Rubber stamp

After a solid week of winter hibernation, I went into the city. I had a stack of letters and I needed to get moving on handing them out.

The city was running at a fast pace, the pavements crowded with people. The first thing I did was go to the rubber stamp shop because I needed to have a custom-made rubber stamp which would say 'true letters from fictional people'. This would allow me to put my information on the outside of each envelope and I was hoping, clear up any of the ambiguity about the letters.

The rubber-stamp shop was in an old shopping centre over Wynyard Station. It was a small shop with three people working behind the counter. The woman who served me asked me specifically what I would like on the stamp so I told her and she said, sure, we can do that. You probably want the words 'true letters from fictional people' to stand out? Is that correct?
Yep, exactly, I replied.

Behind the counter, a man was eating a sandwich. Another woman was tapping away on a computer. Despite the computer, the shop had a twee, of-another-era atmosphere. There were samples of the different types of rubber-stamps in a glass display. Most of them were quite plain but some were more elaborate. I asked the woman if it would be possible to mix fonts. American typewriter and Arial? Do you think that would look a bit too busy? I asked.
She shrugged and said, we can make a proof for you to have a look at.
Alright, I said, that would be perfect. Then: do you want me to pay you now? No, she replied, pay when you come back in.
Thanks very much, I said. And I left. The whole thing was going cost about 50 bucks.

I went up to the park. I couldn't think of anywhere else to go. There was some sort of protest happening by the fountain but I stood and watched the chess players. The chess players moved the giant plastic pieces across the board. After about five minutes I wandered off and headed across the park not following the path. The ground was still wet. The sun was bright now and has some warmth to it. I encountered a pair of blonde female traveller. At first, they seemed a bit freaked out by my offer to give them a letter but then they accepted it. I like this idea, said the more receptive of the two girls in an unidentifiable European accent. The next person I talk to was reading a book by Philip K Dick. He looked like an office worker. In fact, he looked like a character out of the Philip K Dick novel.
Are you a man of letters? I asked him.
Sure, he said. I gave him the shortened version of the sales pitch and then handed him a letter. He still seemed a bit dubious. Maybe he was reading too much Philip K Dick, a writer who dealt extensively with paranoia. What if, completely out of the blue, someone walked up and handed you a letter which kicked off some kind of paranoid or dramatic story?

The next person was a 30-year-old woman in a white blazer sitting cross-legged on a blanket with a laptop. Are you a writer, I asked? Yeah, she said, I am. I write romantic fiction, she said. I have about two novels on the go at the moment but I'm sort of stuck. I gave her the whole sales pitch and asked if she would except two letters. I understand what you're doing, she said. And yes, you can give me a few letter. They're not horror, are they? She asked, looking apologetic. No, I said. They just regular old fiction. I left her and walked on. I felt bad, or at least that I have missed an opportunity because I had cut the conversation short. This was in part due to the fact that I am invading people's privacy when I do this. And in the moment, it is difficult to gauge how much of an interaction people want with a stranger.

I continued through the park and I saw another guy, an older guy, with big yellow teeth, reclined on the grass and I walked over to him and asked him if he reads fiction. And he smiled up at me and goes, No, I don't. Fair enough, I said and moved on. I walked over to another guy sitting on a bench reading a book. I went up to him and said, do you like fiction? He shrugged and said, sure. I could tell he was Spanish and I could also tell he wasn't going to read the letter I was handing him even after I explained this was a commitment free experience. I would not be emailing him with an exciting offer that he would be a fool to refuse, nor would I be asking for his credit card number. It was simply a piece of paper that I was gonna give to him and he could read it and then leave it somewhere else.

I walked up along Oxford Street and then I went to the About Life food supermarket. I had an odd mix of different foods in a cardboard container. An international mess of savoury goodness. After that, I went to the bookstore on the corner of Campbell Street and Crown. I asked the guy behind the counter what happened to the letters I previously left. He said people had picked them up, taken them. I was pretty pleased. I told him I was still finessing the process. He said, leave some more if you like. So that's what I did. I pulled each letter slightly out of the envelope so you could see they were letters and left them around on the book displays. I shook the man's hand. I thanked him and then I left.

I walked up Oxford Street. I was looking for the place to leave one more letter but I couldn't decide. My phone rang. It was the rubber-stamp shop. The woman behind the counter was ringing up to check the spelling of my last name. I suspect that really, she was testing that my number was valid before they started making my stamp.

I left one more letter at the Paddington library, on top of a bookshelf. Then I went to the DVD section. I looked through the titles hoping to find something new. Something interesting.

Up on the hill

(Day 1)

Have I made a huge mistake coming here? For one thing, they don't let you speak. Complete silence is the rule. And after 5 hours of not speaking, something I am not accustomed to, I'm sort of beginning to freak out a little bit. At this very moment, I'm sitting up on a hill looking down on the compound or the farm or whatever it is. I can see nice little buildings, rows of tilled fields, a pond, trees and some other agricultural clutter such as rain tanks and a windmill. All of this connected to the outside world by a gravel road. I had to sneak up here to get a little perspective on things. I find there is something slightly hostile and strange about fifty people coinhabiting, walking around all day in complete silence. Glib, if you like. They expect you to sit around meditating for most of the time. Or to help out in the fields. This is all voluntary mind you. I've done this to myself. No one marched me out here with a gun to my head. I was supposed to come here to get my head together, figure a few things out.

And my escape? What exactly does this say about me? The kind of person I am? It's been a mere five hours and already I'm going stir crazy. Now I'm off by myself, hiding out with my little phone (A big no-no. At orientation they specifically say, no phones, no screens). Not that it really matters; being out in the middle of nowhere there is no reception. I can't even use it. So what am I doing? Modern world tech-junkie that I am, I'm making this extended audio recording which I can't even send to you. I'm probably just blathering away into my phone in order to hear the sound of my own voice. It's sad really, how these little devices have come to rule our lives. Whats the alternative? Chucking them away? regressing back to some primitive state?

Overhead, hundreds of metres above, I can see the twin vapour trails of an aeroplane drawn taut across the empty sky. The sound of its engines is out of synch somehow, arriving late to my ears, somehow after the fact. God, I would love to be up there on that plane. A cheesy movie to watch. A drink. A little plastic cup containing ice and vodka and tonic. No, make that a double vodka, please. Even one of those shitty aeroplane meals would suffice. Fish or chicken, sir? All the basic requirements of civilization miniaturized and shoved into a tube. How ingenious. Not only that, the promise of a new destination at the end of that tube. That alternative version of me, the one way up there in the clouds, could be on his way to somewhere far more interesting than this. Somewhere cheap and hot.

But no. I'm here. In the zen retreat. Hanging out with a bunch of masochistic wankers from Sydney. You know the type: perfect blonde wife, kids, a place in Paddington, another place in Byron probably. Looking for something groovy and 'real' to do on the weekend when they're not sucking on the teet of Australia's resilient economy. This decision of mine, to come here, to become a weekend monk, started because Jane, my partner and I were embroiled in one of our epic arguments. Much to the neighbour's amusement, she had run alongside the car, smashing her hand against the driver's side window, her wedding band striking the glass smartly as I pulled out of the driveway. I was being petty. She needed the car for work and I was storming off, driving away. I feel sorry for my part in the argument but I just had to get out of there. It was too much. If felt like the house was about to shake apart from the angry we had mutually generated.

(Day 2)

I'm back on the hill. Just like the Beatle's song. (And of course, in this oppressive silence, without a steady stream of external stimuli and diversion, this Beatle's song is on endless repeat in my head, spinning round and round). This is the thing about not being able to vocalise your thoughts....your thoughts start to cannibalise themselves. It's like you're sitting in an iron cauldron, sweating over the flames, merrily basting yourself). Last night was terrible. After eating a completely tasteless kale and quinoa meal, we all shuffled off to our respective dormitories to get some to sleep. You know the problem with a bean-based, high protein meal? Mass flatulence. Not pleasant in a confined space. It was like a grim summer camp for the forty-year-olds.

It's now 9:46 am. In the morning. I have another 10 hours of daylight left of introspection and communing with nature. I'm back up on the hill after a sleepless night and already having failed at morning meditation. I almost got there. As instructed, I sat very still, staring a spot on the wall. There was a moment when I could feel myself shimmering as if all the molecules in my body were beginning to vibrate quicker than usual. I was going for it. Oh yes, nirvana was within reach. But then? Then all the usual thoughts came crowding in. The inner voice of doubt. The monologue of me. I was defeated by the monkey mind, chattering away, directly into my ear. Having said all that, is that mad monkey voice really such a bad thing? I mean you are born with this running commentary in your head, it is part of you and now these people, these experts, expected me to expel it, to take a huge spiritual step forwards in a matter of hours. Anyway, as nirvana began to slip through my fingers, and I returned to this woeful plane, instead of sitting there and faking enlightenment, like I'm sure plenty of them do, I decided to go for a walk. At least this way I could avoid pulling onions out of the ground in their passive-aggressive volunteer labour camp.

(Later, that same day)

I made a little friend. A woman found me on the hill. She was the one who approached me. Grew from a distant figure in the landscape to an up close and personal encounter. I thought I was just gonna get the same wistful, sanctimonious smile the others give you but no, she broke the silence and started talking. A quiet voice. In no rush to get her ideas out. It was a shock and a relief to hear another human voice at that moment. We talked for about ten minutes and then a plan began to take shape. An escape plan. Avoiding detection by leaving the cars behind, we decided to walk the three kilometres into town. I had my bank card on me. It was only a little country town, gentrified to some extent but quite basic. A post office, a few craft shops for the tourists, a war memorial and a pub. There was no decent coffee so, after our hike along a dusty track, we went to the pub and had a few cold drinks. Her name was Rita. (Yet another Beatles reference). Rita and I drank our beers and got to know each other quite well. I have to say, she had led a pretty interesting life up until that point. Lived in numerous countries, had several different types of jobs. She had also been married twice. 'I was worshipped like a glass statue', she said. 'Do you know the problem with being glass statue? You can be picked up and smashed into little pieces against the mantle'. I would never have thought to talk to somebody like Rita, someone that mature, back in my real life. It made me think guiltily about the female perspective, something I rarely did, especially when it came to Jane. Suddenly I was re-examining my own actions. Anyway, Rita....Rita might have been fifty years of age. You could see that she had been a stunner back in her day. The bone structure and the eyes. That kind of beauty doesn't fade. The confidence as well. She told me that she was at an age where she'd given up trying to please other people. 'I spent too many years conforming to someone else's idea what I was supposed to be.' she said. In some ways, it's my own fault. You see I attract or am attracted to men who aren't necessarily good for me.' She was looking at a stocky farmer type at the bar. A man who was commanding the room with drunken assurance.

So why did you come here? I asked.
It seemed like a good idea, she said. I mean, I felt like this place would be good for me. But now, after a little rest, I feel like…more expansive about things. I'm not sure if this place and all its rules is going to works for me, she said.

We had a few drinks. Maybe more than just a few. By the time we got back, we had missed dinner. The compound was quiet, incense wafting out of the main hallway. After my afternoon of freedom, I couldn't quite figure out why I'd bothered to come back at all. Of course, my car was still parked in the lot and I would need to pick it up eventually. I could do that. I could go. Then again, the better part of me was determined to see this thing through. The recommended minimum stay was three days. Any less was deemed sort of pointless. As the main monk had said during my brief induction, less than three days wouldn't have the desired purging effect. That meant I had 24 hours left to go. You can do this, I told myself.

(The following morning, sometime after breakfast)

I'm up on the hill again (where else would I be?), just sitting there, the wind moving dead stalks of grass around in unison, stirring the trees. I woke up this morning with a slight hangover. Nothing a bowl of breakfast gruel and a cup of chai tea couldn't fix. I fear I am attracting attention. My neighbour gave me a sour look to match the sour and yeast odour of beer coming from my person in the cafeteria line. I just smiled back. Euphoric with inner peace or frazzled by a mid-range hangover, in terms of your outward appearance, it's about the same thing. The cynic in me is beginning to get the distinct impression there is the form of competitiveness happening in this place. Some of these people meditate for up to seven hours at a time. I still don't understand why there can't be a separate discussion area, a conversation nook. What is wrong with a few conversations throughout the day? How can these people switch off for that long? It's like being reduced down to a vegetable existence. But still there is that other voice saying, why are you being so resistant to this? It's three days.
My co-conspirator Rita appears shortly after kitchen clean up. She wears her hangover well. A pro. It's barely detectable. We end up doing the exact same thing: the three km walk into town, along with the track, past the decommissioned rail bridge and the tree tangled gullies through which the river runs, to rejoin the road on the outskirts of town. Then along the main strip, past the petrol station to end up at the pub. 'It's my shout', says Rita, producing her own Visa card. Music to my ears. The barmaid welcomes us back as old friends. We sit at the same table, near the window, watching the town people and tourists amble by on the street outside. We talk and we forgot to eat. We drank too much. Again. But it was that kind of day, wasn't it? An easy, slow drinking day in a quiet town. And look, it was all innocent at first: we were simply attempting to correct the damage inflicted from the previous day. Unfortunately, we went past that point and in the final summation, we definitely drank too much.

(Some hours later)

Rita and I thought we would just ramble back and then slip into the compound undetected. Like a couple of prisoners of war who are trusted to wander off during the day as long as they make sure they return at night. Once again, when we got back the camp was quite. Insects bumped around the lightbulb hanging over the latrine block. We crept in, stealthy as one can be after the second day of heavy drinking and sun exposure. My sanctimonious bunkmates had me figured out. It wasn't difficult. I was well marinaded by that point and, not being able to find my headlamp, I stumbled around in the dormitory, trying to find my toothbrush but I kept encountering painful, shine smashing objects in the dark. Muttering ensued. A light came on. Several people broke their stints of silence. And when you're pissed, your attempts at re-establish equilibrium only end up making matters worse. Eventually, the head monk appeared and asked to speak to me in the main office. She got right to the point, saying, 'We can't permit the use of alcohol here. I'm afraid you're going to have to leave'. Feeling a bit like a naughty schoolboy, I nodded solemnly, accepting my expulsion. Thank god, I thought. Again, there was that niggly part of me that felt quite embarrassed that I was being kicked out. I'd almost made it. I can't drive, I said. To the monk credit, she took this onboard. Alright, first thing in the morning, she said, you must leave. And please don't disturb the other guests.
Thank you, I said. And off I went to sleep in the flatulent dorm. The vibe was not good when I returned. A cricket had set up in the rafters above and was singing like a shrill car alarm.
I left the following morning. I drove past bucolic scenes of people bent over in the fields, pulling vegetables up out of the ground. It was like driving through a Bruegel painting, the effect disturbed only by the inclusion of modern farming machinery in the distance. Past the meditation building and the office. I saw the monk standing in the doorway and I waved to her. She waved back. I'd decided to leave head held high. I wasn't going to skulk away. I went up the gravel access road and out through the gates. Next time I looked up, there was a car in my rearview, its windshield glinting with the sun as it pushed on through the cloud of dirt I was kicking up. It had to be Rita. I pulled over, gravel popping beneath the underside of my car.
You too? I asked.
My time was up, she replied, through the driver's window.
I see.....they kicked me out, I muttered, leaning against the roof of her car. Don't worry...I didn't snitch on you.
How embarrassing, she laughed. Kicked out of school.
That's exactly what it felt like, I said. So what's next for you?
She was heading home to write about the experience for her blog or whatever. Then she would move onto the next thing. Some work on the house.

We talked for another five minutes, the conversation, having begun with such conspiratorial excitement, started to lose stamina, to stagger under the weight of our true lack of familiarity. We were back in the real world. Or at least on the edge of it. The two-night stand, while not sexual in nature, was coming to an end. I liked that woman immensely but I had my own problems to be getting on with. Our intimacy, the thing we had in common, was dependent on our escape from Zen jail. After that, we went through the usual, modern-day equivalent of the slow, noncommital brush off: we exchanged facebook details. She contacted me a few times. I responded.

I drove down from the hills into the wineries and then the flatlands, back into the congestion of highways still under construction and the shopping centres and the outer suburbs. Being back in all that static and confusion, I was a little bit overwhelmed for the first hour or so. Even though I'd failed at the retreat, I had gotten used to the silence and the peace. I drove home intent on trying to patch things up with Jane. I pulled into the driveway. I sat there, the car ticking around me. All I had to do was go inside.

Tuesday afternoon, 3 PM

Hello,

Before you jump to any conclusions let me just assure you that everything is okay. No one slept with a third party or anything dramatic like that. We just separated. I suppose the catalyst was the incident last Christmas, at the beach house. Putting asides who was right or wrong, this was by far, the worst one yet and it caused a lot of damage.

We haven't lived in the same house since then. And that was the state of things until recently. A total of four months, our relationship on ice. I mean, we'd talk about the kids, about the daily mechanics of our lives but there was this ever widening division occuring. In the past, these riffs have always managed to mend themselves but this time? It just wouldn't go away.

I think what happened was that the fight dredged up a lot of things from the past.  A lot of things we'd been careful to avoid.

The counsellor was no help either. I hated that little smug prick. Kathie recommended him to us. You know the kind of person I am. Basically, I was just showing up and going through the motions for Leslie's sake. To try and rebuild that bridge. Given the choice, I would not have taken part.

So we turned up, once a week, and sat there in the corner of the room. I really hated it because I felt like I was exposing my private life to a stranger. And you know I hate that kind of thing.

I think the main problem was the counsellor . Tobin the marriage counsellor . There were times when I just wanted to stand up and knock him out of his complacency. Because that's what he came across as to me. Complacent and arrogant. There we were, talking about the problems that were splitting us apart and he was absentmindedly doodling little cartoons in the margins of his notepad. Icebergs, clouds, lightning bolts, geometric patterns. This kind of thing. He had the listening cues down pat: the nodding of the head, the considered squint at a crucial juncture in the conversation and occasionally chucking in a "....and how does this make you feel Leslie?" I'd catch him regularly looking up at the clock, like how much more of this shit do I have to endure? Fifty minutes of this while Leslie was in tears and I was staring down at my hands feeling helpless. Fifty minutes at sixty-five dollars a pop.

Anyway, that was the status quo until recently. We were going in there every Tuesday, driving in from our separate abodes (by then I was living with my brother in Glebe). To be honest, I felt humiliated by the whole thing and I knew the kids were getting confused by it all. That was my greatest fear. I didn't want it to negatively impact on the kids. Anyway, we were getting further and further away from each other because that was the easy thing to do, right? The only time we saw each other in that last month was every Tuesday afternoon at 3 pm, first in this car park, after which we go into that over air-conditioned little office to disembowel our relationship in front of this prick. Fifteen years of marriage. Something I was not at all comfortable about.

You take things for granted. I mean really, who was this guy? Just some 30-year-old know it all in a generic office with a whiteboard and a digital clock. What does that actually mean? Are we supposed to put the future of our relationship in his hands? I mean how many years at TAFE do you have to train sit there like a condescending buddha, passing silent judgement on people's lives?

When it was my turn to listen, which to be perfectly honest seem to be most of the time, through the window I could see people walking past on the street, getting on with their lives without this kind of bullshit. I'm sure they had their own problems. Everyone does. They were walking around with their dignity intact. That was the difference.

And I would never say this allowed but our real problem stems from the fact that Leslie comes from a wealthy family. That is the root problem. If we're being honest. She and her bloody sister were Daddy's girls and they always got their own way. I more than adequately provided for my wife. The car she wanted, the clothes, the house in the new suburb close to her friends.....renovations and holidays. But somehow it will never be enough.

My brother tells me I'm soft for putting up with it. "Put your foot down", he says. Easy for him. I believe you should make the best of the cards you have been dealt. Or maybe I was just scared of changing horses midstream? I like order in things. At this age, I don't want disruption. Maybe I just didn't have it in me? Anyway, how would a real separation effect the kids?

I tried to express all this anxiety during our sessions but maybe it came out wrong. At least that was the way it was interpreted first by Leslie, then later by Tobin.

I was curious as to how long these sessions were going to last. Months? Years? Then our friend Kathie, the one who had initially recommended Tobin, got together with Leslie and they had a few wines one night. She told Leslie that she had run into Tobin at the cafe near the counselling centre. When Kathie casually asked about us, Tobin goes, Christ! Those guys? And he rolled his eyes dramatically.
Kathie goes, what do you mean "Christ! Those guys!"
And Tobin goes on to make some very disparaging remarks along the lines that we were suckers for punishment. That we were slaves to our own trivial hangups and neuroses. That our relationship was in fact, a big unwieldy and codependent mess. It's like watching two blind people try to beat each other up, laughed Tobin as he reached across the counter to accept his skinny latte.

Katie told Leslie all this. And then Leslie told me. The following Tuesday, sitting in the room, Tobin was already four minutes late. At sixty-five bucks a pop. He came in wiping of hands on his trousers, sat down and flipped open his notepad. Presumably getting ready for a bit of afternoon sketching. Before we began, I asked him about client confidentiality. He knew right away what I was getting at. I could see it in his eyes, the way they narrowed down. The way his smile faltered for a minute. He got on the defensive right away. Come to think of it, this was the first time he was actually paying attention since we been coming here. Actually listening. I just sat there, my arms crossed, asking him questions about professionalism and client confidentiality. What did these things they mean to him? That's what I wanted to know. And he kept coming back with the same thing, saying "It is not uncommon for someone in my profession to consult with a colleague about a case." I grilled him a little bit more, kept the eye contact going for uncomfortably long periods of time, just to let him know I was squarely pissed off. Pissed off that he was using our relationship for a bit of stand-comedy in his free time. I mean, the work we do, the shit we all put up with, of course, it leaks into our dinner parties and drinking sessions as comic fodder. You'd be a liar to say otherwise. But in the middle of the day? With Kathie? With someone who is more of an acquaintance than a friend? What kind of bullshit was that?

Then he tried to sound reasonable and, in doing so, infer that I was being quite unreasonable. "I'm getting a lot of hostility from you....and it's making me quite uncomfortable," he said. It was obvious to me that he'd reached the bottom of his little bag of counsellor tricks by that point because he was squirming in his chair. I told him I wouldn't be paying for this session. He could shove the cost up his arse. I told him I would be writing a letter to the regulating body that oversees people like him, even though I had no intention. Why waste my time?

And then I walked out of the office. I think it kind of shocked Leslie out of her downward spiral. I think she recognised that we needed to get on with our lives and stop getting distracted by all this bullshit. Always striving for an ideal existence beyond your reach.

You can get so caught up in the process. Anyway, we moved on, patched things up. Two weeks later I moved back in. We haven't had any problems since. Nothing significant.

I keep running into Tobin at the supermarket, then in Dan Murphys or at the servo. I got nothing personally against him. We just walked right past each other. We should be complete strangers but he knows every bloody intimate detail of my relationship with Leslie. I'll give him one thing. He does have a stunning wife.

Anyway, that's how things are. What are you doing with yourself?  

I got a girlfriend whose better than that

Hey,

Here is the update I promised. Now that I have time. I feel guilty it has taken me this long to get back to you. Better late than never, right? We got a place here in the city. In the Cross. A little place, a room, in an old house which has been divided up into cockroach traps, each with a bare light bulb where I imagine a grand chandelier used to hang. A sink. Toilet. Kitchenette. Shitty little bar fridge. It's a start. (Put it down on paper like this and it doesn't sound like much of anything but believe me, compared to our last situation, it is a palace).

There is this ongoing issue with my leg. That needs seeing too on a regular basis. I'm taking pills for the pain and there is the physio. These things take up my days. Or at least slow me down. I spend a lot of time in the cafe on Darlinghurst Rd. They make good coffee. I like this area plenty. The buildings, the history and the people. This place truly has the most interesting intersection of lives. People down in the gutter and people at the very top of the heap. And everyone in the middle. You know I'm good with people. I like working out how they tick and all that? Another life I could have been a salesman of fine automobiles. If they still made fine automobiles. They tell me this place-this neighborhood-has changed. Gentrification and all that. The money wants in. The local flavour gets forced out. These money people buy up all these shitty apartments. Apparently, not long ago, there were always hypodermic needles in the gutters. Not so much anymore. They used to call it "character". Part of me don't give a shit about "character". What these old timers never realise is that, for good or bad, history is always crashing down on our heads, changing things. Try to stay in the past. See how far that'll get you. Besides, I want my clientele to have cash.

I like being held in place by these creaking old building and the trees on Victoria St. I move through the grid with the certainty of my bearings. I like the way they hold up the sky. You look out between the buildings on Victoria St, past the battleships in the Naval Yard, you see the Pacific. All salty tang and rotting allure. The great blue skin. I like being on the edge of something definitive. Having a reminder that this-is-this and that-is-that. I dream about those islands. About hopping from one to the next. I dream about travelling in style. Maybe like Cary Grant. (can you visualise Cary Grant squashed into an itty-bitty economy seat that has the imprint of a hundred other arses? Not me brother). Maybe start with New Zealand? I don't know? (I guess some of those mountains might be interesting). Then a short stint in Samoa. Fiji. Tahiti. I think about old Paul Gauguin sitting out there, surround by bare-chested island women. A true bohemian that one. Trades in European stuffiness for free love under the palm trees. I think this is for me brother. The island life. At least for the short term. Well, so the fantasy goes right? In reality, it'll be resorts and golf carts and the native population living on the impoverished edges of all this finery.

Anyway, if I get tired of bare-chested ladies of Tahiti then comes Hawaii followed by Los Angeles. I'm gonna make my way over there, just to check it all out. Statistically, you've got 80 odd years on this spinning ball. You gotta see as much of this place as you can.

Dreams are dreams. I know that. The reality is before I travel anywhere beyond this continent, money needs to be got. I need to plan and make my preparations.

Did you ask about the girl? I can't remember. I'll talk about her anyway. She is well. Yes, sir, she is doing alright. We look out for each other. I take care of her needs and she takes care of the money. I have to get her up and ready to work every day. That is no small task. She loves to sleep in. I'll tell you though man, she is a rare thing. She has an innate quality which she herself is not quite aware of. A sexual magnetism. Falling back a bit and tracking her movements as we make our way through the neighbourhood, I will notice the effect she has on the male population. I see eyes shifting sideways to catch her. Like drooling dogs. All of them drawn to her. Young, old it doesn't matter. Men of all ages. All walks. Comical at times when someone, so preoccupied with her hips, forgets that the actual physical act of walking only requires one foot being placed in front of the other. They stop to scratch their heads. All those everyday thoughts suddenly over-ridden by nature's hardwired instincts to go caveman.

I haven't quite put my finger on it. There is certainly something primitive about her appeal. How it taps into deeper needs below the surface of simple aesthetic attraction. Her hips, Jesus christ man, her bump and shuffle. The tattoo on her shoulder blade. All these elements have a seismic effect. You should see these reverberations and disturbances she causes throughout the collective male psychic. Be it on the train. In a pub. The street. Anywhere.

But not just the men. The women as well. Admiration, jealousy, sexual attraction (both accepted and latent). I mark it at about 70 percent of the female population take note of her. I saw an old priest turn his head one day, pretending he was thinking about something else, pretending something in the distance had caught his attention. Sneaky bugger. He is still a man under that collar.

It is not simply her looks. She is 'pretty' in an average way. Neither can it be attributed to her body which rolls the eye in a pleasing enough way along all the curves and contours. No. It is the sexual energy exuding from her movements. That sex vibe which she is blissfully unaware of as we ride up on the escalator and walk down the pavement past the titty bars and the cheap cafes. Past the hostels and on past the fountain by the police station. My honeypot. This woman only recently turned 21, is a rare sort, dispatching her beautiful sexual chemical signals to the wind without even trying. A siren, a prototypical movie star no less. Sometimes I make a little box out of my forefingers and thumbs, hold it up and frame her face. I can clearly imagine the movie she should be in. The story itself is still unfolding but visually all the elements are there. She laughs at me and goes, what are you doing? And I say, I am thinking about the movie you will be in one of these days Honey Child. The movie I will direct.
What movie? she laughs again, that little pink bit of her tongue flickering out between her teeth, teasing, trying out her female power, testing it, as we look down on the rooftops of Woolloomooloo.

Anyway, she is all mine. No one else's. And you know it has always been this way with me. Natural. All those fools back at home strategising and talking themselves up and playing their games in parked cars, while I was always getting all the females I wanted. Again, this comes down to an innate quality. And the simple ability to talk and relate to women. One day maybe I'll write a book all about it. And wouldn't that be something?

We have strict rules when she works. It can't be any other way. No drugs and alcohol. Well, at least no excessive alcohol. And no freaks. No weirdness. At lease nothing that she's not okay with, after all, it is her body. I rather she walked away from the money than get caught up in a situation that could be potentially dangerous. If things do get hectic, she calls me. I come running, pick her up. I'll bust some body's head if need be. I don't give a shit.

Asian businessmen? They're okay. Tourists in general? Fine. Not in groups. Men in groups are a pack. I can not abide or trust that mentality. When you walk into that room, put your money down, as long as you understand who is running the show, then we'll have no problems. This woman is flesh and bone. She is not some pornographic  apparatus for you to get your freak on without limitations. There are rules.

In the beginning, while we were still getting established, it was hit and miss. We were in and out of the Holiday Inn and the other hotels down in Rushcutter's Bay. Everybody wanted a cut. For awhile I tried getting her steady work in one of these clubs on Darlinghurst Rd. You know the ones with the big Maori boy bouncers out front for security? The girls twisting on poles inside. Private rooms. That was a bad idea. Inevitably, the house proved greedy. At that time it was winter and money was tight. The tourist dollar hasn't been flowing so generously as in previous years. The house, they wanted a bigger and bigger cut. There were a few characters hanging around which tried to get her into various situations involving drugs. Painfully transparent moves. Then I had some evil little gargoyle trying to take her away from me. Said he was gonna cut my face off. Said he was gonna take a piece of her on a permanent basis whether I liked it or not.

We had to leave the Cross, regroup for a couple of weeks. We went to Newtown and lay low there. I remember it was always raining. A miserable time. Came back when the weather was better, hotter and there were more tourists around. By then the gargoyle moved on. By then he was chasing somebody else. I've seen him in the street a few times, and maybe he's got that grudge stored away in his memory banks? He's the kind that accounts for every penny and does not forget nothing. But at that time, I could tell, his stables were full and therefore he had plenty to keep himself occupied. No point bothering with a little independent operator like me when the Cross is heaving four, sometimes five nights a week with all that sex money coming in.

That's when we got this little room. Now we have a semi-regular clientele. Older guys are better. They want the attention, affection, as much as the sex. They want their old egos stroked and they want to be made to feel like young men again. They know the secret. That the younger man is careless with his vitality, dismissive of his non-stop, 24-hour libido. He takes it all for granted. Look down the track maybe 30? 40? years and it's a different story. Comes a day you might need yourself a honey child like mine to feel like a man again. It's all bedroom playacting anyway but an hour with her will keep you going from one week to the next. And it's all about keeping that spring in your step for long as possible.

Anyway she's got a couple of clients who text her on a regular basis and make the arrangements. She either goes over to their place or they come  to ours. This means I need to clean up and get out for an hour or two. One is a journalist. The other is the finance guy. The finance guy lives down the hill in Elizabeth Bay. He has got himself a nice modern apartment looking out over the water. I've been out on the balcony. I have no problems imagining myself whiling away what must be endless afternoons on easy money, sitting back and watching the boats coming in and out of the harbour. He's got a wife, two kids. Both in private schools. I respect this finance guy because he knows that to succeed you need to work around life's limitations. Not tried to knock them down. In other words, he knows how to compartmentalise. His wife isn't going anywhere. He just needs another sexual outlet from time to time. His jobs is high-pressure. If busting a nut from time-to-time with my girl relieves some of that pressure then his wife should really be thanking us. We are insuring the longevity of not only his full-time relationship but also his working life through our regular appointments. As I say, he's smart. He always shows up in jogging gear. You can't very well suspect a man who wants to jump straight in the shower after coming back from a long jog around the city, can you?

The reporter is retired. He's living off the memories of his glory years. Writing his memoirs in his apartment on Macleay Street near the Woolworths. A book about all those years in war-torn countries wearing a flak jacket. He's on chapter 8 or 9, I forget. I think he is going through some kind of Hemingway trip, practically wants her to call him "big papa" and after they have completed the transaction with or without the help of a little blue pill, he likes to read aloud to her from his manuscript. It doesn't mean shit to her. I have actually read some of the things that he's written. I find it all little bit affected. He's the big war hero, yeah I get that but I don't buy it.

She's also got an Indian businessman who she sees about once a fortnight and a cop. Plainclothes. This guy is a drinker and brawler. A sinner of the first order, wound up tight. A throwback to the 1970s. There are a few others that come and go. Semi-regulars. So as you can imagine, all this running around takes up most of the week. I am talking about a lot of organisation. And a lot of drab domestics for me to take care of. Washing, ironing. I'm like one of those pit crews you see on the side of the track in a Formula One race. I need to take care of my investment. From one appointment to the next. No one else is gonna do it. The good thing is that we don't have to trawl through the late night supermarkets or those fancy hotels anymore. The work comes to us. Through the Internet. We have an online ad. This gives me the opportunity to screen clients. We are beholden to no one.

How can I let this happen? To my girlfriend? Oh....the mind boggles. The dull conservative mind which will never have more than one or two truly original thoughts maybe. Thoughts that will probably confuse and drive it to fear. I hate this question. Hate it. With a passion. What we do doesn't bother me. These acts, in these empty rooms, they have nothing to do with the way I feel for my girl. The body is in flux constantly. Changing, growing, shrinking, assaulted on all sides. It is no precious item. We are told that it is but this isn't so. I asked regularly, I say to her, do you want out of this? Is that what you want? She just shrugged and says "no". Doesn't bother her in the least. Besides what else are we gonna do? We have these plan to head east, to see all these islands. To get to the West Coast of United States. And I can't work, not with my leg being the way it is. But what about the moral aspect? How terrible. Tell me some job whereby you're not bent over and morally compromised, and she will do it. An hour on a mattress as opposed to 8 hours behind a retail counter? Which one has the most dignity?

I'm not telling you it is easy and plain sailing all the time. It's not. We had a bad situation the other day. The finance guy made an appointment. This meant I had to clear out. We tidy up the room for the appointment. Then I go over and sit by the fountain with the newspaper. I was considering getting a coffee but my stomach was not feeling right. Maybe 10 minutes later I get a text. It's the finance guy using her phone. He's taken her to the hospital. Turns out he had come straight from lunch where he'd been eating peanut satay sticks. You know those chicken skewers covered in peanut sauce? I didn't even know she had a serious peanut allergy. I mean, she may have mentioned it once or twice but that was it. Besides, it's not the kind of thing that you dwell on every day. Thinking back I may have seen the little injection contraption she has in her purse, but I can't be sure. She is one of these girls that has a purse in which she carries around her entire life.

Anyway right in the middle of their appointment,  just after they have commenced intimacies, she starts to swell up, not unlike a pufferfish. Then she can't breathe. The Finance guy freaks out. She's got that adrenaline shot I mentioned but the Finance guy manages to stick himself in the thumb by holding the needle the wrong way up. In other words, it's a complete mess. Anyway, he throws her into a taxi and together they go to the hospital. Saint Vincents down the road. Of course, I have to get over there. She is in Emergency. Family member? I am the only family she has in this entire world I tell the nurse. Still, they won't let me see her. Not at first. I run into the Finance guy. He is hanging outside by the marble Jesus statue with all the smokers, not quite sure whether he should leave or not. He doesn't know me but I know him. Far as he's concerned, I could just be anybody here to visit a sick relative. I walked up to him and say, what happened? And once we establish who-is-who and what-is-what, he tells me about the peanut sauce and the adrenaline shot. Then he tells me he can't really get "mixed up in any of this". I say, look man, I don't want anything from you. My primary concern is for my girl, okay? So just relax. Chill. He kinda laughs, relieved, like thank god someone else is gonna take care of this problem for me. I smile back and say, of course, I'll clean up this whole thing like it never happened. Maintaining compartmentalisation is important in this situation. Alright then, he says getting ready to leave when I say, of course, there will be some recuperation time to be factored in. I mean, you seem like the kind of man who might appreciate that, right?
His face drops and he slowly opens up his wallet. He holds out a few fifties. I smile and say, that a good start mate.

Then, I need to go to an ATM, he mutters, is that what you're saying? I'm not saying anything, I respond. But, be it inadvertently or intentionally, your little misadventure has taken her out of action. And now you just walk away? Back down the hill to the comfort of Elizabeth Bay? Like nothing happened?

Maybe it wasn't a good call on my part but it pissed me off. After that we lost him as a regular client. And I can understand why. In one instance, standing under the eyes of that Jesus statue in the garden of nicotine tranquillity, everything got suddenly more complicated. Compartments had breached.

Anyway she recovered, got better and we keep on working. We look after each other, every day getting one step closer to my dream. We walked right past the Finance guy one day when he was strolling along with his family in tow. Saw the nervous little twitch in his eyes.

I better go now because the phone is ringing. (I hate when people say that at the end of a letter because usually, it's just a clumsy, disingenuous way to wrap things up. I also feel bad because I should go back and clean this letter up a bit. You know, conjugated a few verbs and whatnot. But you know how it is. I'm good with face-to-face but I don't have the patience for fiddling with my sentences to get everything just so. And the truth is...the phone is ringing.

Later,

The Golden Horn

Dear Daniella,

In response to your letter, I would strongly discourage you from employing Fiona McCann as your nanny. She started worked for me at the end August last year. In the beginning, Fiona was an exemplary employee. She worked hard, five days a week and she was always punctual. She had no problems taking on extra duties such as light cleaning and helping me out around the house in various ways. She took care of my son Felix while my husband and I were at work. We had only recently relocated from Australia to this city. We were extremely busy and we desperately needed an extra pair of hands. Fiona was very proactive. She took Felix shopping, to museums, to the movies and to the park. This went on for about three months. I did notice that Fiona was a smoker and I could smell the smoke in her clothes. I made it that clear to her that I didn't want her smoking in front of Felix as-obviously-it would be a bad influence on my son. And she said fine, no problems at all.

One day I was in a taxi going to meet a client and I looked out the window. I saw Fiona coming hand-in-hand out of a bar with Felix. This place was in the city which was unusual. I thought maybe she'd gone in there to use the toilet. The taxi jerked forward in traffic before I had time to roll down the window and call out to her. I texted Fiona about 20 minutes later and asked, what are you and Felix doing now?
We're at the park, she texted back. I thought, okay, maybe in her mind, she was heading to the park and this little diversion wasn't worth a mention. I could see how that made sense.

I got caught up with my meeting. My job was very pressurised at that time. That is not to say I wasn't suspicious. Of course, I was. On the other hand, I'll admit that I was afraid of losing her. As you know, it's hard finding a good nanny these days. Besides, you give people the benefit of the doubt and Fiona was great with Felix. I would go as far to say that Felix adored her.

I got my friend Jack to follow her the next day. I kissed Felix goodbye and went to work like usual. My friend Jack discovered the following things: Fiona and my son spent most of the morning in the bar I previously mentioned. The one I'd seen her walking out of. She had four or five drinks while Felix sat in the restaurant section doing his colouring. She mainly talked on her phone, to the bartender and later on, when her boyfriend showed up, to him. My husband and I had no idea about any of this. We were vaguely aware of her boyfriend but only in passing. We only ever really seen him as a silhouette behind the wheel of his car, waiting at the kerb to pick her up after work. And I'm not saying my son was neglected. According to my friend Jack who is a very astute person, if anything, Felix was treated like the bar mascot. How did he put it? Felix was nestled in the sour bosom of daytime drinkers. It was like a bloody Eugene O'Neill play in there. At various points, Felix was bounced on the knee of a pissed taxi driver who had a nose which was almost completely comprised of broken blood capillaries. Felix was given a pickled egg from giant jar kept behind the bar. A snaggletooth crone in a blonde wig and a sparkly boob tube sang a song with him after which they played pattycake, pattycake. Felix saddled up and rode on the back of a fat ex-biker type across the carpet as if he were riding a horse while a Dolly Parton and Kenny Rogers song played on the jukebox.

This all started to make sense to us. Over the weeks Felix had been vaguely referring to people we assumed were imaginary friends. And for some reason he had assigned all these fictional people family titles: Uncle Clyde, Uncle Waldo, Aunt Charlene. We assumed Felix was talking about some characters from one of his books. Or from a TV show he'd been watching. I remember distinctly asking him one night, who are all these uncles and aunts Felix? Felix just shrugged and said they come from the Golden Horn mommy. Again I just thought he was talking gibberish: you know the way children exist in fantasy worlds and how those fantasies often overlap with the more concrete aspects of their lives? Of course, now we know the "Golden Horn" was, in fact, the name of the bar.

Jack told me that after Fiona had gotten her mid-morning buzz on, after she had a brief fight with her boyfriend and then she and Felix left the bar. They caught a bus to the park near our house. She set up by the swings and got Felix to play in the little fenced off area before becoming preoccupied with her phone. Ten minutes later she seemed to run into a friend. A man in his mid-twenties dressed in active wear. After a brief conversation, she ran into another friend. Like the first one, this person was noticeably on edge. My friend jack was sitting on a bench nearby, pretending to be absorbed with his own phone. This running into friends continued for quite awhile. On the surface, it seemed like Fiona knew a lot of people. It was plausible enough. Fiona is a charming young woman, full of character. These friends or acquaintances were difficult to lump into one category. Men and women ranging from 20 to 40 years of age. The only defining factor was that each person was "edgy". And each meeting was near enough the same. A brief, seemingly stilted conversation, both Fiona and her acquaintance looking around, scouting the corners of the park, as if expecting someone else to show up. Then Fiona would go over to Felix's stroller and retrieve something from the compartment where the nappies are stored. This was followed by what a casual observer might mistake as a handshake, after which the edgy friend would move swiftly on to be replaced by another one 15 or 20 minutes later.

My friend Jack is a very plugged in person. Very factual in the way he sees the world. We trust his opinion. And he did his time in the party scene, especially when he was younger. Clubs and raves...all that running around, late at night business. Without a doubt, Jack concluded, she was dealing coke. Jack didn't tell me this in the moment, blow by blow, because, he didn't want to worry me. Felix was perfectly alright, he said. Jack kept his distance and kept an eye on them for the rest of the afternoon.

That evening I was beside myself. I thought my god! My nanny is a drug dealer! How did this happen? My husband (and a very full glass of white wine) calmed me down. I knew exactly what we had to do. There was no doubt about it. I told Fiona that we would give her the following day off because I wasn't feeling great and I wanted to spend some time with Felix.

The following morning we dropped Felix off with Jack and then my husband and I went to the Golden Horn. The thinking behind all this was that we didn't want to confront Fiona in our appointment. Depending on how it went, we wanted a clean break.

There she was, sitting at the bar, just the way Jack had described. We came in and sat down next to her. My god, you should've seen this place. The people in there. We confronted her. Weirdly, I felt like child services investigating my own abilities as a mother. I'm sure you understand, trying to have a career and raise a child in the city is difficult. At times, some of the compromises you make...it makes you feel guilty.

Anyway, Fiona was completely and immediately honest about what she been doing. I'll give her that. And as always, she was charming and charismatic. We told her this was the end of her employment with us. Effective immediately. Obviously, we could not continue to allow our son to be in this situation. She nodded and said, I suppose you're right. We listened to her side of things because we figured Fiona was probably an addict and that she needed help. And she was quite reasonable about the whole thing. Personable. I think this threw us. She had been living this double life and we expected her evil alter ego to come bubbling up to the surface but it wasn't like that. Depending on how this conversation went, one of our options was to report her to the police. Somehow, as soon as Fiona started talking, that option quickly faded away. We'd gone in there angry, incensed at what she'd done and ready for a confrontation yet somehow, 20 minutes later, we walked out with a kind of blasé attitude about the whole thing, like, oh well...I guess this is just one of those things that didn't work out. Better luck next time. I'm not quite sure how Fiona turned us around but she did. She is one of these individuals that you can't help but like despite her behaviour. And, as you probably can tell, she has a way with words. Anyway, we said goodbye to her and now we have a live-in Dutch nanny.

So in answer to your question Daniella, no I would not employ this individual to take care of your children. Fiona is a very charming person but unless you want your children acquiring drinking buddies before they enter primary school and becoming accomplices to a drug dealer, I would put her resume in the bin.

Kind regards,

The middle finger

Raymond,

I don't want you to think I'm like this in real life. I'm not. I can't really complain like this to anyone else, let alone anyone in my family. That would instantly undermine those bonds. I've seen this happen on several occasions. To other people. I'm smart enough to avoid it. One little comment at Christmas, after a little bit too much booze and bang! the whole shit-show comes apart at the seams. What does this say about humanity? People are just itching for any excuse, the slightest catalyst, to cut off ties with their own families. They would rather exist in silence for decades than make amends.
Anyway, I won't be that guy. I won't do it. Even though there are times when I feel like I could just tell them all to go fuck themselves and just walk away from the whole mess. As we have discussed over the years Ray, it is better to have an outlet than to allow these buried emotions and impulses to influence you in weaker moments. Such as Christmas day when the booze is flowing. On such occasions, I will laugh inwardly and I will think that at least one person in this world knows the truth about the way I feel. When I meet somebody I know for sure I'll never see again, I will tell them about you. I tell them about the letters we write back and forth. I will advise them to do the same thing: find a confessional pen pal who is completely disassociated from your current life and who is willing to listen to all gruesome details. So again Raymond I will thank you for being that outlet. And please send me your next letter as soon as you are ready, knowing there is someone in the world who is completely nonjudgmental about your current dilemma. You could tell me anything and I wouldn't care. They are just words on a page.

I flew into Perth last week. This is my usual trip out west to help my family. And believe me Ray, when I say they need help. I spent the first half of the week fixing a sun-rotted deck. The usual shenanigans with my brother in law ensued. The money issues that I've mentioned before? The way he expects not only free labour but also hopes I'll cover the actual costs of the materials. Here is a man who is comically slow to reach into his own pocket even when the financial burden rests squarely on his shoulders. My older sister has been carrying his lazy arse for the better part of a decade now. This guy is in his mid-40s and his main focus in life is fine-tuning his "sweet gaming room out back in the sleep out". His so-called "office". I talked almost exclusively about my older sister in my last letter so I won't go into too much detail about her.

My visit proved timely because my younger sister's dog died. This meant I needed to bury it. Like everything with my younger sister, the burial turned out to be more complicated than it needed to be. The dog died the night before. She didn't want it to die at the vet's or to be euthanised. Okay, fine. She didn't want to the animals "beautiful soul to evacuate its body in that harsh industrial setting". Of course, when I drove over there, I found her in a complete state. The plan was we're going to bury the mutt in mum's back garden because my sister lives in this shitty rental where everything is falling apart. I was none too happy about putting a dead animal in my pine scented rental but it was wrapped up in a plastic sheet and only a short drive away so I thought, let's on with this.

We take off. Traffic around the city is heavy. Heavier than I remember Perth being in the middle of the day. My sister was stressing me out, crying (which is understandable as she has just lost her dog. I'm not heartless) but she keeps talking about reincarnation. In her bookshelf at home, she has all these loopy books on this subject amongst the other spiritual rubbish. The thing is, I will not enter into these pseudo-spiritual conversations with my sister as I feel they have no connection to reality. And God knows she has spent enough time avoiding reality in her life. The endless backpacking, the spiritual retreats, the recreational drugs dramas and bad boyfriends who have lightened her bank account through terrible investments. So no,  I will not take part in this extended fantasy she lives in. I won't say anything against it, but neither will I take part. And of course, my sister being an empathy monster, this causes tension because I'm not taking part, which means a dead end in the general chit chat as we make our way across the city. And as far as the dog goes? My sympathy only extends so far because, in my opinion, she should have put the dog down weeks, if not months ago. To keeping it going the way she did, with the cortisone injections and all the naturopath remedies didn't really do anything except prolong the animals pain. All this talk about dogs "beautiful soul"....in my opinion it was mainly about her "beautiful ego". It was cruel.

Anyway, the red light we are sitting out goes green and right away this guy behind me starts blaring his horn, not even giving me the millisecond required to react. I've got my sister in one ear talking about how the dog will come back as a grasshopper or some such shit, and this guy behind me, booting me up the ass. It really pissed me off but I don't do anything. I just cursed under my breath and hit the gas. Unbeknownst to me, my sister has lifted her hand out the car window, up into the hot slipstream of the West Australian afternoon to give this guy the middle finger.

We drive over to my mum's house. The plan is to bury the dog under the lemon tree in her backyard where all the other family dogs are buried. Little Richard, Billy, Elvis, Einstein, Nixon, Oppenheimer, Jimmy, Gungadin...All of them bones now, tangled up with the roots of the trees which have overtaken mum's garden. The thing is, it's illegal to bury animals in a residential backyard is these days, so we have to be discreet about it. We can't just drive an excavator in there.

I pull into my mum's street, park and get out. I come around to the back of the car and get the dead dog out of the boot. The same car we encountered at the lights ten minutes ago, the one driven by the guy who was blaring his horn, screeches up right behind me. Suddenly the driver is in my face. All I register is a lumpy bald head, sunnies, missing teeth and tattoos. This is Perth methamphetamine royalty at its best. Then I see stars. White stars. I have no time to react. This guy nails me, five knuckles worth, dead centre in the face. My sister comes running over and starts freaking out. I am sprawled out on the road, the dead dog on top of me, it's tongue lolling out, my Ray Bans snapped neatly in half. I still have no idea what just happened. For all I know, I just got hit by a car. I'm just taking in the majesty of those white stars up in the daytime sky, wondering why this constellation has assumed the shape of a fist imprint. I didn't get KO'ed but near enough. Things start to come back into focus and I hear my sister and this guy going at it, and then the guy must have gotten back into his vehicle and taken off. Hence the screeching tyres and burnt rubber.

Ten minutes later I'm giving my statement to the cops in my mother's living room. They seem completely bored. My sister can't get her story straight. About what this guy looked like. His licence plate. What day it is. She can't settle on one fact. She spends the whole time second guessing herself. I have a bag of mint peas on my throbbing eye. The dog is hidden around the side of the house because my mother is paranoid about the cops. It's hot today so if that thing starts to go off, I'm not gonna handle it. No way.

The cops treat this whole thing like its natural justice. Like an altercation at a traffic light followed by a punch in the face balance each other out. It always amazes me. This attitude the cops have over here, like, "We got better things to do with our time than this mate". Like what? This is Perth. This is all that ever bloody happens here-break-ins and assaults, usually caused by the road rage or drunk teenagers. I mean, Sydney people will run you down without giving it a second thought. Sure they will. They won't, however, follow you back to your house and try to finish off the job if they miss.

The cops leave and I think, okay can we bloody well get on with this now? But it's not over because the neighbour has come out to park herself on the back veranda in order to watch the proceedings. The same neighbour my mother has had a dispute with for the past 10 years and with whom she refuses to speak. Separated by one flimsy wooden fence, they are hateful enemies. Stay away from the windows but act normal, hisses my mother from the hallway. The problem is we can't bury the dog with the neighbour watching because she will be on the phone in a flash, reporting mum to the local council. So what can we do? We have to wait until dark. To pass the time we go off to a local shopping centre to have a meal. After loading out plates up with cruise ship food from the self-service bar, we sit in a plastic booth by the window. My sister and my mother begin to squabble about calorie intake, dead dogs, the neighbour woman and who will win the next federal election. They're not even aware of it. They are shovelling food into their mouths while berating each other. I have long ago realised these trivialities represent all the things that can't be said aloud. That these social contracts, these roles we are expected to play, sometimes they feel like chains. There is no point trying to distance myself from these people, I'm stuck in the same booth. Besides, my eye is now swollen shut so basically I look like I fit right in.

After this unpleasant experience, we drive back to my mother's house. By this time it's dark and we park at the end of the block so that is we won't alert the neighbour who may or may not have gone back inside by now. We creep back into the house. Don't turn on the lights, hisses my mother. Dressed in pink washing up gloves, I quietly go outside and get the dog and the shovel. Then I go back to the lemon tree and start digging as quietly as I can. I dig down about a metre, the blade cutting through roots and sparking off rocks once in a while. Over my shoulder, I can see the windows of the neighbour woman's house lit up but she is nowhere to be seen. My mother's pale face appears in the dark. That'll do, she whispers. My sister also appears, saying, I have a few words to say. You can forget about that mumbo jumbo, scolds my mum. Just put the bloody dog in the hole. Of course, this results in more tears.

I drop my sister off back at her place, then I drive to my hotel in East Perth. Long gone are the days when I would couch surf in my family's homes. No thanks. After dealing with them all day, I like the professional amenity of a 4-star hotel in the city. I will gladly front up the money for this. Filthy, I take a shower, drink some beer and then fall asleep to an adult movie which I regret purchasing on checkout a few days later because the attractive girl behind the counter has taken the trouble to itemise my bill.

I spend one more day finishing up the deck and then I go back to my mother's house, make sure she's okay, then say goodbye to everybody. There is one more unpleasant meal at the shopping centre, the same restaurant, and then that is it. I drive myself to the airport. I catch my flight back to the east coast, back to my life in Sydney. And on the way over, high above the desert, I fall asleep and dream. And all these things are jumbled together in a nonsensical way which, once I wake up over the lights of Sydney, I spend ten minutes untangling before I realise the plane has touched down.

I know this wasn't much of letter Raymond. It has helped me if that is any consolation. And isn't that the purpose of our letters? When you're ready, send me your next letter. Remember this is about trust. No matter what you say, no matter what you have done, I can handle it.

Kind regards,

A classic manoeuvre

Dear Alison,

March 18th. It's time for our biannual letter lovely girl. You're young so I'm going to tell you something about life now. Life is good at first. For most people. Then, at other times, it becomes perplexing or even bad. Let's call this phase I'm currently going through one of the perplexing ones. I remember how once, you said that you envied the security of my career? Well things have changed. And I'm not quite sure if it's for better or worse.

At the beginning of this year, they tourniqueted me off into this small office in the second floor, a glorified storage room really. The whole thing felt like a bit of a sideways promotion. The irony is, in these government jobs, especially in recent years, the powers that be have gone out of their way to whittled down and amalgamated our roles. You got kids showing up every day with their IT skills like they came out of the womb with a phone in their hands. The powers that be load up the unlucky ones (those left over from the old regime), to the breaking point with extra projects and nebulous responsibilities. You've done enough temp work to know what I'm talking about. The long powerpoint point presentations with all the bells and whistles? The committees which usually descend into a battle of egos, the participants much like a pack of monkeys fighting over a prized banana?

The point is, somehow in the middle of all this scrambling around, they missed me. I mean you should have seen this place a year ago. There were fully grown men walking out the front door in tears. The axe just kept falling like they were dispatching the fat little nieces and nephews of a disposed regime. My theory is they gutted so much of HR and accounting (along with all the other sections), that somehow they overlooked me.

That day I kept checking my emails, wondering when I was going to be summoned and axed. Instead, I got an automatically generated email saying please pack up your things and move to the office I now occupy.

And then, for my annual report, it was the same thing: another automatically generated email, one of those calendar invites. I was to show up at such-and-such's conference room at 11 am the following week. Please be prompt, said the invite. I hesitated for a minute before I hit the 'accept meeting' response button. I went to that conference room expecting to be retrenched. But guess what? No one showed up. I sat there and waited for 20 minutes and nothing. So I went back to my office and waited for lunch.

And it has been this way since January. My phone never rings anymore or, if it does, it's a wrong number. I get group emails about this person's baby shower or some office health initiative. I arrive every day at 8:50 and leave at 5, like clockwork. Then, the following day, I come back and do it all over again. I go to mandatory meetings. I barely recognised anyone anymore. I nod at people and smile. Ha! People would rather fake familiarity than disrupt the flow of their day. Keep moving, eyes down. This is the way to survive. Don't get tangled up with the over-friendly old guy in the office. Older people tend to have erroneous questions about technology or complaint about change. Things aren't the way they used to be, we moan. And besides, this drills down deep into the natural order of things. The old fall away from the herd, unable to keep up, falling away to perish in the wilderness. Falling away to get taken by lurking predators. From my little window, in my office, I can see part of the Harbour Bridge. I can see traffic flowing in and out of the city.  My pay goes into my bank account on a regular basis and the super comes out.

At home, Jane does her thing and I do mine. It's a pretty subdued home life. We're in our late fifties. Things tend to seriously slow down at this age. You know those TV ads for superannuation or sex pills you see on the tube? With some healthy looking 60-year-old couple, comfortably retired and sun-kissed, frolicking on a beach somewhere? It isn't like that for use. We bought late and our mortgage is huge. If only we could be those actors in that commercial. I look out my office window and I see more than just the bridge: I see an incredibly tough job market for someone my age. So I guess it's not much of a plan but I guess I'll see this thing out until the end. Why should I blow the whistle on myself?

It is not easy. My responsibilities have whittled down to next to nothing. Basically, if I put my head down, if I work steadily, I can finish up what I really need to do by Tuesday morning each week. And the rest of my time? Well...it's not unlike a theatre performance. Outwardly, I look like a man in an office steadily driven by some kind bureaucratic purpose. Inwardly, I'm on autopilot all the way.

And this was the status quo until quite recently. At the beginning of this week, in fact, Tanner caught me just outside my office. He's one of the last people I recognised on this floor.  He says to me, I know what you're doing mate. I know your game. I'm not sure why Tanner was doing this. Why he started playing mind games with me but he did. Most likely Tanner is himself in danger of being discovered as a useless cog in this new, ever evolving machine. I can honestly say I have done my best over the years to stay out of the office politics. Having said this, I do recognise the strategies and tactics when I see them. As his own career is most likely in some precarious state, what Tanner is attempting to do is throw attention onto me. As I say, I have seen this before. The inept hiding their ineptness by sabotaging someone else. A classic manoeuvre. Find someone to hid behind. And doing so would likely buy him some precious time to bolster his value. I know what he'll do. Not being a gossip himself rather a facilitator, (being a gossip would compromise the image he has carefully manufactured over the years as a steadfast worker) he will find one of the main office gossips. The conduits. He'll be sly about it. He'll mention my lack of purpose in an off-handed way but then he'll recant, saying, promise me you won't say anything about this. Of course not, they will say, not meaning it. And then this information will begin to make its way around the building. It's all about feeding the information up to the powers that be while maintaining integrity. If lunch room gossip doesn't work, he'd start actioning me into various group emails or requesting I show up for key meetings. In effect volunteering, me for projects and committees. I know just the man to help out with this! He will say. He will draw me back into the general circus and then get me up on that bloody high-wire for all to see.  And all this because I had a series of alterations with him a decade ago. Otherwise known as the great Klein-Tanner war of 1999. (I'm being facetious of course but we really did have a long, protracted war of wills that year with many nasty battles and skirmishes).

As this is the case I will instigate a counteroffensive. It will basically consist of a mixture of defensive strategies which I won't go into now. I'm still formulating my plan. I could take the high road but then what? Retire on canned beans? I don't think so. Besides, there is no way I'm going to let a man like Tanner show me the front door. I don't think so.

Anyway, that's it for me. What about you? I look forward to your response. I always look forward to your letters. They take me out of my life. Are you still working at your father's wrecking yard? Amongst all those cubed cars? It's a rare thing these days to find someone willing to sit down and commit themselves to a letter.

Kind regards,

Franklin.