Secrets

park bench rendezvous:

seniors pry open a scandal,

tickled pink.

the fence

The fence is falling over.

I can see it from the car. It pouts like a protruding lower lip, as if any moment it will be overcome, and collapse onto the grass.

Around the site of bending the treated pine is tinged green, weakened by relentless moisture. I wonder if it has played host to ivy, and whether its removal marks the final straw.

Once we cut some ivy from our side fence, and woke next morning to find it prostrate on the ground, with our neighbour standing over it. She was none too pleased with our rigourous pruning, and refused to pay her portion for a new one.

This one is putting up greater resistence.

Children swarm into the park for the weekend, reinvigorated by the school bell. The limping fence invites their attention, daring them to lean upon its imperfection, to peer at the contents of the yard beyond.

But not today.

The weekend summons forcefully, and they do not consider its plight. Come Monday, when freedom seems a world away, their attention may be tweaked. A challenge set.

Perhaps by then a hefty rain shower will have settled the matter.


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after 9am

After 9am change creeps in at the edges.

Until now there has been no colour here. No flamboyance or daring. The people wear black and grey, ties and heels. The only exception is the fluro green shirts of the hard hats on 'smoko'. Yet their conformity is similarly inscribed by colour.

After 9 o'clock there is a gap.

In walks a checked shirt with rolled-up sleeves and beige corduroy trousers. He is prominent beside his companion in non-descript pale blue shirt and tie.

Soon after a red jacket strides in.

A sky blue umbrella.

A fitted cardigan with spotted collar and cuffs.

And there, an open-necked shirt strides past, swinging a supermarket-bag-lunch beside him.

A brown zipped-up knit is closely followed by yellow tie, who mocks the dress-code by an overstated bowler hat. This young Rumpole twirls an oversized umbrella as if a walking cane.

A solid African man in a serious suit has chosen a lolly-pink tie and carries an umbrella in pastel purple.

After 9am a breath of fresh air blows through a city office.

Tony Abbott and the Swivel Chair

Tony Abbott sits by the despatch box, head bowed and shoulders hunched. I am seated in the public gallery where I observe the conniptions of Question Time in the Australian House of Representatives. It is a spectacle of some gravity. I have come for theatre, and I am not disappointed, except where Abbott is concerned.

From my vantage point Tony Abbott appears small. Insecure even. Not once, in the space of two hours, do I see Tony Abbott, Leader of the Opposition, turn to face the members of the house. Not once does he elicit the support of oppostion ranks or the public gallery as he speaks, either by gesture or glance. Not once do I see this man acknowledge his back bench. It is true that he engages with his immediate colleagues in private consultation on a few occasions, and yet he seems out-of-the-loop. Disconnected somehow. Diminished.

In contrast Joe Hockey looms large. He sits on the edge of his seat, grasping every opportunity to object. He paces, he glowers, he talks animatedly with his allies, he jokes. He is the one our eyes are drawn to. He makes the play.

There is a good reason why the Prime Minister and the Leader of the Opposition have swivel chairs. They are, after all, for swivelling. 360 degrees. Tony Abbott could trade his in for A-Great-Big-New-Swivel-Chair-with-a-90-Degree-Capacity. If his body language is any guide, he is more focussed on the press gallery than his colleagues or public visitors. But Abbott would do well to swivel around once in awhile, not least to cover his own back.

And perhaps he is right to focus on the press. For on the television news that evening, Abbott is afforded far greater influence over proceedings that I observed that afternoon. His few minutes speaking over the despatch box, have rendered him more coverage than any other protaganist.

I expected Tony Abbott to be a street fighter. Aggressive, involved and out-there. But he wasn't. Not on the day I was there. I saw a man who said his piece and sat down, who received generous coverage, and then flailed about in his own wake.

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in a canberra cafe

A woman is weeping by the door. I turn from my early morning coffee to see her squatting by a table on the floor. Another woman wearing a red jacket and serious hair approaches and tries to console her. The sobbing is confronting. It is impossible not to listen.

"You need to pull yourself together. You are much loved here," she says.

She has received a letter, complaining about her work. The letter deals in generalities and she has no idea what the complaints are.

Red Jacket helps her onto a chair and says,
"They sent you a letter? What the hell is that? Why can't they say we need to have a chat?

She is beside herself. People walk past with coffee-to-go to wait for elevators up to the government department offices. They barely acknowledge the drama through the glass walls.

Now her sobs are punctuated by short little gasps. Red Jacket is trying to find a way through the fog.

"They need to outline the complaints clearly. They have to give you the opportunity to respond to the criticism. They mustn't have enought work to do to create all this drama. They wrote you a letter - how ironic is that!"

After some time Red Jacket makes her goodbyes.
"Are you alright? Don't come back up until you've calmed down, and then you need to go straight in and sort it out."

Time passes. Forty minutes of it, and she is still sitting there staring at the table top. Calm. Immobile. Alone. Life on pause.

A man walks past and calls, "good morning". He double-takes at her blotchy face and scurries for the lift. Late.

Letters are sent by people who lack confidence to talk face-to-face. They are serious, they assert power, and they are gutless. Letters imply there is no room for discussion. They keep a recipient at arms length, inhibiting relationship.

She has a phone call. She is speaking in a tongue I do not recognise, laughing quietly, murmuring. This is where her strength will be born. A phone call from one who grants her respect through conversation.

And suddenly I look up and she is gone. I wonder how she will redeem the day.

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Little Flinders

Standing on Little Flinders street, they make a striking pair.

The younger of the two, perhaps nine or ten years old, wears bright green shoes and a peaked cap with propellor on top. It is Thursday morning, and I wonder why he is not at school. The older man wears weary shoulders, a heavy leg bandage and explorer socks without shoes.

They stand by an unmarked pair of glossy black double doors, opening straight onto the street. There is no plaque or letterbox. Who knows its business?

Explorer socks bends to hear young green shoes speak. He nods, and turns his mouth up at the edges. They do not appear to be waiting for anything, or anyone. They simply stand companionably, side by side.

Minutes pass. The hustle of suits brush past them, barely offering a second glance, despite the outlandish costumes. Occasionally Explorer socks raises his eyes to the building rising directly above the cafe in which I am sitting.

Space and time to watch and spend is a gift rarely enjoyed.

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wild beach

She runs circles on the shoreline, in an unflinching bubble of her own existence.

Oblivious to the brutal beating of the surf, she flits in. And out. Never venturing deeper than her ankles. Occasionally she drops to her belly, kicking the fresh air vigourously, rising by chance to narrowly avoid consumption by the incoming wave.

Her timing is accidental, yet impeccable. How does she do it?

Those watching for waves out in the deep, seem unable to maintain such fortune. In contrast, they are unhinged by the water's violence, dumped as they are, wave upon wave.

Yet this slight pink figure in perpetual frolic, dances in danger's face, with not so much as a glance in its direction.

Keeping her own counsel. Teasing the ocean. Daring it to break its rhythm so to unsettle hers.

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