Underwrite His Lifestyle

There was a violent carjacking just a couple of streets over from us in Stonyfell last night. According to The Advertiser, local resident Don Bolton had just pulled into his Grevillea Crescent home about 2.30am on Saturday when two men wearing balaclavas cornered him in the driveway. One of the men punched him in the mouth while the other grabbed the keys and sped off in his white Mercedes Benz sedan. Mr Bolton told 7 NEWS one of the men threatened him as he demanded the keys.

“He told me in a few certain terms that if I didn’t hand over the keys, he was going to finish me off,” he said.

Mr Bolton then went on to say that what upset him the most was that his tools, which he uses for volunteering with Scouts SA, were in the back of the car. Apparently, the police checked the area and couldn’t find the men or Mr Bolton’s car.

That is scary, and it scares me a lot. I have talked about how, at night time, I get incredibly scared — so much so that I think it has affected my sleep — so I stay up all night and sleep in the first half of the day. I am hyper vigilant at night; my mind experiences a home invasion almost as if it were real, and at times it can be horrifying.

When I’ve talked about it with a couple of people, I have said it’s because it is a bigger house — there are multiple entry points. I have lived alone in units before and haven’t really had too much trouble, but it’s this bigger house that makes my imagination run wild.

I talk to Mum about it, and she makes me feel ridiculous, and more than once she has said that if I feel scared, she’ll pay for me to stay in a hotel for a few nights. But it’s not a case of running off to a hotel and then coming back to the same place, only to relive the same fears every night.

I want to live in an apartment in town, with a doorman or a reception desk. I know it probably sounds absurd, a 44 year old woman experiencing something like this,  and I guess it is. The funny thing is, it’s gotten a lot worse the older I get. 

In some ways, there is a degree of arrogance in thinking that an intruder would come to our house out of all the houses on the street and Mum has made a point of making remarks with a similar sentiment. I think that’s true too, but it is an involuntary feeling, and I know it is really bad for your health to be in a constant state of fight or flight.

That carjacking in Stonyfell makes me think about what kind of people are lurking around here. I’m always up at 2:30am, and I can often hear cars hooning about. I always assume they are young men in their twenties, still living with their parents in the big houses around here. But maybe the men behind the wheels of those cars are a little more sinister than I first thought.

David Penberthy recently wrote an opinion piece for The Advertiser titled "Mount Gambier MP Troy Bell’s sentence shows the inconsistencies of SA courts", and I really think he made a very good point. To place the article into some context, I will tell you about a letter to the editor which was referenced in the piece.

Hotelier Peter Hurley criticised the lenient sentence given to Samuel Ajal, who assaulted three Arkaba Hotel employees and caused more than $80,000 in damage. Despite the violence, Magistrate Davis told Ajal he was a “good person” who had simply done a “stupid thing.”

Hurley argued this response ignored workers’ rights to feel safe, noting that Ajal received only a suspended sentence, a good-behaviour bond, and no order to compensate the hotel. He said the decision failed to meet community expectations and showed a justice system more concerned with the offender’s comfort than the victims’ wellbeing.

In contrast to this, Penbo went on to say that The Advertiser reported that former MP Troy Bell was found to have stolen more than $400,000 from the not-for-profit Independent Learning Centre, and used the money on home renovations, flights to Los Angeles, and to offset his mortgage.

His punishment for this: five years in jail, with a minimum non-parole period of two years and six months.

I liked the comparison of these two criminals because their sentences highlight a startling truth about our criminal justice system. It’s simply not good enough. I look at victims of violent crimes which, even when they don’t end in death, leave a lifetime of trauma and fear. Yet in court, we so often watch the status of “victim” shift from the person harmed to the person who caused the harm. It feels as though people can get away with anything.

And how is it fair that Samuel Ajal gets zero time behind bars? I’m sure judges and the courts would defend themselves by saying they have some sort of formula for the way they determine sentences. If I hadn’t been so busy gawking at the judge when I was working as a court officer, I might have paid more attention to the laws that allow thugs and violent criminals back onto our streets.

As Penbo asked about Troy Bell:

"Did he physically or emotionally hurt anyone? Did he hurt a child? Is there anyone in the South-East who will never recover from the impact of his misconduct? Or did he just sneakily stick a whole stack of donated money into his offset account and use the interest accrued to underwrite his lifestyle?"

I sometimes think the rich get away with more crimes than the poor, simply because they can afford decent counsel to represent them. But then, sometimes, I think judges take it upon themselves to back the underdog — to back the offender who has been abused, had a rough upbringing, or had some unfortunate circumstance bestowed upon them in this cold, cruel world.

But the thing is, Your Honour, we’ve all been abused, had rough upbringings, and had unfortunate circumstances bestowed upon us in one way or another. And despite the fact that I am, in fact, a convicted criminal, I don’t go around assaulting hotel employees or causing $80,000 worth of damage to pokie machines, then laugh at the fact that I don’t have to compensate the owners for their significant loss.

Are the judges administering the law, or are they just granting wishes and dishing out second chances to those members of our society who do not deserve them? Are our jails really so full that they only have room for people like white-collar criminal Troy Bell? Are you telling me there's not one single spare bed in any of our correctional facilities for an  offender like Samuel Ajal, who inflicted pure terror on honest, hard working people and business owners?

In my opinion, the judge that I fell in love with was soft on crime too. At the time, I thought it was admirable, but I don’t now. It’s not good enough for me. I do believe in rehabilitation and restorative justice, but there has to come a point where the judge says, “It’s not good enough for me either.”

Today is Saturday, which is one of my favourite days because I volunteer making calls to isolated elderly people on the weekends. I have a list of people in South Australia that I call every week, but often on my list I’ll have clients from around Australia.

This morning, I called a lady from Queensland who was talking about how she didn’t have a smartphone, which is why she prefers we call her on her landline. I don’t know what came over me, but I told her she should get a smartwatch. I said that if she were my family member, I’d recommend one and then I told her how my auntie recently had a fall. She was wearing a smartwatch, and the watch called the ambulance and notified five family members.

I personally think that’s an incredible thing, and I thought that if this lady could afford it, she should get one. I don’t know why I told this particular woman; I think it was because she sounded a lot older and isolated. She told me she was very grateful to learn about smartwatches and said she would get one.

When I hung up, I didn’t know whether it sounded like I was pushing the idea on her but I really do think they’re valuable, even priceless, tools. Especially for elderly people living alone.

I know you can get those alarm devices you wear around your neck, and if you press the button it connects to an ambulance. Nanny used to have one of those. But with a smartwatch, it makes the call for you when it detects that you’ve fallen. It’s amazing technology. I’m going to get one for Mum for her birthday, which is just before Christmas.

I have a new favourite client. It’s another man — the one I was telling you about last week who’s interested in Ancient Astronaut Theory. Lately, he’s been telling me stories about how he’s travelled around Australia prospecting for gold. That’s something that really appeals to me. Sounds like he’s got the dreamer’s disease.

He’s found a lot of gold over the years and uses those metal detector machines to find it. For a brief moment, I imagined myself doing something like that but the truth is, I’d never go out into remote areas with a metal detector on my own. Where there’s gold, there’s always someone who wants to steal it.

Something about this man really makes me sad. He has a dog who has travelled all around Australia with him. He lives alone, and this dog is his absolute best friend and companion. The dog is dying. He told me he can’t bring himself to put it down. It makes me so sad to think about, because I know how much pets have meant to me over the years. In his circumstance, his dog is very much the centre of his world.

I saw a story on the news that I find simply magical. A family cleaning up Wharton Beach near Esperance, Western Australia, discovered a World War I message in a bottle written more than a century ago. The letter, penned in 1916 by South Australian soldier Malcolm Alexander Neville to his mother as he sailed to Europe aboard HMAS Ballarat, was found sealed in a glass bottle buried in the sand.

Neville described life at sea with humour, noting that the food was “really good” except for one meal “buried at sea.” The letter was signed “Somewhere at sea, August 15th, 1916.” He was later killed in France in April 1917, aged 28.

Finder Debra Brown said her daughter uncovered the bottle during one of their regular beach clean-ups. After carefully drying it, they were able to read the letter and trace Neville’s descendants, including a 104 year old relative who still holds some of his wartime correspondence.

A second letter was also found in the same bottle, written by Private William Kirk Harley, who survived the war. Brown plans to return both letters to the soldiers’ families while keeping the bottle itself.

The discovery adds to Esperance’s history of remarkable finds — in 2018, one of the world’s oldest known messages in a bottle, dating back to 1886, was also found nearby.

The idea of a message in a bottle is both romantic and mysterious, and I absolutely love it when things like this are found. There’s something hauntingly beautiful about a message surviving time and tide, waiting for the right person to discover it. It makes me think about connection — how words, once released, can travel vast distances and outlive us entirely. 

The other night, when I was donating blood, the nurses and phlebotomists were talking about the TV show The Golden Bachelor. It’s essentially The Bachelor, a show centred around one man — the bachelor — and a group of prospective bachelorettes all in their golden years. They’re all of a certain vintage.

I decided to watch it, so I logged on to the Nine Now app on my TV, where two episodes were available. I won’t give you a boring recap — which may, in fact, spoil it for you if you’re thinking of watching — but the bachelor himself is a very attractive 61 year old man named Barry “Bear” Myrden. He’s actually Canadian but has lived in Australia for the past 20 years. He’s a widower; his wife died of a brain tumour 14 years ago.

The women they’ve matched him with are all in their fifties and sixties. There were no women in their forties, which surprised me. Some of the women are incredibly accomplished and beautiful, and at first, I thought the show might be inspiring — especially for women entering or approaching their golden years, and the idea of finding true love later in life.

But the more I watched, and the more I watched Bear, I began to see what was really going on. He was kind and charming to all the women in his age bracket, but the one he seemed to have the most chemistry with was a woman in her early fifties — someone who looked much younger. It doesn’t matter how accomplished you are or how good a person you try to be — you simply cannot beat youth.

I also did a bit of reading about The Golden Bachelor online and found a whole heap of rumours. Since the show has already finished filming, some reports claim that Bear ended up running off with the host, Samantha Armytage. She’s denied it, of course — but if it were true, that would certainly be a twist!

When I was 31 years old, I went to Melbourne for a one week glass blowing and glass art class with a renowned American glass artist. I actually didn’t have a lot of experience working with an open flame, which is what we ended up doing. My lack of experience made it a little intimidating at first, but it didn’t matter in the end.

The American glass artist — who I’ll call Ryan — had long grey hair and would wear ACDC T-shirts. The other women in the class were a lot older than me, mostly in their fifties and sixties. I think there were five of us altogether. Ryan was 61 years old. He was a little dirty — the kind of man who’d make small sexual remarks and occasionally look at me in a way that made me wonder if I was imagining it. This was just after what happened with the judge, so I wasn’t sure if I was misreading him.

Ordinarily, I wouldn’t have been interested in a man like Ryan — not because of his age, but because he reminded me of one of those heavy metal types I can’t relate to. But he was an absolute genius with glass. He made some of the most spectacular pieces I’ve ever seen. I remember him creating a glass geisha as a demonstration and giving it to one of the women; she was so grateful I thought she was going to cry.

Ryan had an assistant, Louanne, who was an older woman in her sixties — maybe even seventies — and she travelled with him from America. Ryan had something of a cult following in the glass world. I know he’d been to Adelaide a number of times. The women in the class were very taken with him — one in particular was quite amorous.

We spent long hours at the flame and then went back to a nearby hotel at night. On the last night, after we’d all finished, Ryan came back to the hotel where we were staying. I smoked at the time, and so did he. We were standing out the front having a cigarette when the group of women came over to talk to us. The one who fancied him — the woman in her fifties — actually said to me, “Why don’t you go back to your room now?”

I couldn’t believe it. But I wanted to see what would happen if I asked Ryan to come back to my room — would he? To be honest, it was my way of testing myself. I wanted to know: should I have been more forward with the judge? And I still wonder what he would have said.

The women eventually left, and when they did, I looked at him and asked, point blank, “Do you want to come back to my room?”

He said yes and we went back to my room. Before we went inside you won't believe what he said to me. "Listen, I'm a 61 year old man, I'm a grandfather —  are you legal?" My jaw dropped. First of all he thought I was under 17 years old and secondly I was 31!!! We laughed about it after I told him my age and then we went inside. 

The thing I’m most ashamed of in this whole scenario is that he was married. He said he and his wife lived in separate rooms, but who knows how much truth there was to that. We ended up sleeping together and then talking for most of the night.

At one point, I found myself giving him advice on how to get back into his wife’s good books — something he found hilarious, but which I now see as both audacious and quietly offensive.Then he started talking about the older women who fawned over him at his workshops. He said it happened everywhere he went, but that he didn’t find them attractive because of their age. He told me he wanted to be with someone my age instead.

It’s funny looking back on it now — that woman who told me to go back to my room so she could spend more time with him, and then him telling me later that women her age didn’t do it for him. The irony wasn’t lost on me. I’m now almost the same age as the woman Ryan found so unattractive, and sometimes I wonder: if I fancied a man close to my age and he was giving all his attention to a much younger woman, what would I do? Would I tell her to go back to her room?

Then there was a moment that said everything about who he really was. He went to the bathroom and called me in, saying, “Check this out.” I went to see if he was alright, and realised he was just being ridiculous — he was peeing up the wall. I could see right then and there why he didn’t like older women. He was, in so many ways, still a boy.

Sunflowers Are A Bit Niche

My brother’s wife had a birthday last weekend. I wanted to send her flowers, but it’s hard to know what she likes. Here at the house, Mum has always wanted to do some outrageous decorating, but Pip prefers things very subtle, so they’ve found it hard to agree on anything over the years.

That being said, I think it’s criminal not to send someone a big, bright bunch of flowers on their birthday. So I chose a bunch of sunflowers and sent them to Pip and my brother’s house in London.

In many ways, sunflowers are a bit niche, and I knew it was a risk to send them — but it was a risk I wanted to take because there’s something so beautiful and almost magical about them. I sent them from Mum and me, and Pip sent me a message saying she loved them, which I was really happy to hear.

You can see the sunflowers below.

Having been through the process of applying for a job at the Red Cross Lifeblood call centre and then withdrawing from the race, I felt inspired to donate blood. I had never donated before, but honestly, it’s another thing I love about the Red Cross. It fits into that whole sense of unity between people that I find so moving.

I once said to Mum that I like the idea of sharing myself with people, and she snickered at me like a child, as if I was making some kind of sexual remark. But what I really meant was that, in a way, we as a people are one organism — connected — and we should do what we can for one another. I’ve been trying to find the right words for that feeling, and what I said doesn’t quite capture it, but in the context of blood donation, I love the idea of sharing my blood with someone who might really need it.

There’s a blood donor centre in Modbury, so I made an appointment for Monday night at 6:15pm. I had to answer a whole stack of questions about travel overseas, tattoos which I have none of, previous surgeries which I also have had none of, and other health related things like that.

Below you can see the front of the donor centre — and below that, the view from where I was sitting when I was waiting to be called to donate. You can see the decorations and the colourful, welcoming spirit of the entrance.

After I’d answered the initial questionnaire, I was taken into a small room with a phlebotomist. She went through the same questions I’d already answered out the front, only this time in much more detail. She was nice, and as we talked, I found myself thinking that maybe I could be a phlebotomist and work for the Red Cross at a donor centre. I’d thought about it before, and it didn’t seem like such a bad idea. The thought of taking blood from people didn’t bother me as much as I expected it would.

She asked whether I’d like to do a full blood donation or a plasma donation. She explained that they needed more plasma, so I said I’d do that. Once we’d gone through everything extensively, she asked me to look at her computer screen, which had a little spiel about how it was an offence to give false or misleading answers to the questions. It went on to say there were hefty fines — or even prison time — for doing so.

It’s actually a bit of a slap in the face. You go there wanting to do something good, to donate blood, and then you’re hit with this big fat legal warning at the end of signing up. I get where they’re coming from, but it definitely sobers you up quickly. I also did a quick mental review of all my answers — because with my luck, it would just be typical to end up with another criminal conviction out of all this.

The process of giving plasma takes around 45 minutes. It involves drawing blood, extracting the plasma, and then returning your red blood cells and platelets through the same needle, along with a saline solution. Below you can see the chair and the apheresis machine — the one that works the magic.

The phlebotomist hooked me up to the machine and gave me a very long-winded explanation about what was happening. She checked my consent more than once — and I appreciate why they have to do all of that — but I just felt like saying, enough talk, stick the needle in and do what you have to do.

But then, when she did put the needle in, I don’t know what happened, but blood went everywhere. It was right then and there that I realised I could never be a phlebotomist myself, because the sight of all that blood made me want to be sick.

Once things were under control, I settled into the chair. There were a few weird sensations but nothing that really bothered me. While I was lying there, Rebecca sent me a photo of the bunch of flowers I’d sent her — they’d just been delivered at 7pm from Tynte Flowers.

Rebecca had gone for a job with one of the government hospitals as a peer worker in mental health support and had just found out she didn’t get it. She was really upset, so I sent her flowers to remind her how fabulous she is, that she’s loved, and that something else will come up soon.

You can see the flowers below. I was happy with them, though I have to admit I’m getting a bit tired of Tynte — they don’t change things up as much as I’d like.

In the middle of my donation, the machine made a loud noise and the phlebotomist said we had to stop the process. She told me they’d managed to get 200 millilitres of plasma to donate, but my vein wasn’t accepting the red blood cells, platelets, and saline solution being returned. Apparently, it happens all the time — just one of those things.

She said I’d probably end up with a few bruises where the needles had been, and that I could come back in two weeks, which is exactly what I’m going to do.

I still had to hang around the centre for about half an hour afterward, just to make sure I was okay. They had plenty of food and drink available for donors to help replenish themselves. You can see the fridge full of drinks below.

I want to close this post by sharing something I was thinking about. I remember reading an article online about the judge in Sydney and the last case he handled before retiring. The title of the piece mentioned a “Swan Song.” When I saw that, I started wondering what a swan song actually is.

The myth goes all the way back to ancient Greece. People believed that swans were silent their whole lives but, sensing their own death, would sing one final, heartbreakingly beautiful song. Plato wrote that the swan’s last song was a hymn to Apollo — the god of music and light — sung not in sorrow but in joy, because the bird was going home to the divine. Later writers like Aesop and Aristotle debated whether it was literally true or simply poetic, but the image endured.

Over centuries, the “swan song” came to symbolise that moment when an artist, leader, or anyone, really, produces one final act of grace or brilliance before fading away — the beauty that arrives precisely because it’s ending.

There’s something about that idea that’s so incredibly beautiful — and yet, at the same time, so incredibly devastating.

Where There Are Monsters...

This afternoon, just before two o’clock, Mum dropped me at Victoria Square. I was there for the start of a pro-Palestine march to Parliament House, but as I walked toward the crowd I saw the most magnificent sight, which you can see below.

If you can’t read it, it says:

"1986 – HALLEY'S COMET– 2062 BENEATH THIS PLAQUE LIES A CAPSULE CONTAINING MESSAGES FROM SCHOOL CHILDREN AND RESIDENTS OF SOUTH AUSTRALIA IN THE YEAR 1986 TO CITIZENS OF THE STATE 2062. A  COMBINED RESIDENTIAL CHILD CARE AGENCIES PROJECT."

I absolutely love this. I absolutely love everything about time capsules; they are very much a stand alone piece of conceptual artwork. And I remember when Halley’s Comet came in March 1986. I was four turning five that year. I remember it clearly. My dad said we couldn’t look at it directly, so he made us look at the shadow on a piece of paper.

Having been involved with astronomy myself a little bit, I know you can look directly at Halley’s Comet. Dad was probably just being extra careful, mixing up solar eclipse viewing etiquette with his old wild ideas about how the world works.

What I remember most was asking my dad if we could watch Halley’s Comet together when it came back. Vividly I recall him saying he would be pushing up daisies by then. I didn’t understand what that meant, and he outright said he would be dead by then, then looked at Mum and laughed. I knew what death was, but I had no real comprehension of it.

I’ve thought about my dad’s comments that night throughout my forty four years on earth. It was the first time I realised my dad might not be around forever. This plaque reminded me of him, and how unbelievable it still is that he’s gone.

I have a girlfriend I once made a pact with to watch Halley’s Comet together in 2062 when it returns. If I’m still alive, I’ll be eighty or eighty-one depending on the time of year it comes. I doubt I’ll live to that age, but if I do, I’ve decided I’m not going to watch it with this friend. She’s the one whose husband spent twelve thousand dollars on a Chanel handbag for her. I love her, but she’s the sort of person who is incredibly charming, and through that charm and a touch of insincerity makes a fool of you or makes promises she can’t keep.

I think I’ll watch it with my brother and his family. No doubt they’ll still be kicking on. They are extremely healthy. Obsessively so.

I have a fun fact about Halley’s Comet. Mark Twain was born on November 30, 1835, just after Halley’s Comet’s 1835 return. He then died on April 21, 1910, one day after the comet reached perihelion, its closest point to the Sun, during its 1910 return. I have always thought that is an incredibly magical coincidence.

When I did a series of drawings of Lady Justice in 2013, I drew Halley’s Comet in every picture to represent the majesty of Mark Twain. He himself believed he would go out with the comet. This was his prediction in 1909:

“I came in with Halley’s Comet in 1835. It is coming again next year, and I expect to go out with it. It will be the greatest disappointment of my life if I don’t. The Almighty has said, no doubt: Now here are these two unaccountable freaks; they came in together, they must go out together.”

After that nice little detour down memory lane, I wandered over to the crowd. At first, it didn’t seem like many people were there — you can see what I mean in the photo below.

But when I spotted a woman I know, I sat down to wait, and soon more and more people began to arrive. I snapped a photo of this lone vigilante below—if you can’t read his T-shirt, it says “True Blue Aussies.”

The moment I saw his T-shirt, I knew he wasn’t there to support Palestine. I watched as he spoke to the man beside him, asking things like, “Are you okay with Hamas?” before launching into a bit of a lecture. He wasn’t aggressive, but he was condescending. Police came over, spoke to him, and then he walked away.

I didn’t actually mind him being there—everyone has a right to their opinion. I was even hoping he’d come over to me; if he’d asked whether I was okay with Hamas, I would have asked, “Are you okay with Israel?” and built my argument from there. He didn’t, and I don’t think he was thrilled that I took his photo.

As the crowd swelled, I looked around at the signs. I particularly liked the one below.

People started walking towards King William Street. I turned around and saw a group of socialists, which I liked.

Then we walked slowly down King William Street. People were banging drums, chanting, yelling—it was loud. Very loud. I lost the woman I knew, so I walked alone, proudly, towards Parliament House. I took the two photos below from within the crowd.

Outside Parliament House, I found a good spot and got ready for the speeches. There were a lot of people—thousands, it seemed.

There were a number of speakers, including a few who’d also spoken at the September march. Greens Senator Barbara Pocock took the microphone—passionate and incredibly impressive.

If I weren’t such a wounded, flawed, and tainted soul, I think I’d have liked to be a politician; it’s just that for nearly thirty years I’ve been a member of the wrong party. The speakers were great—they really revved up the crowd. One woman said something I loved: “Where there are monsters, there are heroes.” She was referring to a South Australian doctor returning today from volunteering in Gaza.

But the one who really caught my attention was Ahmed Azar—you can see him below.

He’s involved with one of the socialist groups. A couple of days ago he was protesting for the freedom flotillas trying to reach Gaza. He was then arrested at his home, in front of his family, for his protest activity. At the station they said they’d release him on bail — but the conditions were strict, including a ban on entering the CBD, which would have meant he couldn’t come to the march today. So he refused to sign the bail conditions and chose to spend the night in a jail cell. I really supported this. He was saying “fuck you” to authority and I liked that.

It did, however, make me wonder if he would end up with a criminal conviction—in which case I would have stood in solidarity with him. He also spoke about the new law he was arrested under and how the Malinauskas government set it up to restrict freedom of protest. I really liked this guy. I hope I get to meet him sometime. I like his principles and how he did the right thing by spending the night in jail so he could speak at the march and rally today.

There were a few more speakers, and then Peter Combe sang a peace song to close the event. I wasn’t sure if he’d written it or just woven in his own words, but either way it was good. I didn’t warm to him, though. In my view, he spoke with an air of arrogance, as if he were doing everyone a massive favour by being there. I used to love his music back when I was watching Halley’s Comet with my dad, but after today that childhood adoration has dissolved. You can see him below.

As people began to leave, I walked up the steps of Parliament House to look at a piece of artwork someone had made. I wish I had the artist’s name, but there was no one around to ask.

It was a Palestinian flag made of hearts. Each heart represented 100 Palestinian children killed, with some of the children’s names written on the hearts as well.

I thought it was magnificent—shocking, heartbreaking, awe-inspiring—and, to me, the very definition of conceptual art. It inspired me. I want to create like this: art that means something, that carries a real message. It’s not the sort of work you could ever make money from—money defies the point. It’s about saying, “Wake up and pay attention.”

On my way to the cab rank out the front of the casino on North Terrace, I spotted this cheeky character.

I’m not entirely sure what he was meant to be—a dragon, maybe?—but he posed for photos with all sorts of people, which I loved. Spread the message.

I saw the march on Channel 7’s 6:00 pm news, and The Advertiser ran an online piece about it. In my view, they framed the protesters as if they were supporting terrorism. The article opens with:

"Thousands of people joined a pro-Palestine rally in Adelaide’s CBD on Sunday and repeated a phrase adopted by terrorist organisation Hamas, despite a ceasefire in place which will see the release of hostages and Israeli forces pulling back in Gaza. 

Pro-Palestine supporters at the rally, starting at Victoria Square and marching towards Parliament House, could be heard chanting “from the river to the sea” as they marched.

The phrase refers to the territory between the Jordan River and the Mediterranean Sea and is interpreted by some as a call to eliminate the Israeli state."

People say “from the river to the sea” is a genocidal phrase. I completely disagree. What feels genocidal to me is bombing hospitals and schools; denying a population food, water, and medical supplies; killing journalists; sniping children; and telling people to flee to a “safe zone” and then bombing the safe zone.

There may be a ceasefire, but Israel hasn’t even begun to make things right with the Palestinians. Until that day comes, I’ll make my way to Victoria Square—or any other square—and march for a people whose existence, in Gaza, the West Bank, and East Jerusalem has been dictated by bloodthirsty, genocidal war criminals.

Jane Fonda Of The Salon

Sometimes when I go to the salon for a blow-dry, Mum comes too. My hairdresser, Mario, does us both—usually one after the other. Mum actually has her own hairdresser, Ros at another salon, who she gets on well with, so I always tell her she’s cheating on Ros with mine. Earlier today we both went in to get our hair done. Below you can inside the salon. 

Our first appointment was at three and, being a Saturday afternoon, they were really busy. We had to wait around a bit, but I don’t mind — it’s a really social atmosphere and I’ve come to know everyone well. They seated Mum and me on opposite sides of the salon because of seat availability.

Mario started on my hair first while one of the apprentices shampooed Mum’s. We usually have a good old chat, and he knows about my criminal conviction. I told him how I’d applied for a police certificate for my own records, ticked “working with vulnerable people,” and no disclosable court outcomes came up. I said this has stripped me of whatever sense of self I had — I don’t know if I’m convicted or not. Am I a criminal, or am I not?

He agreed it’s confusing. But when I tell people about this, I don’t think they understand how I got the conviction for using a mobile phone while driving. The conviction isn’t for the act itself; it’s because I contested it instead of appealing — and I basically didn’t show up to court.

Mario has told me a few times he has a conviction for speeding from when he was younger — drag racing in the streets, forty years ago — and that it still shows up. I don’t think it would appear on a police check, though; more likely it’s on an internal record, if at all.

After Mario blow-dried my hair he had to do a perm and then Mum’s hair before he could straighten mine, which was totally fine. I went over to check on Mum and she had a go at me for talking about my conviction. She said I’d told the whole salon about my criminal record and that it sounded like I was proud of it. I told her Mario already knew, and that I’m not proud of it. In fact, I wanted to snap back, because as this keeps dragging on I can feel myself spiralling into a whirlpool of shame.

As the day wound down and clients started to leave, I moved to the chair next to Mum. I showed Mario a pretty bad bruise I’d recently acquired when I fell on the stairs in our living room.

It’s not the only injury I’m carrying at the moment. The other night I was in bed trying to get to sleep. My beautiful old cat, Chloe, was next to me — we sometimes sleep with my hand on her paw. As I was drifting off, out of nowhere she suddenly bit me, hard, took off a chunk of my fingernail, scratched my hand, and took a couple of extra bites before leaping off the bed and bolting into the hallway. There was blood everywhere.

I cleaned it up and then took care of the wounds, especially the fingernail. A little later Chloe came back to the doorway and just stood there looking at the bed, as if she was reflecting on the violence that had just taken place there. She was very loved up after that and I forgave her quickly but it goes to show, at the end of the day she’s an animal and you can’t fully trust them.

Below you can see the scratches on my hand. If you look closely, you can also see how old my hand looks. I’m ageing rapidly.

Back to the salon. While we were all over on one side, Mario took care of his client who was getting a perm — a young man, actually. It reminded me of when I worked at a hairdressing salon in town; one of the stylists used to perm her partner’s hair. I think it looks kind of cool on a guy.

I started telling everyone how I used to work at a salon doing reception and shampooing and how Mum used to get her hair done there. The hairdressers—and even the owner—used to call her the “Jane Fonda of the salon”.

I don’t know what you’d call what Mum had done today — I think it was a set, because she had rollers in. I snuck a photo of her below. She said she’d kill me if I took a photo of her face.

That’s a drier orbiting around her head. I told Mario I think this one is too modern — I prefer the old vintage ones that are clear and you sit directly under.

We had a great afternoon at the salon. We waited around a bit and our hair got done in stages, but half the fun is just being there. On the way home I said to Mum they probably think she’s the “Jane Fonda” of their salon, too. She asked what that even means, and I told her: it’s the glamour, the celebrity, the beauty. She just laughed.

I love weekends because that’s when make my volunteer calls. I mostly call the same people every week and I’ve really gotten to know some of them. I remember our individual conversations. At first I thought I’d need notes, but when I dial a particular person I can recall everything we’ve talked about before. I’m sad because one man I considered my favourite is no longer on my list, which makes me think he may have passed. He was significantly older and sometimes he didn’t sound too well.

Alongside the regulars in South Australia, I always have a couple of interstate calls to unknown people. That’s good too, they talk about the weather, and they’re interested in where I’m from. 

There’s one man I talk to for longer than the others, and last week, pretty much out of nowhere, he told me to look up 3I/ATLAS. I looked it up — it’s an interstellar comet. This morning I told him I find that kind of thing interesting because I know about the interstellar object ‘Oumuamua' that passed through the solar system in 2017. I also knew there’s a professor at Harvard, Avi Loeb, who argued it may have been artificial in origin but I didn’t mention that.

Then he brought up the topic himself. He said he thought 3I/ATLAS was alien in nature, and he started talking about the origin of the pyramids and a few other classic ancient astronaut ideas. I wanted to engage. I really did, and I could have because he would have been impressed by how interested I am in exactly the same things. But I’m a professional. That would go against the principles of the organisation, and it would be incredibly unprofessional to discuss ancient astronaut theory with one of our clients. So it was a conversation that never happened. And it never will.

Still, it’s nice to know there are other ancient astronaut theorists out there. Probably more than I realise.

As I’ve mentioned, I’ve got an assessment centre at the Red Cross Lifeblood call centre on Wednesday. I’ve been jumping from wanting the job to not wanting the job. It’s full-time, and the alternative is going to Adelaide University as the oldest student in the universe and studying Fine Arts.

If I get the Red Cross job, I won’t be able to study in person. I could do it online, but it’s not the same. So, very simply, it’s one or the other.

I thought working at Red Cross would be good for my sleep and for money. But if you strip everything away, if sleep didn’t matter, if money didn’t matter, and I could do whatever I wanted, I would choose Adelaide University. I want to make things on a pottery wheel, blow glass, paint ridiculous paintings, and write ridiculous letters.

Will it ever pay? I’ve got enough to live on for now. I’ll be okay for the next six months or so. But if I want to travel and explore art ideas overseas, I’ll need money.

I want to be an artist. And the thought of having all that time robbed from me by full-time work has made me realise I don’t want the Red Cross job. I want to devote my time to creating conceptual artwork. So I’ve decided against the job. That’s my final call.

I’ve thought about going to the assessment centre on Wednesday just to see if I could get the job. The conceptual artist in me wanted to test whether I could be hired with a criminal conviction hanging over my head. But that’s really just ego, and I won’t be drawn into it. I’m going to contact them on Monday and withdraw so they can give someone else a shot.

Since I’ve been home I’ve actually applied for two other jobs that looked flexible with shifts. The first is with a tow truck company on the phones. The call centre runs on a 24 hour roster and I expect some of the calls would be pretty intense. Someone who’s just pranged their car, or someone trying to get their car back after it’s been towed. I applied saying I’m going back to uni next year and I’m looking to work in a call centre alongside my studies.

The second is at a place that sells hearing aids, also in their call centre. It’s inbound and outbound calls to people about hearing aids. There’s some warm selling involved and it mentioned incentives and bonuses. It was listed as full-time or part-time.

I applied for both thinking they’d suit what I’m doing, but then I realised I don’t want either of them. Mum told me the tow truck industry doesn’t have a great name and went into the ins and outs of it, which I found incredibly off putting. And with the hearing aid place, I’ve never done sales and I’ve always said I couldn’t. I thought if it was warm sales to existing customers, or people who already need a hearing aid, I could handle it — but I can’t. I don’t want to receive a “bonus” for selling something to someone. If it were purely a service, there’d be no bonus; you’d just be doing a good thing. Where there’s a bonus, there’s profit and I don’t like it. I understand businesses have to run at a profit, but I don’t want to be part of that machine.

I doubt either of them will call me, but if they do I’ll let them know I’m no longer looking.

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.