My mother has been with her accountant for over fifty years. When he was fresh out of university, he was employed by a firm that Mum’s parents had been going to for years. The firm suggested to my grandmother that they had a great young guy named Rodney who could be Mum’s accountant. Mum took him on and never looked back.
As a family, we’ve actually had a lot to do with him—back when Mum and Dad had a lot of money, and now, when Mum basically has nothing. Rodney has had his own firm for several decades, and his two sons work there too. They’ve been an amazing help. Mum also takes them out to lunch every Christmas.
I think I’ve met Rodney’s wife, Susan, once—she does reception and bookkeeping at the firm. Rodney is actually in the process of retiring, but the firm still carries his name and remains a family business.
I was unbelievably pleasantly surprised yesterday morning when I received a short email from Susan. The following is what it said:
Dear Me,
Just wanted to say how wonderful your letter to The Advertiser was yesterday.
You put into words what many people feel including me about what is happening in Gaza.
Well done!
Best wishes
Susan
I thought it was so lovely of her to take the time to email me about that. It made me feel a little bit better about the letter, too.
Even though Susan’s email helped shift my perspective a little, it didn’t take away from the fact that I had pitted myself against the former Foreign Minister. I’m not suggesting that anyone cares about this but me, but it says a lot about where I place myself — and my understanding of the world.
While I disagree with Downer’s position on almost everything from his very conservative standpoint, he is significantly older, wiser, and a million times more professionally experienced than me. It’s actually laughable that I took such a tone against him.
I wanted to share with you a workplace experience that kind of reminds me how I sometimes get my wires crossed about my station in life.
Back in 2002, after I finished business college, I started temping around town. I mostly did short to medium-term assignments—not much government work to begin with, but that changed as I got older. At one point, I started thinking about applying for a permanent position, so I began looking in the CareerOne lift-out that came with every Saturday’s paper.
Most of my experience was in receptionist roles, and I absolutely loved sitting at the front desk of just about any organisation. It was a real thrill to move around, meet new people, and get a feel for different workplaces. But sometime in late 2003, I started wanting stability.
I came across a job ad for Carelink Nursing Homes. That’s not their real name, but I’ve changed it for the purposes of this blog. Carelink had several residential facilities around Adelaide, and the role was based at their Unley facility, which also housed their corporate head office.
This was twenty-two years ago, so I can’t quite remember how I submitted my application—probably by post—but pretty soon after, I heard back and was offered an interview. I was so nervous. I’d never been to a job interview before; with temping, everything goes through the agency.
There were two or three people at the interview. One of them was the Director of Nursing, Sarah, and I can’t quite remember who else. It started off formal, but then they suddenly took a very informal tone with me. They noted my last name and asked if my parents were the two people—who will remain unnamed. I said they were, and the Director of Nursing said to me, “I think it’s fairly safe to say you’ve got the job.”
I couldn’t believe it! See, I would grow to dislike that kind of thing later in life, but at 22 years old, I took it as a blessing. We got all the administrative stuff sorted—part of starting any permanent role—and I think my salary was around $25,000 a year, which is actually less than the aged pension today.
The reception desk was a big, beautiful wooden counter at the entrance to the nursing home itself. It was a real intersection of people—employees from head office would come through and head upstairs, while nursing and support staff from the facility moved in and out. Residents wandered about, and I sat at the front, greeting everyone I crossed paths with.
Behind the desk was the Director of Nursing’s office. Sarah was glamorous, outrageous, and a bit of a naughty nurse. She was married to a very wealthy South Australian businessman, and I remember she loved wearing red suits. She told me a lot of people thought I was too young to manage such a prominent reception desk, but I assured her I could handle it.
Along with answering a huge number of phone calls and managing face-to-face inquiries, I was also responsible for what were essentially stipend accounts for the residents. Each resident had around $300 in an account held at reception. When they wanted money, they would come and ask for a withdrawal, and I’d give it to them. There was a fair bit of account-keeping involved, which I wasn’t used to—but I managed.
I loved talking to the residents. I’ve always had a soft spot for elderly people—they're literal pearls of wisdom and experience, and there's so much to learn from them. But in a place like that, most just wanted someone to talk to, and I was happy to spend time with them.
We had a CD player—of all things—at reception, and Sarah asked me to organise some music. I asked if Creedence Clearwater Revival would be okay, and being the naughty nurse she was, of course she said yes. I played a lot of Creedence, along with other music I can’t quite recall now. But it became the soundtrack to those days at the front desk of a beautiful, really quite luxurious nursing home.
As the receptionist, I was the first person everyone saw when they arrived. Regardless of their position in the organisation, people would usually stop and say hello, maybe have a quick chat. I developed a warm, professionally friendly rapport with the CEO, Ted Nixon. He was tall, statuesque, and very well-spoken. We talked almost every day, and at the time, I viewed him the same way I viewed everyone else—just another part of the team.
There were also tradies and visitors coming and going. One resident, the mother of another wealthy South Australian businessman, had her own personal carers hired by her son. He visited often and paid for a number of extras to make her stay more comfortable, which was lovely to see.
But the visitor I look back on and laugh about was a Supreme Court Justice. He was very handsome, and all the female staff adored him. I think they all wanted to leave a Post-it note on his bench. They’d whisper about how good-looking and charming he was—and yes, in hindsight, he was. But at the time, I was probably too young to look at him the way I might now. Still, he used to come over to the desk and have a bit of a chat. It was all very innocent, but he certainly brightened up the day.
The nursing staff were diverse. While the Director of Nursing had a very administrative role, the Head Clinical Nurse was a grumpy older woman — but she had a heart of gold. I think sometimes she even got a laugh out of my youthful enthusiasm and naïvety.
The diversional therapist was a woman in her fifties who had recently lost her husband — I remember that. She used to tell me what it was like getting older: how you physically look at your body and can’t believe it’s you. Now I understand that.
The housekeeping manager, Lindsay, was a nice woman. Her son had married a rockstar — I think the lead singer of the band The Superjesus. She was very down to earth.
A lot of the nurses drove luxury cars. They had wealthy husbands, or maybe they were wealthy themselves, but I always felt like they didn’t need to work — they did it to contribute something.
I made two good friends while I was working at Carelink. The first was an Aboriginal woman from payroll named Jane, who was maybe ten years older than me. I still sometimes speak to Jane today. The other was a young woman exactly my age — Lucy, an accountant doing her CPD or something like that.
My break structure was two short breaks — one in the morning and one in the afternoon — and a half-hour lunch from Monday to Thursday. On Fridays, I got an hour and a half for lunch. Lucy and I used to go to one of the local pubs on Fridays for lunch. Because we were the same age, it wasn’t surprising that we shared a “six degrees of separation” connection — I was friends with her boyfriend’s sister.
She was very unhappy in her relationship but didn’t know how to get out of it. I think I really empowered her to leave, and although we’ve lost touch, I know she credits me with that.
I can’t remember how long I was at Carelink. I know there was a huge social aspect to it. I think when you're young, it’s easier to relate to people. I even went out on a date with one of the tradies who came through. I can’t remember exactly what he was working on, but he was really nice. I felt bad, though — not a lot of men like me, but this guy really did. He struggled to tell me he had a son, and I remember us kissing one night while out with some Young Liberals on Rundle Street. That didn’t last long.
I also remember the IT manager asking me out on a date. I said I’d go, but I never did — I wasn’t really interested. So there were a few budding romances.
I actually got into a relationship with this absolutely gorgeous Indian man named Dev. He was so lovely. He had been a pharmacist in India and was studying to get his qualifications recognised in Australia. While he was studying, he worked as a carer — which I liked. It’s such a beautiful role, and he was a beautiful guy. He lived in a big student accommodation complex on the fringe of the city. Everyone had their own room, and there were people from all over the world living there. I used to visit him and stay the night. I liked him a lot. I can’t remember why we ended things, but we did, and we didn’t stay friends.
One night, Jane arranged for a small group of us to go to a male strip show on Hindley Street. I thought it sounded like a bit of fun. I think it was at the big Marcellina’s restaurant. As you walked in, these beefed-up guys with no tops on would show you to your seat. There was one stripper I started talking to early on — a really nice guy, who turned out to be a medical student at Adelaide Uni.
We ate dinner and kept going over to get drinks from him. I think we managed to tell each other our life stories in one night. Meanwhile, men were dancing on stage and walking around with no underwear on — I didn’t find it attractive at all, but my friend Jane was screaming and cheering, really getting into it.
Then they drew the door prize. Everyone there got a ticket — and I won! The prize was a private lap dance from the nice young med student I’d been chatting with all night. We went behind the stage curtain and I said, “If you dare whip that thing out, I’ll slap you.” He just laughed and said, “Can I sit on your lap then?” I agreed, and we just kept talking for a while. When our time was up, we hugged.
I came out, and everyone was asking if I’d hooked up with him — I disappointed them all by saying no. It really was a fun night. I know Lucy came and met us afterwards.
Funny thing is, that stripper actually remembered me. I can’t remember how it happened, but he ended up working at another pub, and a friend of mine got chatting to him one night. He said he knew me! Adelaide is so small.
Daily work at the nursing home was fun. Aside from taking calls, every second call seemed to be from someone trying to get their loved one into the home. There was a whole process to it. I’m a little more familiar with it now after Dad’s experience, but it can be an extremely distressing time for people.
I used to transfer those calls through to the social worker, Chris, and she was absolutely swamped.
During my morning and afternoon breaks, I’d go for a quick cigarette with the nurses — all of whom were naughty nurses, really.
One day, the family of one of the residents gave some feedback about me to the Director of Nursing. They said I had provided them with five-star service and that it felt like they had just stepped into a five-star hotel.
I thought that was so lovely, and I’ll never forget it. It made me feel good to know that I was able to offer a high standard of service — especially in a place like a nursing home, which is, after all, their loved one’s home.
I was in a routine with Jane and Lucy, and the place was beautiful, but the job began to grate at me. The calls for the social worker were becoming increasingly difficult. People would call back, clearly frustrated, and there was nothing I could do to help them.
The CEO of Carelink and I seemed to have a good rapport, so I thought I’d send him an email and ask if I could see him to talk about it. He agreed, and we scheduled an appointment. I arranged for someone to cover the reception desk while I went to his office. I didn’t tell the Director of Nursing — I think she might have been on leave, or at least, she wasn’t around.
When I got into his office and sat down, I began explaining the volume of calls coming through for the social worker. At first, I felt comfortable — he’d always been so kind to me at reception. But his expression shifted. He asked if I’d spoken to the Director of Nursing, and when I said no, he remained polite and civil, but I sensed that I had overstepped.
Later that day, the Director of Nursing called me. She wasn’t angry, just assertive. She said things like, “Who do you think you are, going directly to the CEO with something like this?” and “This was totally inappropriate, and you’ve made him angry.”
I felt a sense of shame I hadn’t experienced since flashing my fellow students in primary school. And in truth — who did I think I was? He was the CEO. He wasn’t my friend. I didn’t understand that at the time. I thought he was genuinely kind, but he was just being professional.
I’ve always believed we’re all equal. I didn’t learn the intended lesson from that experience — the lesson that, in hierarchical structures, we’re often not. Instead of apologising, I got defensive.
Lucy came down to reception, and I quickly typed out an immature resignation letter and stuck it to the Director of Nursing’s door. Then I sent an all-staff email telling everyone what I thought of them. Most of it was kind — but I took a dig at a couple of people.
I had just proven a lot of people right in many ways. While I may not have been too young to undertake the role, I was too immature — and a little bit delusional — to understand my responsibilities, or even my place. I needed to stay in my lane.
My resignation letter and all-staff email made the Director of Nursing furious. I knew she had that in her — and looking back, rightly so. The petulance and arrogance I demonstrated were overwhelming.
I can see now that the moment the Director of Nursing confronted me, my walls shot up like steel shutters. I wasn’t just defending what I’d done — I was defending me. At that age, criticism didn’t land as feedback; it landed as a verdict on my worth. So instead of pausing to reflect or apologise, I reacted with the kind of quick, sharp defensiveness that only made things worse. I was certain I was right, and in that certainty, I made choices that only confirmed everyone’s doubts about me.
After I resigned, they discovered there was $300 missing from the residents’ kitty. Usually, when there was a discrepancy like that, it turned out to be an accounting error. But this time, the Director told people I had stolen the money. She actually said that. Lucy and Jane told me.
I remember sitting at the kitchen table one morning, telling my dad. The moment I told him, he stood up, grabbed his compendium, and I asked where he was going. He said he was going to see the Director of Nursing — because he would not tolerate anyone accusing his daughter of being a thief.
I told him about the resignation letter and the email I’d sent. He wasn’t impressed. But he said he was going to protect my reputation.
I don’t know what happened after that. He did go and see her, and I know they eventually found the missing $300 — but I never heard anything more about it.
What I took from that moment is this: my dad didn’t even ask if I’d taken the money. He just knew I hadn’t. He was harsh at times, there’s no doubt about that, but he always made me feel safe. Like nothing could go wrong when he was around.
A lot did go wrong, and he wasn’t happy about it — but he always defended me. And he would always, always do whatever it took to make sure I was okay.
I can’t remember how long I was at Carelink. Maybe a year, maybe less. It was one of those periods of life where a lot was happening. I was working, making new friends, forming relationships — and for a while there, I think I was happy.
I know there has to be a way to forgive yourself for bad behaviour in your youth, but this felt pretty bad. Sometimes I think it’s because, one afternoon at home, I answered the phone and the man on the other end was Malcolm Fraser asking to speak to my father — I somehow placed myself in that world of importance, of mattering. Or maybe it was the time in year six at Scotch College when the receptionist came down to my classroom and told me the leader of the Federal Opposition, Andrew Peacock, was on the phone for me so I could interview him for a school project.
Did those moments cast a halo of self-importance over my head that I just can’t seem to shake?
The truth is, none of that matters to me now. Not only do I not think I’m worthy of a conversation with a man like the CEO of Carelink — I wouldn’t even want to engage with him now.
I believe we’re all equal in worth and dignity, but you have to stay in your lane. You just have to. Because if you don’t, most of all you end up looking like a complete and utter fool.
