I remember during the Sydney Olympics in 2000 there was a swimmer named Eric “the Eel” Moussambani from Equatorial Guinea.
He’d only learned to swim a few months before the Games and had never even seen a full size Olympic pool until he arrived in Australia. He was entered in the 100 metre freestyle, and because the other two swimmers in his heat were disqualified for false starts, he had to swim the race alone.
He finished in 1 minute and 52 seconds — about twice as long as a typical Olympic time — but the crowd absolutely roared for him, cheering him all the way to the wall. He became a kind of folk hero for determination and heart; a reminder that sometimes just showing up is the victory.
If I’d been in the crowd, I would have cheered him all the way to the wall too. It took courage and grit to see the race through, especially for someone so new to swimming. It’s a sweet, wholesome story that added a touch of humanity to the Olympic Games.
But the reality is, he never should have been competing at that level. There should be a standard that athletes have to meet. There are plenty of community swimming programs and smaller competitions around the world where swimmers can build experience, but if you’re going to stand on an Olympic starting block, you need to be ready to compete with the best. Eric simply wasn’t — and if he’d been up against other swimmers that day, he was never really in the race.
I’m reminded of that story today because I’ve just received my two bound books of oaths back from the new bookbinder. I had them redone because the first binder did a shoddy job, and there was no way I could present them to the Speaker of the House of Assembly — and, most importantly, to the Chief Justice of South Australia — with any sense of integrity.
So I had them rebound. But I don’t know what it is with bookbinders in this country. The book for the Speaker has a scratch on the leather, the dedication isn’t centred on the cover, and the black spine has been clumsily glued on, giving the whole thing an amateur finish.
The body of the book is dark green to represent the House of Assembly, but I can’t help thinking the Speaker will be insulted to receive something of such poor quality.
I was talking to Mum about it, and I told her I was annoyed — my reputation is on the line. She knows the Speaker and said he’ll probably glance at it for a moment before shoving it in a drawer, never to look at it again.
I took some comfort in that, but I’m still hesitant to send it. You can see his book below — you can even see the scratch.
I had a clamshell box made for the Chief Justice’s book, and I had a quote from The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe by C.S. Lewis embossed on the front. The book itself is okay — its body is red, with a black spine like the Speaker’s — but the bookbinder has used a different font on the cover of the book to the one on the clamshell box. The dedication also isn’t positioned in an ideal place on the cover. I’m really, really, really disappointed.
The Speaker’s book I can live with, because it’s probably going to spend most of its life in a drawer in the Mawson electorate office. I also think the Chief Justice will likely take a quick look and then put it away somewhere.
But when he does look at it, I want him to wonder what inspired me to reach out to all the Chief Justices of the world and ask for a copy of their oaths. I want him to see potential in the work itself — to think, even for the briefest moment, that if it didn’t infringe copyright laws, these oaths would look magnificent etched into glass or scaled across the wall of a house. Something that could be shared with the world.
I want him to see magic in what is, without question, the most important piece of artwork I will ever make. But I’m not sure he will see magic in two mismatched fonts and a dedication that looks irresponsibly placed on the cover of the book.
Below you can see the black clamshell box and the red and black book. I chose red and black to match the judge’s robes.
If I had more money, I’d have the Chief’s book rebound, but I’m going to send it as it is and hope he can find beauty in imperfection. Still, there’s something about bookbinders. They remind me of the Eel. They’re nice people, and they claim to do something beautiful and rare, but really, they’re not even in the race. They have no business positioning themselves as craftsmen when they take no pride in their work.
They shouldn’t accept payment for work that simply isn’t up to standard. Both bookbinders I dealt with were perfectly pleasant, but the work they’ve produced is nothing short of criminal — a crime against art itself, and against the integrity that art demands.
Now that I have the two books, I have to send them. I’ll put the Speaker’s in the post — that way, if his electorate officer notices the scratch, they might assume it happened somewhere along the unpredictable journey with Australia Post. But the Chief Justice’s will have to be couriered.
I went onto the Courts Administration Authority website and used the chat function to ask for the correct address. The person on the other end started explaining how court documents go to the registry, not directly to his office, but eventually she gave me an address on Gouger Street. I’m going to risk it. Realistically, I’m sure it will reach him.
Once he’s got it, in my mind it will play out like the end of the 1995 movie Babe. After the little pig has stunned everyone at the sheepdog trials by herding the sheep perfectly, there’s a long, quiet pause. The crowd bursts into applause, Babe looks up at the farmer, and Farmer Arthur Hoggett, kneels beside him. He looks at Babe with that gentle, proud half-smile and says softly: “That’ll do, Pig. That’ll do.”
It’s the last line of the film — understated but full of emotion. It’s Farmer Hoggett’s way of saying, you’ve done more than anyone expected; you’re enough; you’re safe; it’s over now.
I don’t know if the Chief Justice will write me a polite note acknowledging the book and my letter. Somehow, I doubt I’ll receive anything — because really, what could he say? He has no way of knowing the significance the Book of Oaths holds for me, and it would be unfair to share that with him.
But to me, I’ll imagine him receiving it and saying under his breath:
“That’ll do, Pig. That’ll do.”
The idea of it thrills me. And then, I’ll just go about my business.
I’ve been thinking about a life I once imagined for myself as a novelist. I had this idea for a story set in Cambodia — which is why I went there at the end of last year, to do some research. I want to go back to Cambodia to write and to see what else I can learn while I’m there. I’m hoping to go in June next year, but I’m not sure I’ll have enough money. I need a lot of money if I want to travel business class.
It’s not about luxury — it just suits me, with my flaw. I like the extra sense of security, and the way they look after you, especially when you’re travelling alone. I thought about selling my car, which could bring in around $10,000. I don’t really need it — Mum drives less and less now, so I could use hers most of the time.
But then I thought: if I sell my car, there will only be one car in the driveway. And I know it sounds ridiculous, but if an intruder were passing by at night, they might think we were an easy target — one resident instead of two. Mum says that’s incredibly unlikely, but once the thought arrives, the fear of fear is worse than the fear itself.
So I have to find another way to come up with the money. I haven't worked in so long, ten years this year. I've been caring and studying and also I have been trying to navigate a very disturbed sleep pattern. But in so many ways the idea of a job excites me. My resume presents me as a customer service professional but I'd really like to try something else. Like welding or floristry. The only thing is you need qualifications to do specialised jobs and I don't have any time left in my life to get them.
I was reminded of Cambodia today because it’s Monday, and every Monday I send a message to Tim and Thy — my guide and driver from over there. We have a little chat and wish each other a good week. We’ve become very close since I left. Thy always sends me photos of the two of them when they go fishing together, and they’ve promised to take me fishing when I come back.
In so many ways, I long to return. I felt so safe staying in a hotel for those few weeks; my sleep was surprisingly good, and I made some amazing friends. The temples are beautiful, and the people are so welcoming and kind. It’s a deeply creative place — full of colour and spirit — and I want to be there again soon.
