The Vulnerable Person

I had some sad news this week. I found out that Jimmy — who owns our local post office where I get all my stamps and do all my business — sold the shop.

I went in on Wednesday and he told me Thursday would be his last day. I couldn’t believe it.

Every time I buy stamps in bulk or do a massive mail out for creative purposes, he’s been right there with me. He always asks about the letters and has taken a real interest in what I’m doing.

I love going down to the post office when all my letters are ready to go and having Jimmy take them and put them behind the counter, ready to be dispersed to the world. I can’t imagine how it will work now.

Jimmy’s been there 18 years, and for most of that time I’ve lived in the area. I asked him why he sold up and he told me the parcels were getting heavier as he gets older, and it was time for a younger person to take over. He said he’d still be working there two afternoons a week, but it’s not the same. It’s not his show anymore.

I decided I wanted to do something for him on his last day of ownership of our beloved post office, so I went to the newsagency and bought him this ceramic turtle thing — sort of like a holder. I don’t really know what it is, but it looked pretty cool, so I bought it. You can see it on the counter of the newsagency, on top of their Christmas cards that just came in.

If you look at the first photo, you can see a line running down the middle of the turtle’s face. In retrospect, that line annoys me a bit because it makes it look mass-produced rather than a unique, handcrafted piece. When I saw the photo, I felt a flicker of regret about buying it, but I think it’s ceramic, which gives it some credibility. And I didn’t have much time to dwell on it anyway — the newsagency wrapped it straight away.

When I got home I talked to Mum about Jimmy finishing up and strongly encouraged her to jump on board—buy something for him and write a card. We agreed to go to Haigh’s Chocolates at Burnside Village on Thursday morning and then see him in the afternoon. I wanted her to buy a separate present because my friendship with Jimmy is personal, and I didn’t want my appreciation to be misunderstood by a combined present with Mum.

On Thursday morning Mum and I went to Burnside. I’d been there the other week with my brother’s wife and her mother, but apart from that I haven’t really had a look around since all the renovations. We went to Haigh’s and got a box of chocolates which was already wrapped, and then I asked Mum if we could walk the long way back to the car so I could have a look around. We passed a nice little café with a beautiful floral arrangement on the counter. If I were a florist, this is exactly the kind of thing I’d love to do—for weddings and events, and even quaint little shopping-centre cafés in the snobbiest part of town.

The other thing that really struck me about Burnside Village is that they’re playing with the big boys now. There was a sign on a shop saying something like “Dior coming” and there’s also a big Louis Vuitton store—which I snapped a photo of below.

When I say “playing with the big boys,” I mean that traditionally Adelaide never had the big luxury designer stores. If people wanted Dior or Chanel, they had to go to Melbourne or Sydney.

I don’t know if Chanel is coming to Burnside Village, but I do wonder: if I had a limitless bank account, would I spend that kind of money on luxury goods? A girlfriend of mine has a $12,000 Chanel handbag—I think her husband paid for it—but I don’t know if I could ever spend that much on a handbag, even if I had it. It just doesn’t appeal to me.

I like good quality things, but having a Chanel bag for the sake of it feels like a massive waste of money. There are so many other things you could do with $12,000: a lovely holiday around Southeast Asia, beautiful furniture, or new electrical appliances. A handbag just seems a bit ridiculous.

That said, I have been eyeing off some Stella McCartney handbags. They’re around the $1,500–$2,000 mark—still expensive and still designer—but I like what she stands for. She’s a vegetarian but not vegan and all her “leather” is vegan leather. I think that’s partly in honour of her mother, who sadly died of breast cancer and was an animal lover and vegetarian. Stella also carved out her own name in fashion despite having a very famous father, Paul McCartney. 

When Mum and I got home from Burnside, it was time to write two separate cards for Jimmy. I’ll show you Mum’s first—the front of the card and her message inside.

Then there was my card.

We had two wrapped presents and two gushing cards, and we made our way down to the post office to give them to Jimmy. He was over the moon, and he thanked us both for our support over the years. You can see Jimmy below.

It’s now Friday and I had to go to the post office this morning with a whole stack of clothes I’m returning to an online shop. I took them back in the box they came in — it was pretty big and a bit wrecked from opening — and I asked Mum to come along and give me a hand.

When we got there we were the only ones in the store. The new owner was on the phone, gave us a look like he wouldn’t be long, so we waited. After quite a while he finished his call and came back to the counter. I asked if he was the new owner and he said yes. I told him Mum and I are regulars and we did a quick introduction, but he seemed vague and uninterested. He said he’d take care of the box — it needed a lot of tape — and we left.

Maybe it’s just because I loved Jimmy so much, but I got a bad feeling about the new guy. I don’t think he has the heart for being a post office owner — you’re connecting the world — and he just didn’t seem into it.

A couple of weeks ago, I ordered a Digital National Police Certificate online through the AFP, which checks Australia wide and through state police agencies for convictions. When I applied, I ticked that I would be working with vulnerable people, and it listed aged care, disability services, etc.

I ticked this because when my disclosable outcomes came up on the police check for my volunteer work at the Red Cross, the reason my “using a mobile phone while driving” conviction appeared — even though it’s technically spent under South Australian legislation — is because that legislation apparently isn’t applied when you’re working with vulnerable people. So I ticked that I was working with vulnerable people. I wanted this particular certificate, with my disclosable court outcomes, for a piece of artwork I’m going to make for an emerging artist award called The Churchie. The idea of the piece is to highlight how I am, in a way, eternally damned. It will follow me forever — it’s everlasting punishment.

The other day I got the certificate back via email. And you will never guess what it said: “No disclosable court outcomes.” I opened the email and the certificate on my phone while I was in the car with Mum. The moment I saw those words, I involuntarily cried out, “FUCK.” It startled Mum a little and she asked what was wrong. I couldn’t bring myself to explain, so I said it was nothing — but really, it’s not nothing.

So the conviction comes up sometimes? What am I supposed to do if a potential employer or volunteer place asks me if I have a conviction? Do I, or don’t I? Am I a convicted felon or aren’t I? I need to know, for my own peace of mind, for my own identity. Two police checks with the same criteria came back differently. It’s bureaucrats, it’s red tape — it’s the public service that doesn’t care about the personal effect something like this has on a person’s sense of worth. A person’s sense of self.

So now I have another art project happening about vulnerable people. Yes, I ticked that I am working with vulnerable people — but I am the vulnerable person, because I have no clear way to define my role within a workplace, a volunteer placement, or in society as a whole. I am neither here nor there. A felon but not a felon. I am no one. And I just can’t stand for this.

I want answers, and I’m going to pursue them until I get to the bottom of what this actually means for me and for my future. Today I went to the cop shop with a physical form filled out requesting another police check. Below you can see the sign for the police station.

I approached the counter and an older lady — I think a volunteer — took my details and asked to see the form. On the form it asks what you need the police check for. I said I was working with children, working with vulnerable people, and that the type of work was community services. She told me I needed to be more specific about what kind of work I was doing, and I could have snapped. I really could have. It is my right to get a police check. These are my details and I want them. I shouldn’t have to justify it to her or anyone. I told her it was a broad spectrum I was working within, and she accepted that.

I took a seat and waited for an officer to process the form. I was waiting for a while, and I took two sneaky photos from where I was sitting — you can see them below.

I finally got called up and the police officer was really good — he processed it and I paid $79. He said it could take up to four weeks, which didn’t surprise me. Four weeks is a joke. The police check culture feels so cold and uncaring; it’s like the staff do the bare minimum and sometimes get it wrong.

I left after a quick chat with the officer and went home. I know it probably sounds like I’m joking when I talk about police checks and my disclosable court outcomes — and most of the time I am — but I’ve had some pretty dark thoughts about it all. If I have to live with this for the rest of my life, it’s not a nice thought. It feels like there will always be a black mark against my name. If it had simply gone after ten years, I’d be grateful — I’d feel like I’d done my time and it was over. But now I don’t know what it is. It might come up, and it might not.

Speaking of employment, my thoughts about the Red Cross Lifeblood call centre job have shifted a bit. It mightn’t hurt to get a job for so many reasons. The first is my sleep — having set times to get up in the morning and go to bed at night could really help. It’ll be difficult to get right, but it could be worth it. The money isn’t the best at the call centre, but I need some income, and it would help with travel plans and buying stamps in bulk for big mail outs.

I’ve got an appointment at 12:00pm next Wednesday for a group assessment and a one on one interview. I’m going to go and give it my best shot. I’ll see what happens: if I get it, I’ll do it for a year; if I don’t, I won’t apply for other jobs — I’ll go straight to uni next year. If that happens, I’d also love to get a part-time job at the census next year. I’m not nervous about the interview; I’m just going to be the best version of myself and see what happens.

They have reached a ceasefire deal in the Middle East between Israel and Gaza. It’s such a good thing, and I hope it all works out, but it will be very interesting to see what the Palestinians actually get out of this. Something that bothers me is that Hamas — and Gaza itself — has been asked to demilitarise. I understand asking that of Hamas, I do, but why hasn’t Israel been asked to disarm as well? They’re the ones who’ve been perpetrating a full-blown genocide against Palestinians for two years now. If anyone has been acting like terrorists, it’s the Israelis.

I took a real interest in the negotiation phase because my muse, Sheikh Mohammed bin Abdulrahman bin Jassim bin Jaber Al Thani, was heavily involved. I know Trump will try to take all the credit, but to me this has Sheikh Mohammed’s fingerprints all over it — I think he’s personally responsible for the ceasefire. 

I don’t know why I seem to like completely unobtainable men. First it was the judge who, in my view, appeared to want a physical encounter with me but nothing substantial. And now  Sheikh Mohammed— the leader of one of the wealthiest countries in the world — he’s Muslim, not that it matters; I just feel he’d probably only be interested in Muslim women, and he’s also someone I would literally never cross paths with in my lifetime.

I think unobtainable is good. It’s safe. But at least it makes me feel alive.