had done the same thing with sleeping pills and not a gun but the latent memories resurfaced and affected me and my child and her children very, very badly.

We cried for days, we slept badly if at all, couldn't eat, burst into tears in public, could talk of nothing else, felt tired, sad. listless, unmotivated or overactive. A nightmare.

The thoughts of seeing him the night before, the days before, haunted us. Had we somehow been lacking in a way as neighbours, as friends ? Could a kind compassionate word then have stopped what was about to happen ?

janettebruckshaw-healthy kids.blogspot.com: Nothing Happens And Then Everything Happens Ch 2

2018-09-01T01:44:00.001-07:00

janettebruckshaw-healthy kids.blogspot.com: Nothing Happens And Then Everything Happens Ch 2: Without Prejudice Laure, my friend and Greg, her husband and Simons Step Father, went down to Simons unit on the Monday of that week. That...

Nothing Happens And Then Everything Happens Ch 2

2018-09-01T01:40:00.001-07:00

Without Prejudice

Laure, my friend and Greg, her husband and Simons Step Father, went down to Simons unit on the Monday of that week. That awful week. When they crossed the lobby a lady brushed past them and said,

" I am so sorry " she was also an ex addict.

She raised her hand to her mouth in horror.

" Oh my good Lord you don't know, do you ?"

Laure just stared at the woman. Her heart had started to hammer in her chest and her mouth was suddenly dry.

The manager of the units arrived and the Police. They were rude, Laure said, treated her and Greg like shit. She wanted to scream at them,

" he was clean and sober for 18 months, he wasn't just a junkie "

But she was too much in shock.

There was so much to be done. Organise a funeral, clean out his unit within a week, tell people, on and on while in a world of heartbreaking pain. Just when she thought she could take a breath after twenty years of her Sons addiction. I guess she thought that just as he reached sobriety a relapse wouldn't happen. But relapses are more common that we think. In fact they are the norm.

A drug addict is a very ill person. I heard one man describe it as having a hole inside, an emptiness, a void that only heroin can fill. He also said about his " higher power " ,

" There is no higher power than heroin "

Simons day of death was the 29th of July 2018. A Sunday. That was the day the Police broke into his unit and found his body. A unit he loved, a life he loved, a sobriety he lived. What a tragic waste of a young life. In the end he died on his own.

And I am sure people will say he was just a drug addict,

but he wasn't.

He was a Son, a sibling to 5 brothers and a sister. He was a stepson, a good one, an Uncle, a friend, a work mate. And it seemed that nothing could save him from that hole inside. It was like his death was inevitable in a way. Laure my friend must have feared his death for so long, so many worrying nights. So many days of fear, praying to God on her knees.

But addiction is what it is. An addict is an addict is an addict.

The man from the rehab, David, said at the wake that many make it out of the addiction spiral and go on to lead healthy productive lives. But not Simon. So very sad for him but worse for those left behind. The addict is in no more pain but the rest of us are.

Nothing Happens And Then Everything Happens Ch 1.

2018-08-19T06:11:00.002-07:00

Without Prejudice

Funeral Blues. W.H.Auden

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message 'He is Dead'.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

The above poem is famous as being spoken as an eulogy in the movie, Four Weddings and a Funeral.

We have had a week with 2 major birthdays, a funeral and a tragic sudden death. The weather could not have been more vicious than it was this week. Black skies bringing rain, hail, a light dusting of snow In the Dandenongs. A bitter wind that caught at your ears, curled your fingers and left tears streaming down your face unnoticed until you tasted salt on your lips. Bitter.

The birthdays came on Monday. The 13th of August 2018. One for a lovely lady who I classify as a " bestie", Lovely Loretta. She's Indian, smart, deeply devout, a good soul with a genuine heart. You don't find too many Lorettas in this world, ( mores the pity). She has been there for me for the last 10 years I have known her and I for her.

My greeting to her was heartfelt but subdued. We had a funeral to go to the next day, my daughter, Yvette and I. A childhood friend of my girls. The eldest Son of my best friend Laurel.

I rang my Grand son wished him a happy birthday and he was vibrant, full of life, elated and on his way to work.

I wrestled two portable air conditioners into my car in between phone calls and hastened home as the winds started up, as did the rain. It's late winter and Melbourne ushers out the season in a
flurry of shitful weather. The daffodils might be out in all their yellow gloriousness and blossoms adorn the tress but Melbourne renowned for its " Four Seasons in One Day" will not let the cold mornings and freezing nights go just yet.

Next thing is we will be moaning about the heat.

Hence the two portable air cons. I want Yvette to have one in every room of her house. I remember well the first Summer I moved into the unit in her backyard. Her 7 boys were little then. And her house had no air con. It was mind boggling, but we had a paddling pool and a sprinkler hooked up over the washing line.

We took a lot of showers that year, but I didn't care. I pay the water, she pays the Internet, otherwise we have separate meters for gas and electricity. Only the water is a shared meter. We cover the meter with the old metal Melbourne Water Board cover, heavy and rusty looking, but it stops us driving over the thing. Well, me mainly.

We were as nervous as cats about the funeral. We'd been crying on and off since we found out. Simon was just turned 47. He had been a great kid, his Dad, Alan,shot through when Simon was 10. Left and never came back. Just disappeared to his 4 children. Simon went looking for him once. Units in Richmond. He rang his Dad and told him he was downstairs but the Dad would not come down to see his Son.

Sad.

When Simon was about 18 he started hanging around with a friend called Lee. Lee was dabbling in heroin. So did Simon. Lee died at 18, Simon became an addict.

He was 18 months clean and sober at a rehab in Wangaratta, up the country. He was happy there, had friends, good friends. Graduated from rehab. My friend thought he might be a bit lonely and isolated up there, so the counsellors and she came to a decision to have him live in a flat in St Kilda. The counsellors from the rehab made the arrangements. Simon had to wait 6 months but he loved having his own flat.

Laure was a bit concerned that the location, Acland Street, St Kilda. was going to be risky for a former heroin addict but Simon was confident he would be fine, he had the monkey off his back and was talking about starting up his Carpet Cleaning business again. Life was beautiful. He had his beloved Richmond Football Club to follow, he was thrilled with his new iPhone and never turned it off. His photo on face book shows him in his first " selfie" a picture of health and smiling with delight, his flat in the background.

10 days before the funeral I received a text from Laure just said the letter " A."

I laughed and texted her back,

" Hey, did you just make a mistake and send me a text that said A ? "

Twenty minutes later she sent me a lengthy text.

Simon had passed away, no details yet,

I rang her.

He had been going to the Richmond Collingwood game on the Saturday. Meeting up with. Friend. So Laure texted him on the Friday night, a simple enjoy the game, Son.

No reply. She rang, the phone was turned off. The phone he never turned off.

She must have rang and left a thousand messages, no reply.

janettebruckshaw-healthy kids.blogspot.com

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Windward Passage. Description

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Twentieth Century

SEARCH

MOVING TO QUEENSLAND

Never Come Lightly To The Blank Page.

Murder At Windward Passage. Chapter Two

Murder At Windward Passage Chapter one

Creation of a state

Settlement

Independence

Early development

Federation

Queensland Government

For Queenslanders

Business and industry

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janettebruckshaw-healthy kids.blogspot.com: My Blessed Life ? Sue Grafton, Stephen King et al

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