Billion Year Contract

When Mr Phoenix resigned from the bench, I spent a lot of time and effort trying to convince a group of conservative Young Liberals that he had actually done the right thing by engaging with sex workers. He hadn’t sought relationships with court staff where there was a huge power imbalance — instead, he had addressed his needs with professional help. I was passionate about this and probably went on about it too much, but in my eyes he was a good judge.

One day, when I was at art school, one of those Young Liberals sent me an email with an article from The Advertiser about Mr Phoenix and a client he was representing. He was back at the bar. The first thing I did was try to find out where he was practising from. I think I called the Law Society, but it wasn’t hard to find out.

I decided to write to him — to ask if I could share my life story with him and then see if he would pass judgment on it. What follows are pieces of the letter I wrote. I’ve left it in its raw form, with spelling mistakes, grammatical slips, and flawed punctuation — all in the name of authenticity.

28 February 2013

Dear Mr Phonenix,

I have written to you today with the utmost respect, appreciation, and understanding of your learned role as a barrister and Queen’s Counsel within the South Australian community.

I have also written with a level of naivety and desperation which, if in doing so I have acted inappropriately or caused any offence, was not my intention, and I am sincerely sorry.

The reason for my letter is I have an event in my life I wish to address, and in order to do so I require specialised legal advice.

Prior to reading any further, I wanted to state I have not mentioned anything about the event in this letter.

I do not require court representation, advocacy or any legal action in relation to this matter, and I hoped to disclose the details to you—hopefully via another letter—and seek an opinion and perspective on it.

I understand that this letter is unsolicited, and it is not standard protocol to contact a barrister directly, in particular a Queens Counsel; however, I believe I have a compelling reason for having done so and wondered if you would be open to hearing this reason.

There have been, and will not be, any direct consequences in relation to my actions to anyone except myself; however, due to the unique and sensitive nature of it, I have been unable to seek any sort of resolution or legal understanding of what happened.

As far as this non-violent, non-fraudulent and non-eventful event being perceived as criminal, with my limited understanding of the law I believe, on a scale of 1–10, with 10 being indefensible and 1 being mild and petty, I wonder if the untrained eye would register my potential unintentional criminality at 2 on the scale.

In saying that, I do not wish to dilute the significance of what I’ve done, or my own need to reconcile with the issue legally so I can make educated decisions about my future.

As a form of introduction to myself, I wanted to give you a very brief background on my own life journey so far.

Here I went on to talk about my educational and occupational history with all the schools and temp jobs. I listed all the schools and gave examples of some of the places I’d worked. I also mentioned I’d spent some time in Tanzania.

The letter then goes on to say:

I am now a 31-year-old woman.

I have temporarily moved back home with my parents and returned to full-time study, undertaking a Bachelor of Visual Arts.

I have a passion for the arts and have explored it in an amateur capacity for much of my life, in particular glass casting and origami. However, it was my time at the Downing Centre District Court as a Court Officer which provided me with a philosophical and creative platform for a number of artistic concepts I am deeply passionate about, which I intend to devote the rest of my life exploring personally and academically.

These concepts revolve around a parallel I have drawn between Lady Justice being blind, and love being blind.

Something I have also noticed are the similarities between the laws of the heart and the laws of the land.

Some of these similarities lie in the following:

- The chambers of the heart / legal chambers

- Cells of the heart / cells in prison

- The Coroner / Coronary

- Coronation of the crown

- Cardiac arrest

Last year, I made a regrettable decision to write to every single legal chambers in Australia, and every prison in Australia.

I asked each chambers how many rooms were in the chambers itself, and every prison how many cells were in the establishment, as well as enquiring if there were bars in the cells.

I now recognise this was disrespectful and juvenile; however, my intention was to demonstrate that, in many ways, a chamber is just a room, and whilst this statement has the potential to sound corny, I believe everyone has room in their heart.

The responses I received from all chambers and prisons, I have folded into a thousand paper cranes, and have no intention of ever showing anyone the lovely responses I received, which were very useful to me in gaging a historic understanding of such amazing and intriguing enclosed spaces where so many imperfections of human nature are addressed in one way or another.

I have a number of professional goals within the creative arts, most with a focus on Lady Justice and the Chambers of the Heart. However, another creative goal I wanted to mention to you is an artistic comparison between the white dove and Robin Redbreast.

This comparison falls in line with one of my favourite Henry David Thoreau quotes:

“It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see.”

The white dove is the international symbol of peace. I have no formal understanding of how the dove became associated with peace, however I am aware of the story of Noah’s Ark and the Great Flood and the role the dove played in offering an olive branch as a symbol of peace.

With great respect to the Jewish and Christian faiths, I personally associate the story of The Great Flood with what I view as the world’s largest and most brutal genocide. So on a very personal level, the dove is not a positive image or symbol through my eyes.

The robin redbreast is a bird that is often associated with gothic, dark novels and in particular an omen of death, yet there are a number of interesting fables about this bird and how its breast became red.

One being that the robin redbreast was flying above Christ during his crucifixion on the cross and saw a berry on the crown of thorns which was protruding a thorn deeper into his skin and causing further pain for him. The Robin removed the berry from the crown to grant him some reprieve and, in doing so, stained its chest red from the blood of Christ.

However, my favourite and what I view as the most beautiful folk story about the robin redbreast is:

"Far, far away, is a land of woe, darkness, spirits of evil, and fire. Day by day does this little bird bear in his bill a drop of water to quench the flame. So near the burning stream does he fly, that his dear little feathers are scorched; and hence he is named Brou-rhuddyn (Breast-burnt). To serve little children, the robin dares approach the infernal pit. No good child will hurt the devoted benefactor of man. The robin returns from the land of fire, and therefore he feels the cold of winter far more than his brother birds. He shivers in the brumal blast; hungry, he chirps before your door."

Through my eyes, I think the story of the robin redbreast diving to the depths of hell with one drop of water in its beak to quench the thirst of the sinners is heroic and beautiful and, for me, eclipses the story of the dove as well as provides a stronger argument for the promotion of peace.

I’ve shared this professional goal of mine as part of this letter to outline that, in an unusual way, the comparison between these two birds almost serves as my own personal scales of justice, and I believe that things are not always as they seem.

And in the name of art and symbology, I have done some reading in relation to your namesake, “griffin.”

Until now, I have never had a clear understanding of what the mythological creature of the griffin was, or what it represents. I was enchanted by the information I discovered about the nature of a griffin — the half eagle and half lion.

There seemed to be a number of interpretations available online, but my own brief investigation led me to the core of a majestic creature that is the protector and guardian of great treasure. I thought this was a beautiful and magical concept.

And even more beautiful was that the creature itself has the eyes of an eagle and the heart of a lion.

I have enclosed a copy of a book entitled Monsterology, The Complete Book of Fabulous Beasts for you, and flagged the pages featuring the griffin.

I feel confident you would have come across much of this in your life, however, more than anything, I thought the unjustly titled book has some great drawings of the griffin.

Prior to closing my letter, I wanted to say I very specifically would like to discuss my legal issue with you.

Sadly, I don’t have much documentary evidence of my good intention in life for your inspection, however, I have enclosed a certified copy of my driver’s license to verify my identity, and a copy of two certificates I received whilst working at Centrelink in 2009.

I have included these certificates from Centrelink as evidence that, professionally and ordinarily, I have a clear understanding and respect for protocols and procedures, and on that platform seek to demonstrate that I believe I have an exceptional circumstance for having contacted you as a barrister and Queens Counsel directly and not having gone through a solicitor first.

I have also enclosed a copy of an article I wrote for a Young Liberal publication in 2010 about the Bali Nine and the death penalty.

I have enclosed this to demonstrate my active interest in current affairs and hopefully the existence of a social conscience, however the issue outlined in the article is something I have dramatically changed my opinion on.

Something I believe also provides evidence that people have an uncanny ability to change with time and understanding.

Financially, I am able to settle fees for your legal opinion upfront, and I am aware of the substantial cost in engaging a Queens Counsel.

I hoped this in itself may further support my claim to having a compelling, unique, sensitive, exceptional circumstance and reason for seeking an opinion directly from you.

I have never had to stand before a judge for legal reasons and plead my case before the court. And fingers crossed I’ll never have to.

However, for me, there is an even more important judge, and that is the mirror.

The event I have written to you about which I wish to address is minor in the scheme of events, however for me it is something which has been crippling and has had a significant effect on a number of aspects of my life.

I am deeply ashamed and embarrassed about it, and due to a number of factors I quite genuinely have no one I can tell.

Upon reflection and assessment of my own behaviour, the embarrassment and shame I feel about this is so strong, I am not sure I can physically release the words, which is why I mentioned at the beginning of this letter I hoped to address the issue itself in another letter.

I would welcome any opportunity to discuss any potential of discussing my reasons for specifically wanting to disclose this matter to you, and I am available on phone number or alternatively via return mail if there is any possibility of discussing this matter with you further.

Looking forward to hearing from you.

With the kindest and most respectful regards,

Me

Along with the letter, I sent Mr. Phoenix a book — Monsterology: The Complete Book of Fabulous Beasts — which featured images of his namesake. Not long after I’d posted the package, on a Friday afternoon, I missed a call. When I checked my voicemail, it was Mr. Phoenix. His voice was deep and strangely familiar. He said he had received my letter and that he had “never read anything like it,” which felt like his powerful QC charm coming through. He went on to say he was willing to meet me and asked that I call to arrange a time.

I decided to call him back on the Monday, and over the weekend I kept turning over in my mind what I was going to say. The sound of his voice on my voicemail lingered with me — so authoritative, and in some ways, undeniably sexy. He had invited me to come into town to meet with him, but there was no way I was going to do that. I was scared of what might happen if I did. Scared I might have some weird judge attraction to him.

On Monday, I decided to drive down to the Erindale shops and sit in my car to speak with Mr. Phoenix — mostly because I didn’t want my parents to hear me talking to him. I parked, took a deep breath, and called his chambers. I gave my name to the receptionist, and she put me straight through.

The moment he started speaking, I felt overwhelmed. His voice was deep, steady, strangely familiar — and I was intimidated. Here I was, having an adult conversation about something that, deep down, felt so childish.

He asked if I’d like to come in and see him, but I told him I’d prefer to explain everything in another letter. That’s when he started gently interrogating me.

"Share the burden," he said softly. "You can tell me whatever it is — no judgement."

He was so nice. Overly nice. And yet, as he spoke, my mind kept flashing back to what I’d heard —  about the sex workers — and the contrast didn’t make sense.

I didn’t want to tell him like this, over the phone. It felt too raw, too embarrassing. If I could put it in writing, I could give it context. But when I mentioned context, he cut me off:

"Context doesn’t matter in the law."

In that moment, I thought, stuff it. And I told him.

I told Mr. Phoenix the short version of it all. I said that I’d danced a kind of dance with the judge at the Downing Centre, that I’d been sacked not long after, and that, in the mess of it all, I’d written him a letter.

That’s when Mr. Phoenix asked me, bluntly, “Did you shag the judge?”

I said no.

Then he asked, “Did you shag anybody?”

Again, I said no.

He paused for a moment, then said calmly, “This kind of thing happens all the time.” And then, almost dismissively: “No one cares about this.”

There was a strange comfort in the way he said it — like he was trying to put the weight of it down for me — but it also stung. Then he added, “It was a long time ago now. You need to move on from it.”

I then told him that I thought I had experienced erotomania with the judge, and he went into fits of laughter. 

I went on to tell him how I’d gone back to the Downing Centre, hoping to reconnect with some of my old colleagues, and how one of them had quietly told me that nobody was allowed to speak to me. That’s when I started crying.

Mr. Phoenix’s tone changed. He was so gentle, so kind. His deep, masculine voice softened in a way that I can’t quite put into words. It was disarming, almost soothing. We started talking about redemption — my need for it, his own journey toward it. He talked a bit about his Catholic upbringing and it really surprised me how open he was.

He told me he’d been a judge once, and I didn’t tell him that was the reason I’d reached out to him in the first place. I kept that part to myself.

Then I confessed something else — that I was worried about what my father would say if the judge ever called him. My dad had a bit of a public profile, and the thought terrified me.

Mr. Phoenix reassured me, his voice steady and low: “There’s no way he’d call your father.”

And then he added, almost mischievously, “But if I ever saw your dad somewhere and he came up to me, I’d just look him in the eye and say, ‘Who are you?’”

I actually found that funny, even comforting, but I wasn’t really in the mood to laugh. The whole conversation sat somewhere between confession, counsel, and something else I still can’t name.

Mr. Phoenix then told me, quite firmly, that I shouldn’t have written the letter — that it was a bad idea. I also told him how I’d sent flowers to the judge and his associate after I was let go. He repeated what I said, almost incredulously: “You sent flowers to a judge?” I said yes, and then I told him that his associate had told me the judge loved them. He laughed, and then reassured me, saying that honestly, I had nothing to worry about.

I told him I didn’t think I was beautiful enough to be “running around acting like a crazy woman” the way I had. There was a pause, and then he said, almost under his breath, “I highly doubt that.” He added something about how I was definitely good-looking enough.

It caught me off guard. I remembered that I’d sent him a copy of my driver’s licence, so he’d seen my photo there. It was sweet in its own strange way, but I wasn’t fishing for compliments.

Then his tone shifted again. He said he thought I had some mental health issues tied up with my self-esteem and that he could get me in to see a psychiatrist if I wanted. He told me he saw one himself. I said no.

I tried to explain — “But I think…” — and every time I started, he cut me off, overriding me with short, firm replies: “It doesn’t matter.” “You need to let this go.” 

There was something almost relentless about the way he said it, like he was trying to wrestle the weight out of my hands and drop it somewhere I couldn’t reach.

Then he asked me to come in and see him. He said he would help me.

I hesitated, but eventually I said I would. He seemed pleased. We’d been speaking for an hour by then. Before hanging up, I told him I’d call later in the week to organise a time, and he told me to “take deep breaths and go for a walk around the block.”

Before the line went dead, he said softly, almost warmly: “I look forward to meeting you.”

I was really struck by how unbelievably nice he was. Yes, he interrogated me — gently but persistently — and I had the distinct feeling that he could get anyone to admit to anything. There was a sharpness beneath the softness, a precision in the way he questioned me. He kept overriding me, cutting through my hesitations, and in a strange way, I needed that. I needed someone who wouldn’t accept my deflections or excuses, someone who could see straight through me and press on the places I was trying to protect.

But even as I sat there listening to his deep, careful voice, there was one thing I knew with absolute clarity: under no circumstances could I go and see him. I couldn’t risk putting myself back into that vulnerable state — the possibility of strange post-it note giving behaviour. While not as old as the judge, Mr Phoenix was still considerably older than me. Late fifties at the time, I think. The thought of bad behaviour unsettled me more than I wanted to admit.

After I hung up, I drove home in silence, trying to settle the strange mix of relief and unease coursing through me. That night, I sat down and wrote him another letter. I don’t have a copy of it anymore, but I remember what I said. I thanked him for taking the time to talk to me and told him that I didn’t need any further assistance. I asked him to send me a bill for his time. I mentioned that I couldn't have been a lawyer as my parents had always wanted me to be. And, almost as an afterthought, I told him that by speaking with me, he had in many ways proven the very points I had made in my original letter.

It was a nice thank-you letter, really — my way of closing the matter and drawing a line under everything. But the conversation with Mr Phoenix had planted a seed in my mind that I couldn’t shake: did I have some sort of mental illness?

Up until then, the only diagnosis I thought might be relevant to me was Borderline Personality Disorder — and that was only because of the letters I’d written to the judge. It felt like something straight out of Fatal Attraction, and I was convinced Glenn Close’s character must have had borderline in that movie. That thought lodged itself in my head, and before I knew it, I was spiralling.

The first thing I did was find a psychologist who specialised in the disorder. I booked an appointment with her immediately and started doing a massive amount of reading on BPD. Within days, I was 100% certain I had it. I even started researching treatment centres in the U.S. and I also came across something called Dialectical Behavioural Therapy (DBT) — the gold standard treatment for BPD. But when I looked around Adelaide, there were no centres offering it.

And that’s when I stumbled into the Church of Scientology. It was the word “Dianetics” that caught me — the “Dia” pulled me in. For the next couple of months I split my time between weekly sessions with my psychologist, trying to convince her I had borderline — which she disagreed with completely, saying I had schizotypal personality disorder — and spending entire days at the Scientology org on Pulteney Street.

Sometimes I was there from morning until night, doing courses and being audited. I learned a lot about Scientology, but even more about the people within it. There were two things that really stood out to me. The first was the concept of an engram. In Scientology, an engram is said to be a recording of a past painful or traumatic event, stored deep in your “reactive mind.” According to L. Ron Hubbard, these engrams are the root cause of almost everything — emotional pain, irrational fears, psychosomatic illnesses, and the destructive patterns that keep replaying in your life.

The second thing I learned about was the concept of an SP — a “Suppressive Person.” In Scientology, an SP is someone the Church believes is actively working against them or against the spiritual progress of its members. They’re seen as dangerous because they “spread negativity,” “suppress enlightenment,” and can derail your entire journey. Once you’re labeled an SP, you’re considered an enemy of Scientology — even if you’re someone’s family member.

At one point, I even signed what they called a “billion year contract” — a statement where I declared that I was not an SP and wasn’t associated with anyone who was. But it turned out my father was, by their definition, exactly that. When they eventually found out, they weren’t happy.

The thing is, though, during this entire period, the Scientologists were actually really good to me. I was in this constant flow of ideas, and when I told them I thought I had borderline personality disorder, they strongly encouraged me not to take psychiatric medication. Instead, they genuinely tried to help in their own way. So when I hear people criticising Scientology — and I do understand why they do — I can only speak from my own experience: for me, at that time, it was mostly positive.

But while I was immersing myself deeper, reality was starting to slip further away. I had dropped out of art school completely — caught in this strange haze of psychology and Scientology — and my world became smaller, more intense, and more surreal.

I started noticing the occult themes woven through Scientology and began researching the connections. That’s when I learned that L. Ron Hubbard had once been associated with Aleister Crowley.

Crowley is one of those figures you can’t just skim over — people called him either “the wickedest man in the world” or a mystic genius, depending on who you asked. He was an English occultist, ceremonial magician, poet, novelist, mountaineer, and self-proclaimed prophet of a new spiritual age. I became fascinated — obsessed, really — and I started wondering how much of Crowley’s ideas had seeped into Scientology, consciously or unconsciously.

The more I read, the more entangled everything started to feel. Psychology, Scientology, Crowley, Hubbard — it was like I was spiralling through overlapping worlds of belief, power, and control, all while trying to make sense of my own identity.

As well as working on my own mental health, I became increasingly convinced that I was dying. I smoked at the time and was certain I had throat cancer. One night I even went to the emergency room at Calvary Hospital. The whole thing was almost absurd — before this, I had asked my GP for an X-ray that showed a shadow of my heart, because I wanted to use it for an art piece at art school. I still had the X-ray with me, so I took it into the hospital and showed the doctor. He was so patronising, completely dismissive, as if he forgot I had paid over $300 to be admitted to a private hospital. He just sent me home.

I also saw an ENT specialist, convinced I had cancer, but he grew irritated with me and told me firmly there was nothing wrong. Still, I couldn’t let go of the fear that I was dying. At the same time, I felt passionately about the idea that Mum and Dad should send me to the USA for residential treatment for Borderline Personality Disorder. I had found a program that cost around $100,000, and I believed they had the money and that I was worth it. But they refused. Instead, my dad — who always thought I was fat — agreed to send me to fat camp.

Fat camp was in Torquay, Victoria, at the very start of the Great Ocean Road. It was set in a five-star Peppers Hotel, and the weight loss program used both the hotel’s facilities and sites around the town. It was expensive too, but I think Mum and Dad were far more comfortable paying for me to go there than sending me overseas for psychiatric treatment.

By this point, some months had passed since I’d spoken to Mr Phoenix. He never sent me a bill for his time, and that actually annoyed me, because I wasn’t looking for a freebie. During that whole transformational period, I’d also started noticing little coincidences with him — strange parallels and odd overlaps in our lives — nothing major, but unsettling enough.

So, just before I went off to fat camp, I wrote him another letter. I took it down to Balloons Galore and asked them to create a spectacular cluster of balloons. I had also arranged for a $2000 bank cheque to be made out to him, which I included with the delivery to his chambers.

To be continued.......

Successful And Happy And Rewarding

I just got back from Ballaboosta, a restaurant near my place on Glynburn Road. I was there for a meeting with the Amnesty International group I’m involved with. There were just three of us, but we had a great night.

We’ve decided to hold an art exhibition at the Fringe next year. Since they know I’m into letter writing, my role will be to write to all the federal MPs and senators. I’ll be asking them for their thoughts on sanctioning Israel and expelling their ambassador from Australia.

Their responses will be displayed as part of the exhibition. Below is a photo I took inside Ballaboosta while we were eating.

Something we talked about a lot tonight was Australia recognising a Palestinian state at the September UN General Assembly meeting. The others mentioned that it’s been a long time coming. I think it’s good in theory — but if you really stop and think about it, the condition of disarmament placed on Palestine is wrong. It pretends to be a gesture of support while actually reinforcing the very oppression it claims to address.

It’s like saying, “We see you, we acknowledge your right to exist… but only if you agree to live under permanent vulnerability.” That’s not recognition — that’s conditional permission. And permission can be revoked at any time.

Fair enough — disarm Hamas and any terrorist organisation operating through the occupied Palestinian territories. But if Palestine is recognised as a free state, why shouldn’t it have its own army? No equivalent demand is ever made of Israel, which has one of the strongest militaries in the world and is actively using it. Palestine is the occupied party, and yet we are telling them they must not be free to protect themselves. That makes me furious.

I touched on this tonight and didn’t get a resounding agreement at first. I worried I might sound like I was supporting terrorism — which I absolutely am not. But when I explained what I really meant, they totally agreed with me. This is something that has made me angrier than almost anything else about this assault on Gaza. Why are Palestinians being asked by the Australian Government to accept the status of second-rate citizens?

I do admire Albanese for saying Netanyahu is “in denial” over the suffering in Gaza. And in many ways I respect him for announcing that Australia will recognise Palestine as a state — especially given the backlash he’s faced. But the conditions are patronising, insulting, and unfair. They were put in place to reassure Israel and the United States that Australia hasn’t completely gone rogue. It’s not just a political compromise — it’s a moral failure. It tells Palestinians that their right to self-determination is less valuable, less legitimate, and more negotiable than Israel’s right to militarised dominance.

Apart from that it was lovely to meet my Amnesty buddies in person. We’ve been meeting on Zoom for a while, but tonight was the first time I’d seen them face-to-face. They’re already good friends with each other, and we spent about two and a half hours chatting. Below is a photo of the outside tables at Ballaboosta, empty by the time I left.

I wanted to share a little about life after I got back from Antarctica in 2012. I don’t know if you remember, but I had that incident at the Chief Executive’s office of a government department where I stormed out in a rage. That really fractured my relationship with the temp agency that had placed me there.

I’d also been barred from using Randstad because, when I was in Sydney, I accepted a position at the Australian Bureau of Statistics — but when it came time to starting the job, I was lying in bed so depressed and distressed that I simply couldn't get up. The two agencies I now had frosty relations with were the two best in Adelaide.

I thought I’d try contacting Randstad to ask for a second chance. When I called, I happened to get a woman around my age named Alana. She was friendly but had an edge I liked. I was honest with her — I told her I’d been so depressed I couldn’t get out of bed. She told me to come in for a chat, which I did, and she reinstated me from DNU which means Do Not Use — to a fully active temp again. I couldn’t thank her enough. We got along so well, and she was so good to me. She found me work straight away.

My first job back with them was on the reception desk of the doctor’s clinic at Highgate Park — the old Julia Farr Centre. I was relieving the receptionist while she was seconded to another role. That’s where I met the judge’s daughter — she reminded me of the judge from Sydney and my exposer. I can’t remember how long I was there; I think it was about a month.

It was actually a very sad place to work. All the residents had an acquired brain injury or other severe disabilities. A number of them had attempted suicide, such as stepping in front of a truck, and they were in a bad way both physically and mentally. I met a woman who’d had a stroke on the operating table, a man with Huntington’s, and many others with profound disabilities.

I was still a smoker then, and there were other staff who smoked too. Out the front were tables and chairs where people sat and smoked — both cigarettes and marijuana which seemed to be allowed, or at least overlooked by management. Honestly, fair enough. Life must have been pretty rough for some of these people, so I thought it was nice they could have a small pleasure like getting high.

Something interesting I learned while sitting at my humble little reception desk was that there used to be a sex worker who came to see some of the residents, paid for by their families. She was passionate about providing sexual expression for people with disabilities. The only reason she stopped coming was because the nurses often had to physically position people to make sex possible, which meant they were technically facilitating a crime.

I think it’s a shame that isn’t legal. If someone is willing to take on that role, and everyone involved consents, I believe that intimate contact could be extremely therapeutic for some people. Of course, I know there are endless legal, ethical, and philosophical arguments around that sort of thing.

On my last day at Highgate Park, I had a lot of internal mail to send out to other facilities. Then I got a call from Alana telling me I had a few days’ work at the Strathmont Centre — a large government-run residential facility for people with intellectual disabilities.

When I arrived that Monday, I checked the incoming mail and I had sent myself some internal mail from Highgate Park! I thought that was extraordinary. I know it’s such a small thing, but it was one of those serendipitous moments you experience when temping around town. 

The Strathmont Centre was interesting — there’s a lot of history there. From memory, there was another staff member in the reception area and we spent most of the time talking. I know this is not an intellectual disability but I remember taking a call from a woman who was losing her sight, and it got me thinking a lot about blindness. I asked myself: What would I look at if I knew it was the last thing I was ever going to see?

The Strathmont Centre had a lot of security. The reception desk wasn’t open — it was behind a big plastic shield. The other receptionist told me a few spooky stories about residents, doctors, and staff who had supposedly died under mysterious circumstances. Back then it scared me, but looking back now, they were probably just stories or exaggerated truths.

After my short stint at the Strathmont Centre, Alana placed me at the Eastern Community Intermediate Care Centre at Glenside Hospital. In many ways, it felt like the ultimate trifecta — I’d gone from acquired brain injury, to intellectual disability, to mental health.

I was on the reception desk at the front, so I dealt with both staff and patients who were free to pass through. The staff told me that many of the patients were suicidal. I know that’s an incredibly painful thing to experience, but I couldn’t help thinking that they should go to Highgate Park and see what happens when a suicide attempt doesn’t work. In many cases, the result was far worse than what they had initially intended. Of course, I didn’t say that to anyone, but it’s true.

While I was working at the ICC, there was a scandal involving a South Australian judge. I remember seeing a small article in one of the weekday papers that hinted at misconduct by a District Court judge, but it didn’t name names. Then, one Sunday, the truth came out — a big front-page photo of Callum Phonenix in the Sunday Mail, outlining that he had resigned from the bench after being involved with sex workers. The article stated that his legal representation was Hamish Sinclair QC — the same QC who had appeared in the judge’s courtroom in Sydney.

I couldn’t believe it for two reasons. The first was, I had actually temped in his chambers during the Snowtown murder trials, and I remembered him well. That meant something I’d said in my last letter to the judge was true — I really had worked with barristers who later became judges. The second reason I couldn’t believe it was that, of all the QCs in Adelaide, he was using the very same one from the courtroom I had been in at the Downing Centre. It felt almost unbelievable.

At that time, judges were still very much on my mind. I’d written to most of the judges in the country, and quite a few overseas. I started going through the Courts Administration Authority’s website, searching for sentencing remarks by Judge Callum Phonenix. That’s when I came across a remark I really liked:

"I hope that you take full advantage of the opportunity you are getting and that your life is successful and happy and rewarding. It does not have to be fancy, it just has to be a decent life."

The photo of Mr Phoenix on the front page of the Sunday Mail was weird. It looked as though he were staring directly at me. I can’t quite explain it. I know I had worked in his chambers, but beyond that there was something so familiar about him.

I decided that if he ever returned to the bar, I would write to him and offer $10,000 to sit down and read my entire life story — and then give me his judgement on whether my letters to the judge had been reasonable. I also wanted to ask his opinion on what the judge might have been thinking when he opened them.

I’m not the sort of person who usually has $10,000 lying around, but for some reason my parents had just given me that amount. I can’t even remember why. What I do remember is wanting to spend it on rehabilitating myself in relation to my judge issues. 

The reason I mention this is because there was a nurse working at the ICC whose husband knew Mr Phonenix. Before the full story came out — when his name had been linked to “trouble” but sex workers weren’t mentioned yet — she hinted that she thought he’d been involved with something incredibly sinister. I got a bit angry with her over that. He wouldn’t have remembered me at all, but I still felt oddly defensive of him because I didn’t believe he would do something like that. Then, when it came out that he had been with sex workers, I actually hailed him as a hero for going to a professional and not wasting the time or emotional energy of court staff.

I kept him in the back of my mind as someone who might one day be able to help me address my “judge issues.” I thought it must have been incredibly embarrassing for him to have to resign from the bench like that, and I even worried he might take his own life — but thankfully, he didn’t.

I left the ICC after about another month and was assigned to a longer-term role at the SuperSA call centre. On the very day I was offered the job, there happened to be an article in the paper about Mr Phonenix’s judicial pension with SuperSA. I thought it was strange timing, but didn’t think much more of it.

I’ve always loved being on the phones, so it felt good to be back in a call centre. I quickly made a group of friends there, and we socialised a lot outside of work. My boss was amazing — not overbearing or micromanaging, but approachable and down-to-earth. She once said to me, “Today I might be your boss, but tomorrow you might be mine, so I always treat everybody with the same respect.” I never forgot that.

While I was working at SuperSA, I moved to North Adelaide to live with a girlfriend I’d met while working at Centrelink. Her grandmother owned the place, so we were paying very minimal rent for a prime location.

After I’d been at SuperSA for a few months, I happened to look at the notice of vacancies. I wasn’t looking for a new job — I just like to see what’s out there. That’s when I saw a role I was instantly fell in love with: Fingerprint Technician with SAPOL. I wanted that job so badly.

To get myself in the right frame of mind, I went to Adelaide Moulding and Casting Supplies. They helped me take a cast of my hand and my foot using dental alginate. I then made the casts up in plaster of Paris. The first thing I did was paint the hand with purple acrylic paint.

In the photos below, you’ll see a lot of white dots. These weren’t visible to the naked eye — they only appeared when the camera flash hit them.

You can also see my foot, captured in its plaster of Paris form, in the photos below.

Now I’ll explain how this was relevant to my application for the Fingerprint Technician role. For the hand, I used a product called Rub ’n Buff — a wax-based finish with a metallic sheen — and gently rubbed it over the purple surface. I thought it might help bring the fingerprints up more clearly. You can see the result in the photos below:

It didn’t bring the fingerprints up, but as you can see, a lot of lines became visible, and I still thought it was worth sending through to SAPOL.

For the foot, I used gold metal leaf — essentially imitation gold leaf — to highlight both the perfections and imperfections of its form. You can see the result in the photos below:

My housemate took the photo of me below while I was applying size — an adhesive for the imitation gold leaf — to my plaster foot. I was wearing PPE at the time, and I’m not entirely sure why. Maybe I was just trying to look like a crime scene investigator.

With the photos above and my creative responses to the job and person specifications, I put together a monumental application for the role of Fingerprint Technician. And then… I never heard back from SAPOL.

My mum thinks I go over the top with these things. I don’t see it that way — I think I’m passionate. She advised me not to send a résumé like this, but my view is that if they didn’t want me as I am, there was no point in working there anyway.

A time I did go over the top with a job application was a couple of years ago when I was looking for work while studying. I saw a role advertised as a Customer Service Officer at Balfours. I ended up writing them a two-page letter outlining the entire history of Balfours and everything I liked about the company — and again, I never heard back.

I was at SuperSA for around ten months. There were a couple of other temps, two of them part-time. We all got along really well — it was like one big happy family. The two part-timers together made up a full-time position, while I was full-time on my own.

One day, my boss called me into her little cubicle and told me she could only keep one temp in a full-time role — and she’d chosen me because I’d been there the longest. That meant the two part-timers would both lose their jobs. I thought about it and it made no sense — why should two people lose their income so one person could stay? So I told my boss that the other two girls could have the position and I’d go back to temping around town. She tried to talk me out of it, but I felt it was the right thing to do.

We agreed to make it sound like I’d chosen to leave, and a few days later my boss told me there’d be another position opening in about a month, so I could come back. We shook on it. But on my last day, one of my friends did something that, in hindsight, I think was a bit manipulative. She bought me a pile of presents, organised a card for everyone to sign, and made a big speech saying goodbye. It turned into such a grand farewell that coming back a month later felt almost impossible. I don’t know why she did that. She has borderline personality disorder — and I’m not judging that — but I’ve wondered if some of her logic came from that.

After SuperSA, I did a short stint at RevenueSA. I was there for a couple of months and literally sat there doing nothing all day — no calls, hardly anyone to talk to. It was mind-numbing. That’s when I decided to go back to art school.

In early 2013, I enrolled at the Adelaide Central School of Art. I loved it — it was creative, energising and full of ideas. Plus, it was located on the Glenside Hospital campus, which somehow added another layer of excitement.

To The End Of The World

After I quit my job at Carelink in a defensive rage — sending an email to all the staff airing my true feelings about them — I then quit my next job after a security guard I vaguely knew died suddenly.

For the next six or seven years, I temped around town, sometimes leaving a trail in my wake, until I found myself in Sydney, face to face with a district court judge who looked so much like a man who had exposed himself to me as a child that I loved him more than I’ve ever loved anything or anyone in my entire life.

After leaving a Post-it note on the judge’s bench and being let go in a humiliating and distressing manner, I came home. Then I was working in a Government Chief Executive’s Office on reception when a former mayor walked in, and my colleague yelled out, “Fuck!” — to which I responded like a demon child, chastising the entire department from the Attorney-General downwards.

By the end of 2011, I was starting to feel exhausted just being me. But some reprieve was ahead. It came on New Year’s Eve, 2012, when my mother, my brother Eric, my brother’s friend Kane, and I went all the way to the end of the world.

It’s actually a fairly sad story to start with. Mum had booked a family holiday for all four of us — Mum, Dad, Eric, and me — to go to Antarctica. But when she went to get travel insurance for Dad, she was told that, because of his age, which was 80, and his history of a heart attack and bypass surgery, the insurance for him would cost upwards of $250,000. My parents were quite wealthy at the time, but not that wealthy.

Mum asked if I still wanted to go if Dad couldn’t come, and I said no — I wouldn’t go without him. But Dad insisted we go without him, so Mum sold his ticket, at a very good price, to my brother’s friend Kane. I felt awful for Dad. It was one of those situations where there was simply no control over the outcome.

The reason Mum had chosen Antarctica as the destination was because my brother was going to Afghanistan with the army in a few months, and he had said it was the one place he wanted to see before he died. I had some money saved from temping, but Mum paid for everything. It was also my first introduction to business class.

We flew from Adelaide to somewhere in Australia — probably Sydney or Melbourne — and then on to Santiago, Chile. I remember we were in business class, but I can’t recall the seating or layout. I’ve flown business twice since then — once to Tanzania in 2018, which was, frankly, a bit disgusting, and once to Cambodia last year. Those flights had very modern and comfortable seating, but I have almost no memory of the trip to Santiago.

I do remember the lounges, though. We all smoked back then. Mum wasn’t a full-time smoker, but she would always sneak one in when Dad wasn’t around. So when we got to the lounge in Chile, the first thing we all did was light up a cigarette.

From Chile, we flew to a place called Ushuaia, at the southern tip of Argentina, where our ship would depart for Antarctica.

Ushuaia was a beautiful little town. It exists mainly to service the boats travelling to and from Antarctica, and it was full of quirky little places to explore. We stayed there for about two days, and spent New Year’s Eve in the town itself rather than on the ship. 

Below, you can see the waterfront, along with just a small fraction of the nautical traffic in the area. You can also see Kane and me out to dinner on New Year’s Eve. I look like a serial killer — but that’s not unusual for photos of me.

Something that has stuck in my memory about Ushuaia is a scruffy but beautiful poppy garden in the main street. You can see photos of it below. 

Then there was a the hint of Eva Perón scattered around bus stops and public parks.

There was a colourful little chocolate shop.

And a lush, green, fairytale forest with a small tourist train running through it. We rode the train, and the forest was so beautiful. You can see a photo below of this magical little waterfall hidden amongst the greenery. 

Ushuaia also had bold, colourful street art that made a statement. I took a few photos of the artwork as we walked the streets. The first one is of musicians playing music. Such a creative and cool vibe. 

This second piece of artwork is one I have always loved to look back on. The orange is striking, and it truly captures the beauty of the simple and graceful woman.

I love this painting of the penguins walking down the steps! It’s iconic, and I noticed a lot of people were taking photos of it.

In Ushuaia, we stayed in a cosy little motel, and it was so cold. The town itself was incredibly picturesque, with a backdrop of big, beautiful mountains that made it feel as though something magical was about to happen.

Our ship was scheduled to leave the dock on New Year’s Day. We boarded a bus that took us straight to the Vavilov.

The Vavilov was the ship that took us down to Antarctica — and it wasn’t a cruise ship in the sense of cocktails by the pool. It was a Russian research vessel that took tourists onboard during the summer months to help fund its operations. 

As we boarded, we were greeted by a young crew from Quark Expeditions. They looked to be around the same age as Eric, Kane, and me — I was 30, and my brother and Kane were about 28. There were a couple of very good-looking young men; one of them, Doug, reminded me so much of my brother’s friend Alexander, with whom I’d had a bit of a fling the year before.

Mum and I shared a cabin, while my brother and Kane shared another. The rooms weren’t anything fancy, but I absolutely loved ours. I don’t know if you remember the story I wrote while holed up in a hotel room in Canberra — the one that included the Robin Redbreast and the Dove. The robin had become a very special symbol to me, and I’d told Mum about it.

When we opened our cabin, this was hanging on the wall:

It wasn’t a traditional chirpy-at-your-door Robin Redbreast, but we both looked at it — and, being New Year’s Day and the start of such a special trip — we took it as a sign of good things to come.

The cabin layout was two rooms: one with a double bed and a bathroom, and a smaller one with a couch that converted into a single bed. I happily took the single. We made ourselves at home and then went to explore the ship.

There was a dining hall, and up top, a bar with lounge seating all around, as well as the bow of the boat — where us smokers spent a lot of time. From memory, the Vavilov felt big, but in reality, it was quite small compared to the luxury cruise ships. Most of the other guests we met were older than Mum, who was in her late sixties.

It was the trip of a lifetime — though I didn’t realise it at the time. We were warned that a stretch of water called the Drake Passage, on the way down to Antarctica, was considered one of the roughest seas in the world. Thinking about it now, I’d probably be petrified — imagining rogue waves or the ship sinking — and I’d physically react to that fear. But back then, I was utterly blasé.

We were introduced to the ship’s doctor, who was getting a free trip in exchange for providing medical services to the guests. From memory, he was a bit of a dickhead.

As the boat left the dock and began its journey toward Antarctica, we settled in for a couple of days on open water before we would see ice. The crew were all young adventurer types. Jason — the one who reminded me of my brother’s friend Doug — and I became friendly straight away. Then there was Kai, who seemed to take a liking to me, though this was just after the whole judge incident, and I had no clue whether any man was interested in me or not. I couldn’t read it then, and I still can’t.

Mum, Eric, Kane, and I spent time at the bar getting to know other passengers and crew. Things seemed smooth at first, but then the sea turned rough. I remember being in the bathroom, sick, while the boat rocked violently. I managed to get to the doctor for seasickness medication, but it didn’t help. It felt like it lasted forever before it finally eased.

When it did, the four of us headed to the bow to smoke and talk, before collapsing back into our bunks for more sleep. In these waters, the sun doesn’t set in summer — though I can’t remember if it stayed light all night. It was thirteen years ago now, and I hate that I can’t be sure. But let’s just say it was.

About two days later, we were at the bow again, smoking, when it appeared — out of nowhere. Ice. First in scattered blocks across the water, then in vast, gleaming landscapes. It was everywhere, and it was breathtaking. Guests poured out from the bar and lounge, gasping as if we’d stepped into another world.

When people ask me what Antarctica is like, I always say it felt as if I were on a movie set and someone had built the ice for us. Surreal. Dreamlike. And yes — slightly revolting to think of the four of us puffing away on cigarettes as we stood there, marvelling at the majesty before us.

There are so many things I would do differently if I went back now, and the first would be to take better photos. I don’t have many on my computer, and in many ways I’m grasping at straws to find the good ones. But what you see above was our first glimpse of this most magnificent land — a land I was so lucky to see.

Before we could go ashore, our backpacks and shoes had to be vacuumed for biological hazards, to prevent anything from being transferred onto the continent. I liked that they took such care. 

There were penguins everywhere — different types, too. One of the crew had a degree in some sort of animal science, and she knew so much about them. She held lectures onboard, and I went to a few of them. Below, you can see a penguin making its way through the ice.

While we were onboard, we saw plenty of seals lounging on slabs of ice drifting in the middle of the water. Below, you can see two of them.

Some of the photos almost look dirty with mud, which doesn’t do the place any justice. Most of Antarctica was pristine — beautiful snow and ice, alive with animals.

The photo below shows what it typically looked like on land. Although a lot of the time there was a lot more snow.

Then there was the Vavilov — our temporary home for a brief moment in time. Here are two shots I took of the ship while we were on land.

While I was enjoying my time there, I was still deeply affected by what had happened with the judge. At the same time, my creative mind had switched into overdrive. One day, I met a very cool British couple in their mid-forties. I didn’t know anything about them at first, but I started asking if they knew anything about Bram Stoker and Dracula. They did, so we talked about that. Then I told them about my latest project: I’d been writing to Chief Justices of Supreme Courts around the world, asking for a copy of the oath they swore in court. My plan was to burn the text into glass and then blow a sculpture from it. They were taken aback — in a good way — and told me to pursue it, saying it could be a masterpiece.

I asked them what they did for a living, and they said they were artists. I made a casual comment like, “Pays the rent, does it?” and they replied, “It does.” They were humble, kind, and unassuming. At one point, we walked up a steep hill, and when I was too scared to walk down, they each took one of my hands and guided me. Mum, Eric, Kane, and I spent quite a bit of time with them — Mick and Sandra.

One night, we were invited down to the lecture room, where Mick and Sandra gave a presentation on their work. It turned out they were world-famous, internationally acclaimed artists. Years later, at art school, I would study them. I couldn’t believe they hadn’t told me earlier.

I told Mick and Sandra the Robin Redbreast and dove story, and they loved it. Mick even drew me a picture on a serviette — me, with a robin flying over my head. I told him I wanted a rock from Antarctica, but we weren’t allowed to take them. He stole me one anyway. They were, without question, two of the coolest people I’ve ever met.

They’re best known for their sculptures made out of rubbish, which, when lit just right, cast a shadow in the form of a portrait — often of themselves. I even remember one night, after a few too many drinks, telling them the entire story of the Snowtown “bodies in the barrels” murders, which they found fascinating.

You can see them below.

When I think about this trip, I remember the unbelievable, movie-set-like scenery of Antarctica. You can see two stunning examples below.

But sadly, I also remember how much of it became about us and the crew — and how we all, in one way or another, fell a little bit in love with each other.

Kai had taken a liking to me, and I actually had a “judge moment” with him when the crew were singing sailor songs and performing for us. He started singing Bound for South Australia while staring at me the whole time. I remember thinking, Is he staring at me for any particular reason?

My brother got together with the only other young passenger onboard — but then Jason, one of the crew, got together with her too. Kane got together with a crew member, and I liked Jason. Then people told me Jason liked me, and that I was missing a huge opportunity if I didn’t go for it — but I simply couldn’t.

I did kiss a Brazilian man one night. He was a lot of fun and was travelling with a group of friends. We got along well, and one night he followed me back to our cabin. I don’t think he really liked me — he was just trying to get laid. I wasn’t into it, and I remember thinking, even if something did happen, where would we go? We were all sharing cabins, and there was something a little cheap and nasty about the whole thing.

It was like anyone under the age of 40 had spring fever, only in the absolute freezing cold at the end of the world. If I went back now, I wouldn’t indulge in such childish nonsense. I’d just enjoy Antarctica. I’d take more photos.

Below, you can see my brother and Kane with one of the crew — I think her name was Nikki.

You can also see another photo of Kane and I after two many drinks at the bar.

There were penguins, seals — and a big whale that I missed. I’d decided to stay on the boat during one of the zodiac trips out to sea, and of course, the one time I stayed back, they saw a beautiful humpback. I remember Mick telling my mum to tell me never to stay back on the boat again — this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

I do recall spotting a cloud that looked exactly like a UFO. Everyone on the ship went over to the window to look at it. You can see it below:

One of the crew told us that these clouds are an actual phenomenon — they’re called lenticular clouds. They form when moist air flows over mountains or other obstacles, creating standing waves in the atmosphere. If the temperature drops enough at the crest of a wave, the moisture condenses into a smooth, lens-shaped cloud. Because they’re so perfectly layered and often hover in one spot, they’ve inspired plenty of UFO reports.

They can appear as single formations, stack like pancakes, or stretch into long, smooth ovals — all of them looking just a bit too alien to be accidental.

After so much ice and snow — and cold like nothing you could imagine — we came to another magical land: Deception Island. It’s actually the flooded caldera of an active volcano in the South Shetland Islands, just off the Antarctic Peninsula. Its horseshoe shape was formed when part of the volcano collapsed, allowing seawater to flood in and create a natural harbour called Port Foster.

Deception Island was a major whaling station in the early 1900s, and later, a research base for the British and Chileans. I remember the colour of the dirt, the rocks, the streams, and the abandoned equipment left over from the whaling days. This place was like nothing I’d ever seen before.

I don’t even know how many days we spent in the Antarctic region — maybe five or six — but it was unforgettable. Like I said earlier, though, it was also a little bit like a soap opera. That wouldn’t happen now; I’m not young anymore, and I have no interest in picking up vagabond men on research vessels.

Once we’d seen everything we could see, we made our way back to Ushuaia over the Drake Passage. The return crossing wasn’t as rough as the trip down, which was a relief. We said our goodbyes, vowing to stay in touch and visit each other. I kept in contact with Mick and Sandra for a while, and Mum even went to see one of their exhibitions in London — but apart from that, we all became forgotten friends.

Mum, Eric, Kane, and I spent the night in Ushuaia, and the next day we had a stopover in Buenos Aires before starting the journey home. By the time we arrived, we were all exhausted. Mum, Eric, and Kane stayed at the hotel, but I told Mum I wanted to go see something and would be back later. I jumped in a cab and asked to be taken to the Supreme Court — I just had to see it. I don’t think there’s a whole lot of justice being dispensed in Argentina, but out the front of the court there was a sign that I found incredibly powerful.

There was also a statue nearby, marked with graffiti I couldn’t understand — though it felt like it might have been aimed at the lack of justice.

That’s the thing about the square in front of the Supreme Court building — there were a lot of homeless people sleeping there. I didn’t take photos of them, because that would have felt incredibly intrusive, but I did take one photo of a man sleeping against a statue.

Below, you can see the Supreme Court itself.

I don’t know why I went there — I really don’t. At the time, I was caught up in the whole “Lady Justice is blind, love is blind” scenario.

Mum and I left Eric and Kane in Buenos Aires and made our way back to Adelaide. It had been an absolutely mind-blowing trip — like nothing I could have possibly imagined. All of our friends wanted to see photos and hear every detail, but I felt bad for my dad. He acted interested — and of course, he was — but I know he would have loved it.