The Seventh Sense

Last Saturday I finally used the tarot card reading voucher Bernice had given me for my birthday in November last year. I'm not really into clairvoyance or anything that involves reading the future. I'd rather have the future tell me herself than someone dressed in yee oldy worldy garb wearing black nails assisted by dry ice. I've only had one reading from a clairvoyant before and that was a friend of a friend who didn't charge a fee. In fact it was over a beer at Manacle one Friday night. Strangely his predictions have been pretty spot on. The whole experience though still leaves me a little cold……I'd just rather not know. As a result, I'd put this particular reading off and off and off until the voucher actually expired. I was quite happy to let it pass until Bernice rang and asked me why I hadn't used the voucher yet. The place I was to go and have the reading had actually called her advising the voucher had expired. So I was caught out. Bernice said she could get the voucher renewed but I would have to attend in the next week. She seemed pretty determined that I go. So grudgingly I rang and made my booking for 11.30am Saturday.

The tarot place was at Glebe about a 15 minute drive from where I live in the hills of Dulwich. I left home at around 11.30am thinking that would give me plenty of time. I get to Bridge road at Glebe and of course they are doing road works on three quarters of the road……so it is reduced to one lane going each way. 40 mins later I am still in traffic. Why oh why do they choose to do road works on main thoroughfares during the day is beyond me…particularly Saturday mid-morning when there is traffic everywhere. Very annoying!

I eventually make it to the tarot place 15 minutes late sweaty and exhausted having sprinted from my car. I wave my voucher at the receptionist and I'm taken into an area cordoned off by mauve satin and piped whale music. Here I am introduced to Claire. She is my tarot card reader for the morning. Claire is dressed in mauve satin as well....as is the table, the ceiling and the chairs. I'm feeling a little out of place in my white crushed linen and bisket pant.

ME: I'm so sorry I'm late. Bloody roadworks! And then of course I couldn't find a carpark…….my kingdom for a capark!

CLAIRE: Ok that's fine. That may affect my reading a little.

ME: Not being able to find a carpark?

CLAIRE: Yes…your being late.

ME: Oh I'm sorry.

It wasn't off to a great start. She hands me a deck of cards and asks me to shuffle them. I am hopeless at shuffling cards. Like my attempts of many basic human activities such as whistling, clicking my fingers, summersaults, cartwheels and shooting pool, the shuffling of cards has always been an activity I've greatly admired yet rarely commandeered. I start to freeze as soon as she hands me the deck.

ME: I'm afraid I'm not very good at this.

CLAIRE: Just breathe; you will be fine.

I fumble my way through an attempt, which basically involves me moving the back half of the deck to the front of the deck. It looks totally mong.

CLAIRE: Let me show you.

ME : Thanks

And as I have watched numerous times before particularly in my youth when I used to watch my grandmother play cards, I watch CLAIRE shuffle the cards making it look as easy as pie. She accompanies "just add water" style instructions whilst demonstrating. This makes me more anxious.

I pick up the cards and this time I go for broke. It predictably ends in disaster. The shuffle ends up with all the cards on the ground. To add insult to injury, my phone then rings. Ironically it's Bernice calling. I quickly switch it off. Claire glares at me through a fake glacial smile. The screaming whales in the background seem to make her look demonic and continue to increase my anxiety.

ME: I'm so sorry.

CLAIRE: Just remain calm. Breathe.

How can I with those whales screaming?

CLAIRE: Can I get you to pick up the cards and place them in a deck on the table?

I pick up the cards and rearrange them in a deck on the table. She picks them up and closes her eyes. She humms for a moment. I'm not quite sure what to do. Is she harmonising with the whales? She opens her eyes and looks straight at me.

CLAIRE: You work with your voice don't you? You use your voice?

ME: Yes
CLAIRE: Yes what do you do?
ME: I'm a lawyer
CLAIRE: Yes you are.
ME: Mmmmmm

She picks up the cards again. She re-shuffles them. She's very good at it. She hums again and I am concerned the whales are becoming louder.

CLAIRE: You work with your voice don't you?
ME: Yes (haven't we been here before?)
CLAIRE: You work in court all the time?
ME: Well not all the time....but yes I do appear in court.
CLAIRE: Please don't block my energy.
ME: Oh I'm sorry (what?)
CLAIRE: It's a very competitive environment where you work isn't it?
ME: Ummm (it couldn't be further from the truth)
CLAIRE : You're very stressed in your job aren't you?
ME: Ummm no not really.
CLAIRE: Please stop blocking me.
ME: I'm so sorry ..... I just... (she was completely wrong. I'm not stressed at work. If the place was any more laid back, it would be a morgue)
CLAIRE: You are ruining the channels of energy. Please take four cards.
ME: I wasn't meaning to. I'm so sorry.

She glares at me with a Stepford Wife smile. I pick my four cards and hope to hell that my channels of energy are open. The whales are stilling moaning. She puts her hands on the four cards and starts humming again.I wait with anticipation.

CLAIRE: There is something. There is something broken.
My shuffling skills?
ME: Ummm
CLAIRE: You used to be in music but you've drifted away from it.
ME: Sort of yes.
CLAIRE: And you've drifted away because something is wrong with your voice.

Finally something. She was spot on. In the last two years, I've lost the upper register of my voice. I used to be a strong baritone with an ability to tenor as well. But now all I have is hot air....literally.

ME: Yes ....I have nodules on my vocal chords.

At least I think I do. I've been too scared to get it checked out as I know it's at least a $10K operation to get it fixed if I do have them. About two years ago I went to sing a top C and nothing came out.....and nothing ever since has; no falsetto at all. Gone are the days I could impersonate Bono.

CLAIRE: You must get them checked and if need be...fixed. I see your future in music particularly singing....and in a genre you would least expect.
ME: Oh?

Yes please where do I sign....will they pay the $10K medical bills as well? She couldn't tell me the genre but she was on a roll.

CLAIRE: I see you singing for a number of bands and setting up your own on-line recording label.

Me and sales? You've got to be joking. I couldn't sell Holy Water to Catholics even if I tried. Bands on the other hand......I thought I'd left all of that behind....or it had left me behind.

The whales continue to moan and Claire slips in another hum. We are moving to the next level: PAST LIVES.

CLAIRE: You were a famous cabaret singer in the 30s.

Anyone I know?

CLAIRE: You sang in London, Paris and Berlin

What about Brisbane?

CLAIRE: But your career was cut short by the war.

There's always a catch.

CLAIRE: And you never returned to your former glory. To this day you are still looking for it.

That explains my signings of autographs with random strangers.

CLAIRE: That's all we have time for today. Do you have any questions?

ME: Yeah I do. Did my past life die or am I still alive?

C

Buddy

Today my Grandad would have turned 90. He was my mother's father and he's now been dead almost 5 years. Out of all my grandparents, he was the one I was closest to. He was a writer, an actor, an entertainer, a tireless charity worker, a devoted father and a hilarious grandfather. He is still the funniest smartest and most unselfish man I've ever known. A man full of intergrity and never a dull moment. There'd either be a recital of a poem he'd just written, a song, a shakespearean monologue or a story or a yarn to be told. He gave me my sense of humour, my love of theatre, writing and reading.........and being the life of the party. Grandad was primarily a comedian......us grandkids were always in stitches whether it be at Grandad or the shows he loved watching...the Goones, the Carry On films, the Two Ronnies, God Bless This House, George and Mildred, Hancock's Half Hour and Graeme Kennedy....the list goes on.

He was ecumenical long before it was fashionable and multi-cultural before any Anti-Racial Discrimination Act was tabled in parliament. We shared a close bond.......he knew and understood me more than anyone else.Sadly he spent the last ten years of his life in the brain fog that is dementia. The real man I knew and loved only made guest appearances in the tortured transition years that were my 20s. He was dead by the time I was 29. I have always felt that God took him at a time when I most needed him; the times when I was discovering my sexuality and what the hell I was supposed to do with it. I often wonder what his reaction would have been to my being gay; whether he would have been fine with it or not. I've always suspected that he knew anyway....that he always knew and that he was so ahead of his time that he wouldn't have had any hang ups about it anyway. I sometimes think if he were still around, that the strange polite emotional gulf that exists between my parents and I over my sexuality would be avoided. Not that my parents rejected me over my sexuality ...they just politely accepted it and have rarely discussed it since; a tactic I supported just as much as they did. As a result I never talk to my parents about boyfriends, past, potential or otherwise. I would have been able to have those yarns with my grandfather. Grandad used to always have a saying "Start off the way you intend to finish" and sadly I've never applied that to my parents when it came to my sexuality; I've always used the side door instead. Maybe one day I will use the entrance.

During the second world war Grandad got the nickname Buddy for his friendly nature and his ability to have a yarn with just about everyone. It was a nickname that he carried for the rest of his life. No one ever forgot him. And nor have I.

Happy Birthday Grandad. God Bless.

John B

ToP oF tHe ToWn

Friday night, Wander, Trev, Bernice and I went to a birthday party in the Top of the Town ….a very swish apartment complex on Victoria Road in Darlinghurst. Christopher was up from Melbourne for the weekend and it was his friend's Todd's 39th. I also finally met Christopher's new boyfriend Spiros whose introduction I'd been awaiting so long, I honestly thought he was apart of Christopher's imagination. Christopher is one of my closest friends and I always get quite nervous meeting the new squeezes of my close friends generally because like myself they quite often make disastrous choices. Spiros thankfully seems to be as vacant as us lot and runs even more late than I do so he should fit in perfectly. I was also a bit nervous about the party. I knew it would be a wall to wall glam homosexual event where everyone has a size 32 inch waste or under, wear enough body and hair product to solve the credit crunch and have more labels on than Fashion Week. None of them have eaten a carbohydrate since 1975, they think that Canola is a facemask and scream hysterically if confronted with a Big Mac. These people are not human. They are Professional Poofters (PPs).

I bought a new herringbone shirt (which cost more than my mortgage repayment) for the occasion and a birthday card with two scratchies for Todd. I met the boys for a few pre drinks at the Green Park and then we made our way to the Top of the Town. We waited in the foyer for Todd to come down and pick us up. Whilst waiting, PPs started arriving with tight shirts and shiney faces. The foyer had obviously been designed by Seven Eleven. There was enough fluorescent lighting and reflection to give you a tan. The only object I could see through all the light was a demented looking potted palm whose fronds were completely exhausted from constantly thinking it was daylight 24 hours a day. Todd arrived and we all crammed our way into a sardine lift. The PPs were determined not to be left behind. While making our way up, I congratulated Todd on his birthday. I gave him my card.

Todd: "But it's not my birthday?

The whole lift burst out into laughter. Great…..I hadn't even made it to the party and I was already wanting to jump down the lift well.

Me: "Oh," I was so embarrassed. I glared at Christopher. He looked slightly confused but was laughing at the same time.

All the PPs smirked.

Todd: "And I'm not 40 years old! " Todd looked at me as if I had half a head.

Christopher: "Colin I didn't tell you Todd was 40". And nor had I accused Todd of such a sin. He had misread the card.

Me: "I'm not saying that he is 40. I wrote on the card "Welcome to your 40th year" which is technically what turning 39 is….it is entering your 40th year of life."

Todd: "But I'm not 39….I'm 38"

Christopher: " …turning 39.."

Todd: "No I'm not. I've just turned 38."

Trev: "So it is your birthday then…"

Todd: "No that was a month ago…"

Trev: "Ah well you're well and truly on your way to turning 39 anyway."

Trev and Todd exchanged glares and the whole lift remained silent until we reached our destination. I originally wasn't going to drink but after that lift ride, no barman was safe from me. We alighted from the lift and made our way down a very dull hallway. If 7/11 had done the foyer, the Department of Corrections had most certainly done the common areas. The grey colour scheme gave the building that Maximum Security feel.

Todd opened the door and let the PPs catwalk their way in before us. And my my what a spectacular apartment. Amazing views of Sydney from Darling Harbour to the Opera House and the Harbour Bridge to Kings Cross. You just don't get views like this from the second floor in Dulwich Hill.

As I expected the party was littered with PPs in all directions each wearing enough cologne to power a 747. Out of the fumes came the apartment's owner, Peter, to whom we were quickly introduced. Christopher and Spiros dived head first into the party, while Wander, Bernice and myself went straight to the small kitchenette and deposited our alcohol…..well in my case, my bottle of lemonade. As soon as Trev offered me a glass of his shiraz, I obliged. I couldn't survive this night without drinking……..it was ridiculous of me to think I ever could.

We walked out onto the huge balcony, which covered the entire breadth of the two bedroom apartment. The railings were glass, with crome finishing's, and the floor both inside and outside was marble. It was all very glamorous. Sydney was the piasta resistance though……….270 degrees of her humming out there in front of us.

I downed in quick succession three glasses of shiraz and suddenly recalled that apart from a cracker at Trev's, I had not eaten. I was starving as was Bernice. We searched the apartment for food but like all good PP pads, it was completely devoid of any culinary nourishment. The pantry in the kitchen contained a fire extinguisher and a street directory. What was more concerning though was that not only was the premises devoid of food, it was also devoid of furniture. With the exception of one very small couch at one end of the living area, a bed in one of the bedrooms on top of which was a laptop playing music, there was not a skeric of anything else. There were no tables and chairs, no sideboards, no coffee tables, no bookshelves and no cabinets. The place had some nice art; in fact the place felt more like an art gallery than someone's home. Bernice and I wondered if the owner had spent all his money on buying the apartment and had no money left over to go to Ikea. Me think not.

The lack of something tangible to rest an ass or a glass on also explained the epidemic of clumsiness that seemed to have beseeched the party. There were people everywhere dropping glasses, spilling drinks and tripping over like there was an earthquake on. The marble floor certainly didn't assist this process and nor did the fact that people were starting to become quite drunk.

Bernice and I, giving up on food returned with another bottle of red to find Wanda attempting a conversation with a PP. Wanda always likes a challenge particularly when the challenge is one which resembles a young Christopher Reeve lookalike circa the superman years. His name was Paul (good god I know a lot of Pauls) and he was delicious……until he opened his mouth. He had what I call a world accent. Such a dialect was invented by Elle Macpherson who has perfected it over the years as a new spin on the traditional transatlantic/pacific accent. It's incredibly irritating and has been embraced by many an Australian PP.


Wanda: So what do you do Paul?

PP: Fashion (this usually means they're a shop assistant)

Wanda: Oh nice. Buying or designing?

PP: David Jones (I was right)

Wanda: I run my own art direction business.

PP: Right

Wanda: So do you know Peter and Todd?

PP: My boyfriend knows Peter. He did the interior design for this apartment.


I really can't recall how the next event happened. It's one of those things where you just wished the earth could have collapsed below you, swallowed you up and taken you away. Yes I was trying to light my cigarette and hold onto my glass of shiraz at the same time. I believed I had mastered this art over the last couple of hours due to the furniture famine that had robbed all guests of the ability to place a glass anyway else but in their hand or on their head. Well at least I thought I had. I soon found out that I had not.

My shiraz appeared to shoot out of my glass like a torpedo. Projectile was an understatement. It was on hearing the very words "interior design" and "this apartment", my right arm seemed to develop Turret's syndrome. Did the owner really pay someone money to do the interior design of this apartment? My right arm obviously could not hide my shock. The shiraz shot up into the air and like some sort of water bomb, burst into the air above our heads and came down like rain all over myself and the PP.

The whole party came to a standstill and stared. As wine trickled down the PP's face and I looked at shiraz all over my beautiful herringbone shirt, I realized I'd actually successfully lit my cigarette and had not dropped the wine glass. Maybe I could set myself alight and self-combust. Christopher was in tears; I couldn't quite work out whether it was from laughter or embarrassment.

Looking at the shiraz stains, I had another kneejerk reaction and ran to the kitchen. Thankfully I found a bottle of soda water. I ran back out and threw it all over the PP's shirt and then mine. PP's reaction was that of a cat taking a shower: absolute disgust. I continued to pour soda water all over my shirt……I'd spent a fortune on this shirt and I didn't want it ruined after one night. The whole party continued to stare like they were watching a car crash in slow motion. By the time I was finished, we were both completely saturated. I offered the PP more soda water but he declined. He went to the kitchen to be comforted by other PPs. I saw Peter, the host and owner of the furniture challenged apartment and asked him if he had a hairdryer.

Peter: What do you think?

I then looked at his bald head.

Me: Perhaps a towel?


C

NUTS

In the last 24 hours, I've misplaced two train tickets, my work pass, my house keys and my mobile phone. This has caused me to have countless bi-polar moments resulting in arguments with myself. I am certain that our neighbour across from our apartment is convinced that three people live in number 8 instead of two due to the number of rows I have upon on my own person with no one else in the room.


"where have you put it John?"

"You haven't put it in it's right place have you?"

"why can't you make things simple?"

"why do u always do this"

"can't you just get your act together

"why! why! why!"
The dialogue is even scarier when I start answering back my own cross-examination. This is followed by the throwing of numerous inanimate objects blaming them for the disappearance of the missing item. I will then turn to religion and blame God for everything in the hope that God may produce the sort after object. Call it tough love if you will. These moments of absolute demented frustration seem to develop fantastical beliefs in my psyche that there are indeed fairies, leprechauns and angels deliberately stealing my things and making life very difficult. The truth of the matter is of course that I am a hopelessly disorganised unfortunate who could not find his way out of a paper bag without losing the paper bag first. On the day God was handing out the Organising & Tidying Genes, I was out at Happy Hour having a martini.

HAPPY ENDINGS

We have a cleaner who comes once every fortnight at 7 AM.....yes that is 7 AM. Steven his name is and my brother usually deals with him. I've continually laid down my objections to help coming at such an ungodly hour but my brother insists on allowing him to attend at such a time ......"as it is the only time he can come and he is very very good. Just deal with it." He is very good and indeed we were on a waiting list for some 12 mths waiting to get him.....someone eventually died and we got the Tuesday 7AM slot. I AM NOT A MORNING PERSON....as most of my friends know. When dawn simmers and mobile phones alarm, I generally wallow in devastation under the dooner for hours refusing to accept the reality of the onslaught of another day. As a result, I generally never see Stephen. My brother gets to deal with him and I lock myself in my room and snooze until he leaves.......which generally makes me quite late for work as he sometimes doesn't leave til nine. VERY ANNOYING.

Anyway my brother has been away the last few days and therefore, I had the task of dealing with Stephen yesterday morning. I didn't get home from work the night before til about 11pm and by the time I got to bed it was about 1am. My alarm sounded at 6.30am. Instead of my normal wallow tactics, I was straight up, put my porridge in the microwave and had a shave and shower. I wanted to have most morning activities down by the time he arrived. I switched on the telly to Today and found Richard Wilkinson coming live from London where he had just been to the world premierre of Sex and The City.....he had interviewed Carrie and the girls and that was going to be on the show at 7.20am. Greash I thought......I will have my porridge whilst watching that. I returned to bathroom activities and the intercom buzzer rang as I was alighting from the shower.

I grabbed my porridge and let Stephen in. Even though I'd showered, shaved, moisturised and performed morning ablutions, I was still very much shell-shocked and disillusioned at being awake. That's the way I am for the first hour out of bed every morning. I liken it to the immediate aftermath of a car accident where you sit there and can't believe it has happened: absolute shock.

So I sat there on my couch refusing to believe I was there, wishing I were still embedded in posturepedic slumber. I smothered my porridge in syrup and focussed on Lisa Wilkinson on the tellie wearing yet another ridiculous blouse. The story on the Sex and the City Movie was minutes away. Richard Wilkins had just been to the world premiere in London and he was coming live from Leicester Square. That was something to look forward to in this shadow of absolute lethargy.

If only I could stop the noise. The noise was Stephen. He talks like a Victor Lawnmower….static in all directions. In the space of about ten minutes he covered the following topics. I interspersed these topics with "Oh really's" "Yeah's" "Awful's" "Oh you poor thing's".

1. He'd been sick with the flu (yes he had been: he cancelled us two weeks ago due to flu). He described the flu symptoms and how he was in bed for three weeks so much so that his water bed burst and he had to buy a new bed. It sounded disastrous but really all I wanted to do was go back to bed and smother myself in porridge and shut the world out.

2. How he lost one client because he rang in sick…. on the Sunday just gone ….his only sick day with her in five years and she sacked him for being inconsistent. V. Rough. Indeed. But not with my porridge and my devastation.

3. He's been painting the side of his house and he fell off the ladder scraping his left calf muscle which has now become infected. He showed me the bandage and apparent limp. Dreadful. Poor thing. But really….most definitely not with my porridge and please mind my devastation.

4. Not drawing breath he then moved onto his bad back which he has always had but was made worse by the water bed bursting in the middle of the night and him waking up at 4 in the morning on the cold wet base of the bed. Add to that the falling off ladders, cleaning numerous houses and subsequently buying the wrong mattress had only exacerbated the back problems.

It was terribly terrible (I backed it up with a number of " how awful Stephen"s) but I could not deal with it. The Sex and The City story was about to start and I had to see it as well as preferrably, hear it. I turned the volume up and started shovelling porridge. Stephen heard the SATC soundtrack and immediately walked into the living room. Maybe he would be quiet for the SATC story I thought. Maybe he was as big a SATC tragic as I was. Richard Wilkins with extraordinary tooth brush hair did his piece to camera and Stephen was quiet. Fingers crossed he was going to remain so. There were shots of SJC (wearing what appeared to be a potplant on her head), Cynthia Nixon (missing her bra), Kristin Davis (with her mouth always opened) and Kim Cattrall (looking suspiciously smooth skinned).

It was at the sight of Kim Catrall, that the silence was again shattered and Stephen started his Victor Lawnmower of a throat announcing:

" She is my favourite. The best episode is when she is going to that women's health club and demands a happy ending off that masseuse."

Me: "mmmmm," I uttered urging him unsuccessfully to be quiet. Richard was talking to SJC. I wanted to know what on earth that was on her head.

Stephen: "I get them all the time" Me: "yeah." I wasn't really listening. SJC was saying it was Vivienne Westwood…the plant or the dress? Stephen: "I go to two every week….one on the Friday and one on the Tuesday just after I've finished here."

Me: "Really." Please shut up. I continued to munch on porridge trying to lip read.

Stephen: " It is the best stress relief. Mark is his name. Phillipino....I thoroughly recommend him...I can give you his card."

I gave up. I was never going to win: " Sorry Stephen what are you talking about?" I asked politely as I could, yet not remotely interested in the answer.

Stephen: "Happy Endings"

Me: "Happy what?"

Stephen: "Endings.....". He looked at me as if I was missing half my brain. Well I was ...it was asleep.

It then woke up. "Oh.....what...after a massage?". I put my porridge down and quickly grabbed my glass of orange juice. Was it wrong to add vodka at 7.30 am? I watched Lisa's Crystal Carrington style blouse shimmy on the television screen and pondered the situation presented to me.Here was my cleaner esconced in rubber glub and cleaning product offering me the service of his own personal "masseuse with benefits". Did I really look that bad at this time of the morning?

Stephen shoved "Mark"s card in my hand and patted me on the back, " He's great. He goes all the way."

I took the card. I smiled. I finished my orange juice. I looked at Lisa's blouse again.I had run out of words and I prayed Stephen had as well.

He had not.

There were more bad backs, bad clients, bad pets, bad bathrooms and bad kitchens but most definitely NO happy endings.

C

Britney's Follies

It's a while since I've mentioned her......I love this quote....

"But hail the doyenne of odd, Britney Spears, who surprised staff at a Los Angeles tanning salon by wandering the corridors, and then ordering a latte, in the nude. For some, the mad parade of inherent peculiarity rolls defiantly, and inexplicably, on."

Deterrence

Today at work we all attended our agency head's presentation on the corporate re-structure our government agency is about to undergo in 4 months.

We have all been aware of the impending re-structure and today we were told what that will exactly entail. I'm still not quite sure what that is.

An american man gave one of the other presentations and I found him most entertaining.....so much so...that I thought he was the half time act. I became more concerned though when I realised he is actually the main engineer behind the re-structure. He is the man our agency has paid millions to advise our agency on how to operate. And if his flowcharts are anything to go by, we're in a lot of trouble. Each chart resembled a Picasso painting with arrows. Such artistry is perhaps suitable for a gallery whilst consuming a pleasant cheese on cracker with a glass of shiraz but not as a communication device for conveying management issues in one's government funded organisation. Still as I said, he was most witty and should definitely consider getting an agent as I'm sure he could sell out stadiums in Vegas.

The upshot of the presentation however is that none of us are losing our jobs..... we are all keeping our jobs....well a job...not necessarily the job we have now at the agency but still....a job.
And it appears that I am going to be moved into a branch entitled Deterrence.

Does that make me then a deterrent?

Almost 7 years of practice and I am to become the legal professional equivalent of a can of Mortein?

Super

C

Colour Me Doris

An excerpt from this month's Vanity Fair article on DD.

'Having met a number of Brogan's potential boyfriends, Day was discussing his problems maintaining a relationship and asked him what he looked for in a man. After Brogan's litany of positive qualities, Day, sipping her third Dewar's on the rocks, said, "Don't you also think he should be well hung? You know, Barry was, and it made up for a lot of other deficiencies.'

Here here….

FINGER LICKING GOOD

Yesterday was nothing short of hideous.

Hideous people. Hideous matters. Hideous unnecessary stress. And hideous weather…..as I recall….it may have been a splendid looking day but it was greyed by my hideous experiences.

Got a phone call Monday afternoon from an assistant to one of my witnesses in a hearing I was to run yesterday advising that the said witness could not attend court as the said witness was on vacation. Time 11.15am :

Me : "Umm…..well how do you expect me to run that matter without a witness? I advised you guys of the Hearing date back in February."

Assistant: "Yes….I'm sorry….it appears we overlooked it."

Me: "It appears you did…..where is he?"

Assistant: "The Maldives."

Me: "Handy."

I hung up sounding more disgusted than I actually was. The truth of the matter was that I didn't particularly feel like doing a hearing the next day as I have quite a large callover list to prepare for next Tuesday. That was until I advised the registrar of the court that the matter would not be proceeding. I was under the impression that this particular defendant was not legally represented. I receive an email back from the registrar advising the following:

"Thanks for advising me. You might want to advise the defendant's solicitor ____________ (someone I've been against before in matters and don't particularly adore)" Lets call him Awful Horrid Man.

My heart sank; primarily because Awful Horrid Man (AHM) would be seeking costs for the vacation of a hearing at such short notice. I've been in this job for almost two years and I'm yet to have a costs order made against me. It's not the end of the world when it happens but at the same time, it makes the government branch for which I work, look a little unprofessional…even though technically we had done all that we could to make sure our witnesses were present on the day of the hearing.

I have worked alongside and against Awful Horrid Man in a number of matters through the court system over the past seven years. He resembles a cross between a hippopotamus and Oliver Cromwell with the latter's ego firmly in place.

He picks up his phone and barks his name out like his declaring war:

ME: Hi AHM, it's JC

AHM: Ah yes Mr C, I was wondering when you were going to call. I still haven't received a brief from you.

ME : Well I served one on your client quite some time ago.

AHM: But I'm acting in the matter. It's on the court record.

ME : Unfortunately the court has only just advised me of this. I was under the impression your client was self-represented.

AHM: Well my appearance was announced by my agent the last time the matter was before the court. This appears to be the case. Unfortunately the solicitor assisting me in the registrar's court that day had not noted his appearance. Great.

ME: Well you were obviously aware I was acting in this matter and you've never contacted me. In any event, the hearing cannot proceed tomorrow as I have just been advised by the office of my witness that he is away on vacation. There appears to be an oversight on their behalf as to his availability.

AHM then reacted as if I'd taken his client's first-born child and put it in the microwave. "Outrageous!" was followed by "Unprofessional!" followed by "My client is ready to proceed!" This was ironic considering AHM was just protesting that he was yet to receive the prosecution's Brief of Evidence……he was no more ready to proceed than my witness was going to give evidence via telephone from a beach in the Maldives with his file in one hand and a martini in the other. But he had the upper hand……I was of course the prosecution and technically because I'm the mug who lays the damned charges, I'm the one who is supposed to have his arse in gear ready to proceed. It is the common law system of justice after all………not a bush dance.

AHM: Well MR C I don't know about you but I will be in court tomorrow with my client ready to proceed.

I bet you are I thought. You want to pick up your 2 Grand in costs for a measly 2 min appearance.

ME: Look forward to it. See you then.

Which was polite telephone fodder for I'd rather eat dead horse hair.

Sigh.

I dragged myself to court the next morning. It's an hour's drive from my apartment to the particular court that this matter was being heard. It was raining most of the way and the traffic was bumper to bumper so there was plenty of time for me to attempt to come up with ingenious "costs order avoiding" excuses as to why the matter could not proceed:

Immediate Muteness: I could suddenly develop acute laryngitis as I walk in the court door which prevents me then from running the hearing….it will have to be adjourned for health reasons thereby avoiding a costs argument.
Hostage: The witness is actually being held hostage in the Maldives (by a large martini and it refuses to allow him to give evidence)
Death: The witness is dead. (he can never come back from the Maldives)
Traffic: The witness is caught in traffic and has been held up (by that martini and the Indian Ocean)
Insanity: The witness has since been declared insane and remains in a mental health facility in the Maldives. I wonder if I can join him.

Of course none of these excuses were going to work, as it would involve submitting lies to the court and as an officer of the court, I certainly cannot be seen to be uttering such falsehoods….not to mention that these excuses would most likely result in my commitment to a mental institution let alone a prison cell.

I entered court room number two ready to have my parade well and truly rained upon. And I wasn't disappointed. AHM was there dressed like a transvestial cockatoo (who wears canary yellow suit to court? Seriously?) doing everything to completely ignore me. Vomit. I'd heard a rumour outside that Magistrate Lady Marmalade was on the bench. My spirits were lifted slightly in that she always reserves costs judgments until matters are complete…..in other words my bargearse friend may not have been getting his costs order that day!

Those spirits were short lived as soon as Magistrate Lex Luther entered the bench (obviously not his real name: his resemblance to the cartoon character is quite extraordinary though). He sat down, asked for appearances, I gave mine, AHM gave his. Pleasantries were exchanged.

Magistrate Luther : Mr C is this matter to proceed?

ME: Well Your Honour, unfortunately I am without my witness. There appears to have been a misunderstanding and he is away on vacation this week in the Maldives. I was only advised of this by his office yesterday.

Luther: The Maldives? How nice of him……did he send a postcard? Perhaps I should return the favour by issuing him a warrant for his arrest.

ME (I'd thought costs…but I hadn't thought arrest warrants): Umm Your Honour I understand that when witnesses fail to appear in court, it is of great nuisance to the court but in this instance, I don't think an arrest warrant for a witness in a summary matter such as this is required. Your Honour I would seek that the matter be adjourned for a further hearing date. (hoping that he would forget the idea quickly)

Luther: Would you now Mr C? I'm tired of my court being held up by lazy prosecution witnesses who have a blatant disregard for when they are required to be in court. Mr AHM what do you have to say?

Well of course AHM addressed his nutty honour as if he were addressing god …. how he had to miss the funeral of a dear friend to attend today's hearing…bla bla.…….if the friend was so damned dear, why didn't he ring me to have the hearing moved? Pig's bum. The sign of a superb advocate is his ability to bullshit like no other and make it entirely believable, which AHM did. His client does not have any money, he said, after losing all of it in his failed business (we suspect he still has money alright….money which he has funnelled out of his 'failed' business into another business avoiding his tax and credit obligations on the way). Unfortunately for me though, it never looks great when you are prosecuting someone who appears on the surface to be on hard times and your star witness fails to appear because he is not only on holidays but is in the 5 star playground that is the Maldives.

So I went down. His Luther Honour didn't dismiss the charges, he adjourned the hearing but gave me a whopping costs order which I had the thrill of giving to my boss this morning. Yay! Go my bonus for this year!

Driving back from the court, my car's radiator hose decided to blow bringing the car and most of the mid-morning traffic to a halt. There was steam, water, oil and embarrassment everywhere. I didn't give a shit. All I could see about a k away was the classic neon signs of KFC. After the morning I'd had I needed grease….the finger licking kind. I called the NRMA (breakdown service). They said they would be two hours. Perfect I thought. I pushed the car off the road; I locked it and made my way to those bright neon lights. I walked in, smelt the sweet anti-septic of the wet napkins mixed with the fragrance of fresh coleslaw and I knew I was home. I had not entered the hallowed halls of Colonel Sanders in over two years……it was time dammit! Like a junkie reaching for the needles, I made my way to the counter and ordered a bucket of original recipe. I sat down, looked out the window and much to my amusement I saw AHM in his 100k new Mercedes benz smashed right into the back of a pick-up truck with the words NRMA marked on it…….parked… right… next… to… my... car.

Finger Licking Good


C


PS
And yes I ate the entire bucket.