Isolation is not new to me. In fact, it’s been a predominant feature in my life due to having an autoimmune illness. Now that we are all required to self-isolate I feel I’ve been preparing for this most of my life. It’s a hard way to live physically forced to be distanced from others, especially loved ones. The first time I had to isolate myself was when I needed surgery to remove part of my small bowel. I also needed to put on weight to survive post-surgery. My gastronomic specialist, who was also my surgeon, took drastic measures to make sure I isolated. 

At the time I was young and working in a job I really liked. I was also happily partying hard after breaking up from a bad relationship (my first, which is mentioned in my novella). Except for my illness, I was loving life. My body was crashing physically due to my illness but I needed to work to pay bills so I used uppers to keep my body going. On my last visit to my specialist I told him all this. His response was that I needed to take my health seriously and to make it my first priority. He didn’t want to hospitalise me as he felt hospitals were buildings full of sick and diseased people, so not an optimum place for someone with a compromised immune system. He knew I had access to family support and said I needed to move back in with my parents to convalesce and prepare my body for surgery.

Surgery wasn’t going to cure me as I knew there is no cure for Crohn’s disease. Surgery was a way to help control the illness but wasn’t always a guarantee that it would do so. I was sick of being sick and I wasn’t prepared to give up my lifestyle. I decided death was a preferred option as continuing my life in pain was what I feared most. I stopped going to see him and continued my life as before. 

Eventually, even the uppers weren’t helping to keep me going. My illness became so bad that I had to stop work and decided to wait for death, hoping it would come quickly. Unbeknown to me my specialist decided to persevere with extending my life without my permission. Whilst I’m vomiting in a bucket placed next to my bed, for I had become too weak to make constant trips to the bathroom, my bed covers were suddenly ripped off from atop my body and, to my utter surprise, my mother stood at the end of my bed in a furious stance with her hands on her hips. 

“So, your majesty” this from my mother “your doctor called me and told me how sick you are but obviously you think you know better. Get out of bed now. You’re coming home with me”. My mind exploded into “my doctor did what? He did what! How dare he go against patient confidentiality! To say I was furious with him was an understatement. My father and uncle appeared, grabbing my belongings and proceeded to fill up the back of my uncle’s utility truck parked outside. I was bundled into another car with my mother and off we went. I was too weak to object but I felt some relief thinking of things I could do to my specialist for being such a traitor. 

At first, I wanted to get to him ASAP to kill him but I calmed down enough to make an appointment first so that I would be sure to have access to him. Finally, my appointment time came and I stormed into his office ready to blast his arse for such unprofessional behaviour. Before I could open my mouth he put his arms up as a gesture of surrender and proceeded to tell me, “99 percent of my patients aren’t as sick as they think they are. The other 1 percent are really ill and you’re in that 1 percent. You know me, I’m not one that’s that keen on people but I like you and I’m losing you. I don’t want to lose you and I need your help in that. I’m sorry but your situation isn’t just about you and your illness doesn’t only involve you.” We talked some more and I came to realise that pep talk was what I needed to get my priorities right. 

It was hard to adjust to isolation. I had to cut off from everyone and though I explained why many didn’t understand. My body was too weak to do anything other than mostly sleep. I could no longer socialise at all. Eventually, I lost contact with most of my friends as their life continued without me. I grieved for who I once was but my body wasn’t giving me a choice to live any other way. It took me a while to accept my new life and as bad as my illness was my specialist was right, l was lucky to have had support and somewhere to go. Most importantly I had people in my life that really cared for me and my life (or death) choices affected them too. I needed to understand and accept that.

I’m more of a femme fatality rather than a femme fatale. I’ve never been good at flirting.  In fact, I don’t have a clue about how to flirt. I’ve been attracted to guys but I’m not secure in making the first move. It’s not that I feel unattractive, it’s just that I lack confidence in making the first move. Yet, I’m not shy at all, normally. I love meeting new people and I’m hardly ever at a loss for conversation. I’m good at small talk but I much prefer deep conversations as I find humans fascinating creatures to study and love learning about them. Even as a young child I loved having conversations with adults and my relatives say I was able to hold my own in a conversation from a very young age.

I can also often be clueless when a guy is flirting with me. I once accepted a lift after a party from an acquaintance that I’d had gotten to know a little more about that night. No flirting occurred as far as I had fathomed. When we arrived at my destination I wondered why I had become restricted in movement in exiting his car and realised he was holding onto the sash I was wearing as a belt (it was the 80’s and I was a fashion victim of the times). I asked him why he was doing this. He responded “never mind” and let go. It wasn’t till over an hour later whilst reading in bed that the penny dropped. That’s how clueless I can be. Damn, that was a move and I hadn’t realised. Double damn as I did fancy him too.

My friendliness often led those of the male persuasion, and on the odd occasion females, to misconstrue that my interest was more than it was. I’d often go see live bands and there were a couple of band members I’d become friends with. One night after watching a particular band a band member dropped me off at home and I invited him in for a coffee, as we were in the middle of a debate and I was interested in continuing the conversation. I’d not long moved into this apartment that I shared with a friend of a friend who had a fascination for skulls. There were animal skulls everywhere and various paintings depicting human skulls. Most of his collection adorned the living room and I’d not contributed any personal trappings of my taste. The band guy accepted my invitation for a coffee but after only a couple of minutes looking around the living room he made a statement that he really fancied me but he felt out of his depth and needed to leave. I thought this odd and pondered his comment after he departed. Then it hit me that I hadn’t told him I didn’t live alone. I hadn’t had a chance to. I laughed to myself as I looked around and realised he must have thought the decor was my own personal taste. The guy was only going to get a coffee from me yet I must admit I admired him for having some standards. 

I attended a play years ago that had well known Australian actors and one of these actors was the narrator who would address the audience. I was seated in the second row with a couple of girlfriends and they both whispered to me that he seemed to constantly be looking directly at me when he spoke. I noticed this too but didn’t think too much about it as I continued to enjoy the play. After the performance, we went to a nearby hotel/restaurant for coffee. Once we decided to leave my girlfriends went to the bathroom. As I didn’t need to go I decided to wait in an adjoining room to admire portraits adorning the walls. My girlfriends were taking their time and as I passed a table while walking to the other side of the room I noticed and locked eyes with the very actor who’d played the narrator sitting at that table. He smiled up at me and said hello. I was so surprised at this sudden turn of events that when I opened my mouth to comment on how much I enjoyed the play and his performance all that came out of my mouth was a squeak. I saw my friends returning from the bathroom and quickly departed wordlessly, heading towards them before I could further embarrass myself with my lack of composure. I told them we needed to leave immediately and I’d explain later. I don’t know if he was trying to pick me up. I only know that this time it was I who felt out of my depth.

I’d say being a femme fatality hasn’t been too much of a problem in my life. I don’t feel like I’ve missed out on much as looking back it’s boded well for me. My cluelessness on being hit on has saved me the need to reject a fair amount of suitors verbally and I have got the picture enough times to have enjoyed a satisfying love life.

In my novella, I mention drug use in the brothel industry on a few occasions. Even though drugs are a part of the sex industry no drugs are allowed on brothel premises by law. On my personal shifts, I allowed sex workers to leave the premises for an hour, maximum, for a break. I can’t stop people from doing drugs if they really have a mind to do so but I can do whatever I need to cover my own arse. If I found them using or dealing on the premises, big trouble for them. I’d come down on them hard as my brothel manger’s license, as well as a hefty fine, was at stake. 

There came a time when I left a job I really loved because of drug use. At one particular brothel, the owner was anti-drugs big time. He was also the best boss I’ve ever worked for in any industry. The working conditions were great and the pay was great. I even found myself growing close to him and his partner. His partner, Janet, was also a manager. I really liked Janet and got on great with her. We’d often chat on the phone out of working hours. I didn’t do this with any other manager at that brothel. Also, the other managers were kind of mean to Janet, especially behind her back. I couldn’t understand why and thought it might have to do with their resentment towards her for being the boss's girlfriend. 

Many staff members, including sex workers, called Janet names behind her back. The main one being ‘hose nose’ which I found odd as she had a very pretty nose. Boy, was I naïve! That name was in reference to her love of snorting cocaine or any other white line substances. I had no idea and looking back was probably the only one without a clue (other than her partner, my boss). Maybe because we were close people assumed I already knew so I wasn’t told outright about her addiction. Once I found out about Janet I was more worried about the consequences of my boss finding out. As I said, he was seriously anti-drugs and was known to fire anyone on the spot who dabbled or even knew about the dabbling. 

I discovered Janet’s addiction when a bout of flu hit the staff, full-on. Everyone was getting sick at once. I have a flu vaccine injection every year due to my autoimmune illness so haven’t had the flu in over 20 years. This precaution held me in good stead as I was practically the only one not infected. I found myself being the only staff member available at one stage, other than Janet who desperately talked me into pulling a 36-hour shift. I even made up a story of a family event that was compulsory attendance to make sure I could leave after doing 36 hours straight. 

At long last, that hard stretch came to an end and Janet called me into her office just before I was about to leave saying she just wanted a quick chat. I’m exhausted when I walk in and am shocked to find there’s a white powdery line stretching the length of the desk-top, and this was one big desk. Janet pleaded with me to come back after my ‘family event’ and if I did the line was mine for the taking. Suddenly I had a light bulb moment and all the red flags I failed to realise before were then so clear to me. I realised she was good at manipulating the truth with those close to her, myself a prime example. My mind clicked to “I need to get out, now!” Not only out of the current situation facing me but out of the business completely. I made an excuse that my drug of choice was only of the green smoking variety. I thanked her for the offer anyway and made a hasty retreat. I still liked Janet as a person as we’d become close but her secrecy with her drug habit made me realise I had to remove myself from the situation before all hell broke loose. My boss would lose it big time if he ever found out.  He knew we were close and I doubt he’d believe I truly wasn’t aware. Even though he was a great boss I saw him lose it with others and knew I didn’t ever want to be on the receiving end of that. 

When the universe spoke I learnt to listen. I found another position as soon as I could and left. I heard on the grapevine a few months later that the shit hit the fan when poor Janet’s drug use was discovered by her partner. He kicked her out of his business and their home.  As I said, he was anti-drugs and, to his credit, this wasn’t just a position he held professionally but also personally.  

This weeks blog will be a short one. It’s about my career as a phone sex worker and the shortness of the blog coincides with the brevity of that career. I once (many, many years ago) tried working in the phone sex industry. Tried is the optimum description here. It was during a time when my illness got so bad that I literally could rarely leave the house. Going to the bathroom 10 times a day was a good day. Add to that the sheer exhaustion and a sore arse from constantly wiping, on top of stomach cramps, I couldn’t move or walk much either. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

It was so long ago that Bill Gates was still a teen. The internet and computers were not the norms as yet. I rang a phone sex number from an adult magazine I’d bought and quickly told the lady on the phone I wasn’t looking for a service but wondered if she could help me with employment. She readily gave me a name and number to call. The job was simple enough. I was given a four-digit number to dial that would log me on or off when I wanted to work so I could pick my own hours. That helped immensely seeing as I was living with my parents and, of course, they had no idea nor did I want them to know of my new employment. 

Every time I’d try to dial those four digits to log on I’d break out in a nervous sweat. I just couldn’t do it. I was out of my depths and very uncomfortable. I had no problem with phone sex with a partner but when it came to a stranger I was way out of my comfort zone. I didn’t know what to say or how to respond to a caller so decided to call the lady who had set me up to explain and resign. She tried to encourage me to continue by suggesting I read from a porn magazine or book. I knew I still couldn’t do it. 

My new boss then proceeded to persuade me to be part of her new venture ‘call a caring friend’. This service was a chat service for companionship only. Sex talk was strictly forbidden. She specified that if a caller started to talk sexually I was to warn them once then hang up if they continued. She claimed consumer services sometimes listened in and she could be shut down for breaching consumer laws if this strict rule wasn’t adhered to. 

I decided to give it a go. I got plenty of calls from guys wanting to talk dirty. I warned them once and they all got hung up on once they continued. I got only one call from someone wanting to chat and not about sex. This poor guy was thinking of killing himself and after talking to him for only a couple of minutes I realised he really needed help from someone more experienced than I and so gave him the number to Lifeline, a service he had no idea existed. I rang my boss after that call and quit totally.

Most of my employment has been as a receptionist and I’m proud to say I know I give good phone. But in the capacity as a phone sex operator, I felt the universe was saying loud and clear that this job was not for me.

My first real struggle with gaining some independence from my mother came when I questioned the faith I was born into. My mother is a strict Roman Catholic and my father was an atheist. I kind of had the best of both worlds when it came to belief. My parents decided that their offspring would be brought up in my mother’s faith until we were old enough to decide for ourselves. I did not realise this agreement existed until I discovered my mother welching on the deal. 

I remember distinctly when I first questioned the faith I was indoctrinated into. I was 13 years old and attending Christmas Eve midnight mass in a church that I was unfamiliar with. This Catholic church was massive and, being one of the most popular, it was also very crowded.  This only added to the oppressing heat of that summer’s night. I found myself almost hypnotised by the monotonous drone of the priest’s words I’d heard countless times before. I stood transfixed staring up at an enormous wooden sculpture suspended directly above me on the ceiling depicting Christ crucified on the cross. I remember being impressed at the size of the sculpture. That impressed feeling soon turned to one of confusion. I felt an overwhelming sense of how morbid my immediate surroundings were. We were literally idolising an effigy of a man being tortured. A representation that was even popularly worn as jewellery on the end of a chain around one’s neck. As a comedian once said, “I greatly admire JFK but if I went around wearing a piece of jewellery of a dead man with a bullet hole in his head folks would think I was crazy”.

I’m not saying faith is wrong. I’m saying some rituals of certain faiths don’t make sense to me. The revelation that occurred at that midnight mass caused a personal crusade to understand more of what religion really was. I was to discover it was one hell of a journey, historically. This journey of discovery had me, through the years, forego the Catholic faith to become an atheist, then evolving into an agnostic before culminating into the faith I am now, which is spiritual. Spirituality is a broad concept with room for many perspectives. It includes a sense of connection to something bigger than ourselves. I believe all life is connected to a higher power and death is not the end, it’s just a transition to another plane. We are here to learn, what and why I do not know … as of yet. 

Anyhow, back to my mother and her tenacity in trying to save my soul. I wasn’t having it. Even though I tried to reason with her as to why I no longer shared her faith it fell on deaf ears. For over two years after my revelation at midnight mass I constantly argued with my mother over my refusal to attend Sunday morning mass. Every Sunday started the same. Sometimes she won and I’d relent just to get her off my back but more often than not she’d lose. Finally in the midst of the usual  “get out of bed and get ready for mass” from her and “if God is supposedly everywhere then he’s in my room” from me a voice from another room interrupted us and was heard to clearly state “leave her alone. If she doesn’t want to go let her be. She’s old enough”. 

My mother’s stubborn stance suddenly changed to one of alarm after my father spoke those words. Usually, my father was outside gardening Sunday mornings, therefore he was not normally privy to this Sunday morning ritual between my mother and I. My initial puzzlement at my father intervening grew into suspicion when my mother continued with a desperate look hissing repeatedly “get out of bed now!” Making sure to hiss quietly so my father couldn’t hear.  My brain ticked rapidly, my mother’s reaction made me realise something was afoot. 

“I’m old enough for what?” I asked her

This question caused her panic to turn to fear and then it dawned on me. I always knew my father’s view on religion and suddenly I realised what might be going on. 
“So I had a choice? All this time you’ve been at me to attend mass and I had a choice!”.
She opened her mouth to speak but I knew by her body language what was coming so I interrupted and told her quietly, but very sternly, “If you don’t back off I’m going to tell Papa I made that choice over two years ago and you’ve been forcing me. I wonder how he’ll react to that?”. This threat had my mother slump her shoulders in defeat. I knew then from her body language our Sunday morning battles were over and I’d won the war. 

My mother left my room in silent defeat. That’s right lady, walk away. Best you step away from your blackmailing hormonal demonic teen.

Going on from last week’s blog, being forced into self-isolation with my mother has been interesting, to put it nicely.  I didn’t realise how much my mother’s daily occupation of socialising gave me much needed personal space. This personal space has contributed greatly to a (mostly) harmonious mother/daughter cohabitation. 

My relationship with my mother, or should I say smother, has always been a clash of two strong personalities.  My mother thinks she doesn’t play favourites, but she does and I am her in-your-face favourite. I’m surprised my siblings don’t resent me more than they justifiably already do.  As a child, I didn’t realise I was the favourite. This knowledge came as I tried to grow my own independence.  

My mother is now using me for her entertainment.  My mother and I are close but I have to be careful how much of my time I give her for if I give her an inch she doesn’t only take a mile, she will take advantage and try to take the whole highway.  Once, when I wasn’t able to work due to my illness, I decided to give my time to my mother as a birthday present. As I was broke and she was always begging me to come out with her and her friends (I don’t know why but my mother loves to show me off) I thought giving myself as a present for the day was cheap and smart. Five of her friends joined us for the day.  We started with morning tea, then shopping, lunch, a trip to the casino, then afternoon tea. My body couldn’t keep up. I begged her to take me home while she continued without me. After six hours my body was exhausted. For my mother, this was a normal jaunt with her friends, not just a birthday celebration day.

In the current crisis, there has arisen some practical considerations for surviving self-imposed isolation.  For example, feeding oneself. I’ve never wanted to learn to cook. My mother is not only is a great cook but also loves to cook.  My mother finds cooking therapeutic and even chose it as a profession. She did not pass this gene onto me as I hate cooking. I find it a chore and can happily live off sandwiches.  Though I know I’ll regret it one day I’ve refused all her efforts to coax me to learn from her, maybe because she yells at me a lot when teaching. I’m crap at cooking and I know it. She says it’s imperative that I learn now for when she won’t be around.  Even though we truly believe and hope the current crises will pass without either one of us being affected I jokingly asked, “you mean like in two to three weeks?”

 “Vafanculo”, she laughingly replied, simultaneously gesturing with her fist.  They say laughter is the best medicine. Though it’s only been one week if this coronavirus crisis causes us to stay self-isolated for too long one of us might end up dead and it won’t be due to a virus.

My mother is a social butterfly. She’s 82 and looks good for her age. No cosmetic surgery for this octogenarian, just a dash of lipstick and she’s always good to go. This weeks blog photo was recently taken a fortnight ago at her great grandchild’s christening. The social butterfly that is my mother has had to curtail her social calendar since the coronavirus became pandemic. Though my mother looks good for her age she is still in the highest risk category as she suffers from severe bronchial asthma, an ailment she has suffered all of her life. Her bronchial asthma is so severe that medical practitioners don’t believe that she’s truly never smoked. 

My mother loves company. I mean, the more the merrier is her life motto. She is the fifth of nine children and has never really lived alone. I began to live with her once my father died as it suited us both. She’s always loved to socialise outdoors and indoors and that part of her hasn’t abated with age. She was never a homebody but once she became a widow she was rarely ever home during the day. Don’t get me wrong, my mother misses my father greatly and still grieves for him, as do I. I think her socialising increased after his death to help keep her mind occupied. For the social butterfly that my mother is it’s strange that she’s not more comfortable with her own company. 

With my father, staying home was preferable though when he did socialise he did so mainly to appease my mother.  He loved her dearly. My parents had a very happy marriage. Though they were complete opposites their respect, compromise and communication helped to make their marriage a success. In my youth, I took after my mother socially.  If a weekend didn’t have a social event it was a wasted weekend. With age I’ve mellowed more into my father with social events becoming more of a chore unless it’s a catch-up coffee, chat or dinner party with close friends, and these I prefer spaced well apart. 

Anyhow, back to my mother and her dilemma with the confines of the coronavirus crisis. At first, she resisted my attempts to get her to understand that she needed to curb her social calendar. She felt that at this late stage of her life she might as well make the most of it while she still could. She didn’t care if her health or life were in danger, she’d do as she pleased. I told her, in no uncertain terms, she had family responsibilities such as consideration for her children, grandchildren and even a great-grandchild. Her selfish attitude to put her life at risk didn’t only involve herself as her family still needed her. She didn’t like to hear it but she must have understood this somewhat as she did begin to curb her socialising, but not enough as far as her family were concerned. 

She belongs to two senior citizen clubs who met weekly and now both clubs have shut down any social events due to the coronavirus until further notice. Due to my mother’s favourite social events being forcibly restricted, for now, my mother has begun to accept and understand the gravity of this situation. My mother catches up with my oldest sister every Thursday morning for a coffee with friends that includes my niece and great-nephew.  My older sister soon put a stop to this. My younger sister refuses to let her four boys near my mother as they are all involved in sporting activities mixing with others. We now know people can be infected for days before symptoms show. Eventually, all three of her daughters have made sure my mother is quarantined whether she likes it or not. No more socialising, even with family. Better safe than sorry. In other words, the universe spoke and my social butterfly mother had no choice but to listen. Due to the pandemic, it is imperative to clip those wings for a while at least. 

I’m personally at risk due to my ill health and compromised immune system. So, living with my mother this quarantine works for me too. I am also responsible to see that my mother doesn’t stray. We are Italian so always have enough food and other necessary supplies to last at least 2 months (if not 2 years) even before the coronavirus pandemic occurred. We were even well stocked with toilet paper before the mad hoarding.  Having Crohn’s disease that was a given...thank goodness and phew! 

I admit I’m a badly behaving patient.  What I mean by badly behaving is that I hate being hospitalised.  When my Crohn’s disease plays up to the extent that I need strict medical attention to help control it, attached to IVs and in immense pain, I constantly beg to be discharged.  I am so persistent that when my specialist arrives to check up on me often his first words have been “you’re not going home today so don’t bother asking”.

I have been very fortunate with my healthcare and to be in the hands of a very competent medical professional (who’s now retired).  He was a specialist gastroenterologist and surgeon at the top in his field. He had access to six beds at all times for his patients.  These six beds were in diverse wards, depending on availability. Twice my bed was in the children’s ward and once in a ward where all the other occupants were anorexic.  I was even once placed in the psych ward, assured I was being administered for my physical ailments and not for my mental health. Obviously, I was slightly alarmed when placed there.  Being in various wards resulted in some interesting room companions. 

While staying in the children’s ward I woke one night to what I first thought was some poltergeist phenomenon happening.  My bed faced a linen closet which was now wide open and all I could see was linen flying out in all directions. I roused myself into a sitting position at this curiosity. Once I sat up I could see lower and discovered this was no ghostly apparition but a toddler who had escaped the confines of their bed and was merrily strewing the once neatly folded hospital linen across the room.  Once the mystery was solved I laid down back to sleep without informing staff as I figured they’d find out soon enough and left the kid to have some fun. 

While staying in the anorexic ward I felt guilty as I was allowed to come and go, even encouraged, from my bed when my body permitted.  The anorexics were only allowed this treat when they ate. (I never saw any of them eat the whole week I was hospitalised). Confined to beds their emancipated bodies with huge eyes followed me whenever I moved from my bed to shower or spend time in the patient’s common room.  At one stage two doctors stormed into the ward, closed the curtain on one patient and loud admonishment could be heard that if the patient continued to be uncooperative they would be forced to take drastic steps. I have no idea what these drastic steps were as when I returned from my shower she was gone and I didn’t see her for the rest of my stay. 

When recovering from my fourth surgery l encountered two other patients sneaking a smoke in the lovely gardens attached to the hospital.  We three soon formed a friendship that included sneaking out of our different wards to the gardens after 10 pm to meet up with the partner of one of the patients who was waiting for us with a cigarette (of the herbal kind).  On one occasion we found ourselves stuck on the ground floor some time after midnight when trying to return to our beds. The lift doors wouldn’t shut and none of us could climb the stairs as we were all attached to IV’s. Our giggling fits at our predicament (that herbal cigarette contributing greatly to our mirth) ruptured into uncontrollable laughter once we realised after half an hour stranded on the ground floor that one of our IV machines was pressed up against the ground floor elevator button. The laughter that erupted hurt due to my operation stitches.  We all sneaked back into our rooms and none of the staff ever discovered our nightly rendezvous. Those two sure made that hospital stay a pleasant one as well as memorable.

My first true love was books. As soon as I learnt to read I fell in love with the one on one relationship which comes from being lost in a book. The first time I read a book from cover to cover in one sitting I was 10 years old and it was Roald Dahl’s Charlie And The Chocolate Factory. The page-turning thrill of wanting to know what happened next as I was taken on a fascinating ride through someone else’s world captivated me. There was slight disappointment once reaching the end combined with the satisfaction of conclusion, yet knowingness I’d miss the characters I’d grown fond of. Well, until the next book anyway. I could always read a book again but I have a knack of remembering a book once I’ve read it so only revisit those I truly fall in love with. 

Jane Eyre is one of those books I have enjoyed re-reading, over and over. I read it as a teen and empathised with the heroine. She was plain-looking and hard done by in life and I felt I also suffered both while a teen. In hindsight, I wasn’t either. I was just a normal teen struggling with hormones and questioning my life. Most teenagers tend to feel hard done by at that stage of life. I was so enthralled while first reading that book that I could not put it down and was once caught reading it during a business studies class. 

The teacher of this class was a stickler when it came to not wasting his time on students whom he felt weren’t interested in learning. If you showed up late or were disruptive he’d ask you to leave his class for the day. As I said, I couldn’t resist escaping into Charlotte Bronte’s masterpiece of literature. Whilst sneaking a quick read in business class a hand suddenly slammed onto the book sitting on top of my desk. Unbeknown to me our teacher had snuck up on me from behind while I was lost in the adventure and dilemma of Jane and the highly mysterious lord of the manor, Rochester. 

“Are you studying this book in another class?”, he yelled at me. 

“No”, I managed to squeak. 

“No? You mean you’re reading this particular book because you want to read it?”

“Yes”. Another squeak from me emerged while waiting for the inevitable “get out of my class”, but it didn’t come. Surprisingly he walked away and sat back down behind his desk not even looking my way as he continued to teach till the end of the class. It seems even a business teacher understood the love of a good book.  

Sometimes I’d misplace a book and start to read another, only to end up reading both books intermittently after I found the first. My cousin discovered this trait while we were holidaying together one summer at the beach. Her curiosity wasn’t so much about reading two books at once. It was the diversity of my choice of novels which puzzled her. At the time I was reading Watership Down and a Jackie Collins novel. Maybe it’s the Gemini in me but I would read anything I could get my hands on though I did have my favourite authors. Shakespeare, Stephen King, Dean R Koontz, the Bronte sisters, Jane Austen, Oscar Wilde, Edgar Allen Poe, Isaac Asimov, Catherine Cookson, Terry Pratchett and so many more authors who I had learnt wouldn’t disappoint. 

When I was younger the classics were my top picks but as I grew older my love for biographies emerged. I still have the habit of reading whatever I can get my hands on and I’m rarely disappointed when it comes to reading random authors. Is it because I’m easily pleased or is it due to loving the intimacy that occurs when it’s just me and the various unfolding worlds I enter at the flick of a page? This is not a question I particularly care to answer.

In a previous blog, ‘The Tea Lady’, I mentioned that I progressed from working for a nursing home to working in the district nursing service.  I was a home health aide, not to be confused with home help aide as we were not there to clean but to focus on the human only. We were to make sure they showered, ate, tended to any minor health issues or just provided company. What I mean by providing company is that some of the elderly lived isolated and alone and part of our jobs was to make sure someone kept track of them.  One lovely gentleman was 93 years old, healthy and very capable but would not get out of his bed once his wife had died. His only child lived overseas and most of those he once knew had passed away. I would spend 90 minutes with him to coax him out of bed and walk together in the garden on the days I was rostered on. At first, he resented the intrusion but, eventually, we both enjoyed that time together as I listened to him tell me of his interesting past, which included two world wars and the Great Depression.  During these hard times his lifelong occupation as a gardener helped to feed his family while others weren’t so fortunate. 

I was once sent to a home just to translate Italian.  Every morning before we went about our round of appointments to various elderly clients we started our shift at our local main base to see what duties the day required.  On one particular morning the head of the whole district service appeared, which was unusual as I’d only seen her once before when I graduated from the home health course.  She disappeared into an office with two other district nurses. Not long after I was called in to join them. One of the district nurses was attending a household that contained an elderly mother and daughter who were Italian.  The elderly mother didn’t speak any English and was recovering from some open wounds that occurred from slipping in the bath. The district nurse attended every second day to clean and freshly dress her wounds. It seemed that this elderly woman had fresh bruises on her body every time that district nurse attended.  The daughter explained that her mother was clumsy and often fell. The district nurse’s time was ending soon with this particular elderly woman as her wounds from the bath fall were healing and no more would be required as the daughter was the mother’s otherwise full-time carer. 

What they wanted from me was to pretend that I was in training and to accompany the district nurse on her next visit (which was that very day) with the head of district nursing also in attendance to see if the elderly Italian mother collaborated the daughter’s account of her injuries.  We arrived at an opulent house where the daughter welcomed us warmly and offered us a coffee. She delighted in the company seeing that one of us spoke her native language, even though she spoke fluent English. While we sat drinking our coffee I asked the daughter in Italian how things were at home and how she was coping caring for her elderly mother.  The woman responded to me in Italian. “Every night I pray that my mother is dead by the morning and every morning that damn woman is still alive”. I responded in Italian that there were services available to help her cope with caring for her mother. She refused that option because she didn’t want others to know she wasn’t coping. She felt it would be an embarrassment to her if others knew how much she wasn’t coping.  Needless to say, I informed my other two colleagues of the conversation once the daughter was out of earshot. They both thanked me for a job well done. Nothing to thank me for, really. Fortunately, the daughter was very willing when it came to expressing to a stranger how she really felt. I learned later that both mother and daughter got the help they needed. 

Mavis was a very forgetful elderly lady who suffered from the onset of dementia.  Her main problem was that she’d forget to eat. So, at least once a day a home health aide would arrive after meals-on-wheels had been delivered to oversee her eating.  One time, when it was my turn to see Mavis, she refused to let me enter her premises sternly telling me to go away. I returned to my car as I couldn’t force her to let me enter her establishment.  I decided to try and see if she had food at least and returned to knock on her door again to see if she’d let me know that meals-on-wheels had been delivered. “Thank goodness it’s you, dear, that other one was just here. I can’t stand her”.  No offence was taken for that was how forgetful our Mavis was.

We home health aides were the nurse's aides for the district nursing services.  I loved that job but unfortunately only lasted 18 months. I was 23 years old at the time and that was when my Crohn’s disease first hit full-bore and so I was unable to function.  I grieved for that job as I was to grieve for other jobs lost due to Crohn’s disease in the years to come.

Last week we had Valentine’s Day, named after St Valentine, so I decided to find out who exactly this saint was and why he’s such a big deal when it comes to celebrating romantic love.  I found out that St Valentine is not only the patron saint of romantic love but of epileptics and beekeepers too. That’s some weird combination in my view though I do admire his multitasking.  I don’t know how he became the patron saint of epileptics or beekeepers but I did find out how he became associated with romantic love.

At the time of Emperor Claudius of Ancient Rome, there was a problem with getting males to join the military.  At that time a strong army was one of the main reasons that Ancient Rome was the world power. Claudius believed that unwillingness to join the army was due to an attachment to wives and families.  Soldiers were often delegated to foreign lands to conquer or to help control already conquered land and therefore were absent from loved ones for extended periods of time. To combat this problem Claudius thought to ban all marriages and engagements hoping that this decree would reduce any attachments other than to serve Rome.  Valentine, a holy priest in Ancient Rome defied Claudius and continued to perform marriages in secret. When Valentine’s actions were discovered he was put to death by being beheaded on February 14 in approximately 270AD. This is what contributed to his canonisation and becoming a saint.

As for Valentine’s Day, when I was young and with my first love our first Valentine’s Day was a disaster so I’ve held little expectation for Valentine’s Day ever since.  I gave my first love a thoughtful gift yet received nothing in return, at first. His explanation was that we needed to save for a future together and I accepted this logic till later that day.  In the late afternoon, a group of our friends had gathered at a beer garden. A pretty female approached our table selling individual roses. My love bought a flower for each female seated at our table including, by now, fuming me.

I waited till we got in the car to go home before I verbally vented and whipped him with that flower.  “The only sentiment this flower has was for you to show off publicly, nothing to do with affection for me”, I admonished.  I ended with “saving for our future sure went out the window fast!”, and threw the flower out the car window to emphasise my point.  Needless to say that Valentine’s Day didn’t end with lovemaking. I became a Valentine’s Day cynic and found this negative attitude as a positive to serve me in life. My jaded attitude held me in good stead.  I’m never disappointed on St Valentine’s Day due to low expectations and if I do receive a genuine token of love on that specific day it’s a bonus.

My current love always remembers to send me a Valentine’s Day card with beautiful sentiments written within.  He does the same for my birthday and Christmas. Nothing showy and all heartfelt. A beautiful sentiment of value that I can keep and treasure, which just goes to show it really is the thought that counts when that thought is true and genuine.  My first love turned me into a Valentine’s Day grinch. My latest love has helped to somewhat cure that part of me.

When I was in my late 20s a friend of a friend was looking for someone to do data entry for a couple of weeks in the IT department of the St Kilda council.  It was mainly number crunching and as I was in between jobs at the time I volunteered for the position. I ended up staying for three and a half years, becoming the girl Friday of the council.  Whenever a department needed a temporary replacement for someone on holiday or sick leave I would be asked to substitute. My Gemini personality loved it. I covered for the main lobby front desk receptionist when she went to lunch.  Every Tuesday I helped payroll with data entry. Every Friday I was in Human Resources covering the front desk. The IT department was the place I worked the most. Work was plentiful and there was hardly ever a day when my services weren’t used

The government decided to cut costs in public service employment so councils were forced to amalgamate.  My job changed dramatically when the St Kilda council merged with South Melbourne and Port Melbourne councils.  To make a long story short the following scenario will be mainly in point form.

The Port Melbourne CEO retained his position, the other two council CEO’s left with packages.  The Port Melbourne CEO sought me out because of my surname to ask if I was related to a successful Port Melbourne business owner who contributed greatly to that council.  A new head of the department was hired, Hannah, to help get rid of surplus staff. She was a bully and many left before packages were granted. One of the staff Hannah wore down with her relentless passive-aggressive behaviour and moved to a high position in the Union.  Hannah decided to set her sights on me next. I was no longer allowed to cover for other departments. IT only and my hours were greatly reduced.

One day Hannah called me into her office to admonish me for an error that I had nothing to do with.  That was the last straw for me. I called the Union to report Hannah for harassment in the workplace.  The guy who moved to the Union called to tell me he’d heard of my predicament and asked if I’d be ok with him representing me.  I asked if his volunteering to represent me was revenge towards Hanna or for my best interests. ‘Both’, was his honest answer.

The Union set up a meeting.  Hannah and the CEO were already seated and waiting when we both entered the conference room.  Hannah turned a slight shade of pink when she saw who was representing me. Hannah started off by claiming that she knew what this was all about.  According to her, it’s because I had been reprimanded for receiving too many private phone calls at work.

She had underestimated me and was about to learn by how much.  I interrupted her. I smiled at the CEO and told him my uncle (who was the aforementioned Port Melbourne businessman) said hello back and would like to return his kind wishes.  We bantered about my uncle a little more while Hannah showed a shocked expression with my being firmly acquainted with her representative.

I continued to speak directly to the CEO of the council.  “It’s true that I was receiving too many private calls but that’s not what this is about.  She was right to reprimand me and those calls ceased immediately. Hannah moved my desk so that I was close enough for her to hear and see every move I made, so she knows this is true.  She also stopped me from having any access to other departments other than IT. She admonished me for an error in payroll when I no longer had anything to do with that department. She insisted I fix the error knowing that task was impossible seeing as I have no access.  She literally yelled at me that she’d accept no excuses and I have staff members who heard her admonishing me, she was that loud and unreasonable. If you’ve hired her to bully people to leave before they are eligible for their packages you sure got your money’s worth. I’m not the only one she’s bullied, my union representative once worked here too.  I’ve also kept in contact with an employee who suffered such extreme anxiety due to Hannah’s behaviour that he refuses to return to work even to clear his desk and is now on permanent sick leave”.

As I’m expressing all this I saw Hannah’s face changing colour from pink to red to purple.  It gave me a warm fuzzy feeling knowing how upset she was. Good! The CEO put both his hands up and responded, “now, now, ladies we need you to both get along”.  Hannah looked like she was about to explode.

The meeting soon ended as the CEO had to be elsewhere.  As soon as he left Hannah turned to me and snarled, “what do you want?”

My union representative and I looked at each other then I turned and responded.  “My package, then I can leave”.

“Done” is her answer, “you can leave, here and now”.

“Not until I have that check in my hand”.

“Wait here”, she said as she stormed out of the room.

I turned to my union representative to thank him for his support.  “Nothing to thank me for”, he responded. “You did it all on your own, and damn that was satisfying to watch”.

Hanna soon returned with a check for $10,000, the package offered for my time frame of employment.  It was enough to pay off my credit card and car loan until I found a new job. I truly didn’t mean to leave that job with such a bang, but she started it.

I learned something new this week and that is that the term ‘transsexual’ is now considered a dirty word by some.  I don’t know how or when this happened. I only know that a transgender activist that I personally know and have great respect for has recently posted this information on a transgender website.  According to the activist the term transsexual has been heavily associated with sex, thus the reason for their personal desire for trans or transgender to become accepted terms. I always thought transsexual was the term used for those who identify as the opposite gender to the gender they were born.  I decided to google the word ‘transsexual’ and the results seemed to agree with me.

Now, here is where my confusion begins.  I was under the belief transgender was the umbrella term for the gender diverse.  The binary/non binary folks, drag queens/kings, gender fluids, transsexuals etc. are all under the transgender umbrella collectively.  Yet why do transsexuals now get to be the whole umbrella? If a new term is preferable wouldn’t transwoman or transman be more suitable?  The world is evolving and the transgender community is finally getting some visibility and acceptance, though there’s still a long way to go.  Language is constantly evolving too but with the transgender community it almost seems like it’s every week. Pronouns change and I understand that some non-binary folk want to be referred to as ‘they’.  I get it. ‘They’ is a non-gender specific term.

Tranny is also now considered a derogatory term.  The majority of the transgender community believes this word as having negative connotations as it has historically been used in a derogative bullying way.  Therefore, one can understand the aversion to that word. There was a hullabaloo that lasted for a number of years over changing the name of a popular event known as ‘Tranny Bingo’.  Those for and against the change appeared evenly split. Eventually the threat of court action resulted in the event undergoing a name change. No more Tranny Bingo. Now the event is known as ‘GenderBender’.

I also have the problem of having to edit a couple of chapters in my book if the word transsexual is now a big no-no.  A few chapters are about working in a transsexual brothel, which at the time was literally advertised as a transsexual brothel.  Do I edit out this term in my book or not? I sincerely don’t want to offend. Though, seeing as the problem with the word appears to be because it has sexual connotations then maybe I should keep it in my book because sex is what happens in brothels.  Therefore, my use of the word appears correct. The word queer once held the same negative connotation as tranny but has been reclaimed and even become part of the gay alphabet soup of LGBTIQ. Maybe I can reclaim the word transsexual as a positive though as a cis female what would I know?

Maybe my editor Kaz can enlightened me.  She is transsexual (or now transgender, I’ll have to ask her) so lives the experience.  She’d know better than I. Without Kaz’s motivation and help with my blog I doubt I’d have gotten this far.  Though I have cursed her secretly (and sometimes not so secretly) at times for pushing me to have confidence in myself and my writing.  For that push means work and I’m basically very lazy. So I invite Kaz to give a short precise insight of her view. I know from experience to trust what she always has to offer.  Kaz my lovely, patient, talented editor over to you…

Ed note.

As a transsexual woman I will not cowtow to the politically correct warriors (who are, in my opinion, in the minority) in my self-identification and expression.  Personally I feel that the transgender community (yes, using the umbrella term) has a great deal more obstacles of greater importance to challenge and battle than the use of the word ‘transsexual’.  Let’s talk about equality in the workplace, provision of funded gender affirming surgeries, access to specialist health services and the plight of those trans and gender diverse individuals who are incarcerated.  I’d rather see these zealots take on the battle against the terms ‘shemale’ (which originated as a South-East Asian term for transsexual sex workers) and ‘shim’. Pick your battles, people!

The intensity and prolonged fire crisis here in Australia has brought about a few added dramas, starting with what I believe to be an inept and inadequate response from our Prime Minister, Scott Morrison.  Our leader seems to be oblivious to what is required in a leadership role, which is mainly to lead. When the country one leads is in a crisis going on a holiday is a no brainer in what not to do. Many of his followers cried foul at how Morrison was chastised by the media and the public claiming that ‘Scotty from marketing’ (Scomo’s new moniker) didn’t start the fires.  No one blamed him for starting the fires but he holds some responsibility and accountability for the outcome. Just because you like a politician or follow a particular political party doesn’t mean that they’re infallible or can do no wrong. Seven prime ministers in a decade are proof of that.

The intensity and length of the fires have brought the climate change debate to the forefront of public and media discussion.  The Australian fire crises came from a mixture of events that the Rural Fire Service (RFS) saw coming and attempted to warn our leaders about early in 2019.  Prevention is always better than cure. Our government for years has dismissed RFS warnings. Action could have been taken pre-crisis that might not have prevented the fires but might have helped to diminish the devastation which has occurred.  We have suffered an eight-year drought that’s still going. Back-burning laws were changed and became restricted in that time. Even Aboriginal communities knew of the importance of back-burning to help control with the usual bushfire season. Land clearing laws also changed with numerous different permits involved.  Just removing a dead stump off one’s own land has become a bureaucratic nightmare. Australia is a dangerous powder keg covered in combustible fuel and the RFS knows this.

If our government had listened to the experts the current fire crisis we are still suffering and will continue to suffer, for the bushfire season has just begun, would not have caused such huge devastation.  The devastation of not only the loss of human life, homes, livelihoods and the unfortunate extremely high animal mortality count but the devastation that causes ongoing repercussions. The high loss of agriculture affects our food supply and export industries.  Our air has been so affected by thick smoke it has caused numerous health issues. Tourism (a massive contribution to Australia’s income) has also been affected. I’m sure that there are other repercussions that we’re yet to realise. Our government has a lot to answer for and hopefully they’ll have no choice now but to listen.  The Australian public is paying attention to how our government now responds to this crisis and will continue to respond. The bottom line is that the government needs its population to remain in power. Without our support they cannot exist.

The positive response from the general public worldwide restores my faith in humanity. The donations and well wishes from all four corners of our planet are overwhelming yet that faith has been diminished somewhat with the knowledge that some charities cannot be fully trusted with donations.  It has always been common knowledge that charities keep a percentage of their donations to help fund their organisations. It has come to light that it is not a minority percentage they are withholding but a majority percentage. Due to the power of the internet and ‘people-power’ folks are beginning to wake up.  The Salvation Army, the Australian Red Cross and St Vincent De Paul are three major culprits. The Salvation Army justifies its actions as stockpiling of some donations for later use. The real need is now. Folks need to restore their losses and basic needs as soon as possible to survive. Even small local charities have been found to dip into funds for their own use.  I’m not saying it’s futile to donate to worthy causes or that all charities are bad. What I am saying is to do a little research to find out where that donation really goes, or maybe just donate to the RFS directly.

The year 2020 isn’t going too well.  The Australian fire season and it’s resulting state of crisis is far from over and now the coronavirus has been confirmed in Australia.  Bloody hell, and we’re still only in January.

Working in the sex industry as a brothel manager for 12 years brought about some amusing incidents.  The following blog details a few of those incidents.  

Sex workers would rely on part of their income through regulars; clients that chose to book only them.  On one shift a client called to book a particular lady that he claimed he saw regularly. I informed him she wasn’t in yet but was scheduled to start in a couple of hours.  I made a tentative booking as I’d learned early in my brothel manager career never to confirm a booking until I was sure that the sex worker was available as frustrated angry horny clients weren’t pleasant to deal with.

When the sex worker arrived I informed her that John Black had rang for a 10pm booking.  She could not recall the name and cast me a puzzled look when I informed her that he’d claimed he was a regular of hers.  The client arrived as scheduled and I buzzed the girls lounge to tell the sex worker her booking was waiting at the front desk.  When she saw him she welcomed him warmly and as she took his arm to lead him down the corridor towards an available room she quickly turned to me for a moment with a puzzled look on her face and silently mouthed, “I don’t know him”.  

The booking time never started until the sex worker confirmed with reception, so when the sex worker returned to my desk, after getting the client into the shower and performing a STI check, to pick up miscellaneous items such as condoms, lube, etc she told me to start the booking time.  “All ok then, even though you don’t remember him?”  I enquired as I passed her a small basket containing the necessary tools of the trade.  “Yes, I remember him now.  That’s Bent Dick”. It seemed the STI check helped with her memory recall.

Another regular client was a little delusional when it came to the reality of the client/sex worker relationship.  The client had invited the sex worker he saw regularly to his birthday celebration as his personal guest. She had informed him that she was happy to attend as long as he was ok with paying for her company.  He was confused as he had invited her as his guest and not for sex. She came to me to try to get him to understand. I explained that his only relationship with the sex worker was professional and not social and as their connection was business only he would be paying her for her time no matter how the time was spent.  He seriously could not comprehend this no matter how many times both the sex worker and I explained. Eventually I lost my patience and informed him sternly, “she’s not your girlfriend. She’s a fuck you pay for. If you weren’t paying you’d have no relationship with her at all. Got it?” He looked at the sex worker as if waiting for her to chastise me for being so mean.  She looked back at him in silence until the poor guy finally got it.

On another occasion a very handsome client showed up at the transsexual parlour, his ripped body obvious under his tight-fitting suit.  The transsexuals were in a tizzy once they met him and all hoped they’d be the lucky sex worker who’d be chosen for the booking. Once he’d chosen, the happy winner led him to a room to prepare for the booking.  When she returned to my desk to confirm and start the booking time she had a disappointed look on her face.

“You look a little upset. What’s up?” I asked.

“He’s got lingerie under that suit that’s prettier than anything I own.  He wants me to show him how to do his face up with make up. He even wants to borrow a wig for the makeover.  That’s the only service he wants. He only picked me because he likes how I do my eye make up. Go figure!”  

There were plenty of amusing incidents I witnessed as my time as a brothel manager.  These are just a few. Keep visiting my blog each week to hear about more as they come to memory or better yet, read my book.

I received some unusual discipline tactics at the hands of my mother.  In hindsight, I brought a lot of it on myself as I could be a brat and I had, what was considered at the time, a disrespectful mouth.  A smart mouth is what it’s generally called nowadays. I was different with my father though. If I was really bad my mother always threatened that my father would be informed when he got home from work.  I dreaded this as my father didn’t get mad at me. He would “tsk tsk” with disappointment and send me to my room. This hurt me more than anything because I hated disappointing my father. His disappointment was punishment enough and I truly believe he knew this.  I was never sent to my room without dinner though, for punishing Italian children by depriving them of food was unheard of.

My mother used two methods of discipline that were common and acceptable at the time. The wooden spoon, and her shoes which, being the 70s, were hard clogs.  My mother may have been great with a boomerang seeing as she was able to aim, throw and hit the target of me with that clog no matter where I was standing or hiding.  Around corners and under furniture, that clog would hit me at full force. Sometimes I was lucky and managed to escape to the safety of the outdoors but that only prolonged my inevitable punishment.  Don’t get me wrong, my mother wasn’t a sadist and I don’t hold any ill feelings for my upbringing. It was just the way it was.

When I got into my teens the physical punishment stopped and being sent to my room became my new standard form of punishment.  I hated this more than physical punishment for it drove me crazy. I was sent to my room for hours on end with no stimulation allowed.  I was not allowed to read or amuse myself at all. Just to sit on my bed in reflection for several hours till my mother deemed enough time had elapsed.

As I reached my late teens’ curfew became a big problem.  I was nineteen when I got my license and a whole new freedom opened up to me.  Public transport was dismal where I lived ending at 10pm on weeknights and midday on weekends. I had a midnight curfew but found that adhering to it once I got my license was near impossible.  Night clubs didn’t really get going till midnight and that was the time I had to be home. So, I broke my curfew often.

I would sneak into the house not turning on any lights in the wee hours feeling around in the dark trying to be as quiet as possible.  I’d get into bed fully clothed not even daring to turn on the lights once I’d reached my bedroom. This was in vain as my mother would always make sure to remind me in the morning of the exact time I’d gotten home.  One night as I entered the house doing my usual blind trek I went head over heels finding my usual pathway obstructed. I limped blindly towards the light switch and when the room was illuminated I found that someone had moved a couch into the entranceway.  The smirk on my mother’s face all the next day told me who the culprit had been.

I fought my parents constantly on my perceived injustice of a midnight curfew till I had a brilliant idea.  I confronted my parents by posing a question to them one night. The question was packaged with a deal. I was going to ask them a question and if they didn’t have an answer then there was to be no curfew.  If, on the other hand, they could answer the question I promised to keep to my curfew. My mother wasn’t interested but my father’s interest was piqued. My father and I often had debates and though we disagreed on things I felt he was proud of the way my mind worked.  I think he felt I got my smarts from him. He agreed to the deal and I made him swear to honour the deal on both their behalves. My mother still refused but it was too late, my father had sealed the deal and I knew my father would honour it.

I asked them what happens after midnight that can’t happen before midnight.  They started to reason that some people are dangerous and it wasn’t that they didn’t trust me but it was what was out there that they feared.  That wasn’t an answer. That was an excuse, I told them. I wanted a proper answer. Name anything bad that can only happen after midnight. They looked at each other and were stumped.  My mother insisted that the deal was ridiculous but I assured her that her trust in me was valid and that I’d never come home pregnant or on drugs.

I did partake in recreational drugs and when doing so my parents may not see me for days but were always informed where I was staying.  I always made sure to contact my parents to tell them I’d decided to spend the night at friends. So, all in all, I did keep to my end of the bargain. (I did state at the beginning I was a brat).  I never had children and I’m not sure I know how I would have reacted to the same proposition being made to me if I did.

I don’t understand when folks say that they turned out fine in spite of some form of abuse of maltreatment that happened in their youth because, at the time, it was considered the norm. They didn’t turn out fine if they don’t see a problem with others also experiencing any form of child abuse or maltreatment.  Why would they want others to suffer? That’s not turning out fine. That’s some fucked up thinking.

As a baby boomer who grew up in the ‘children should be seen and not heard’ era, it’s a wonder there wasn’t a higher child mortality rate due to what was endured at the hands of ‘well-meaning adults’.  Thank goodness that world no longer exists. Children were sometimes subjected to what is nowadays considered abuse under the deluded assumptions that it was for their own good.  

As a young child, I was forced to learn to swim in elementary school.  Swimming lessons at the time were compulsory in most Australian schools.  This makes sense as we are an island surrounded by some magnificent beaches and our weather suits this pastime.  When I say I was forced to learn to swim I mean forced. I can still recall the terror of being pushed into a massive pool at the Melbourne city baths and instructed how to manoeuvre to stay afloat. Every time I tried to reach out to the edge of the pool so that I could hold on to a solid rail of safety, I was prodded with a wooden pole back into the centre of the pool until I properly swam the dog paddle.  I and other children were tortured this way till we got it right, swallowing water and exhausted from trying to keep afloat.

I can swim but I cannot do the dog paddle to save myself.  There are too many traumatic memories which resurface each time I try.  I eventually taught myself how to swim but owe nothing to those days of abuse at the hands of the elementary school swimming instructor.  I can do the backstroke for hours easily and this is how I swim. 

Another form of torture I had to endure was marching.  Each week classes would march in unison on the cement school playground for two hours to help install discipline.  I have no idea what marching has to do with discipline but I normally enjoyed the rigid in-stepping with others of my class to the loud music blaring from speakers installed around the school.  No matter the weather we marched so in summer this ritual became its own form of torture. I can still recall being dressed in full uniform marching in over 40-degree heat with the harsh Australian sun beating down on us frying our delicate bodies and brains.

When a student fainted from the heat the lucky soul was dragged into the shade quickly, without missing a beat, and left there while the rest of us poor unfortunates continued to march.  On a number of occasions, a student would fall prone to the combination of this exercise and the heat and would be convoyed to the relative safety of sparse and insignificant shade to recoup, much to my envy.  How I prayed for God to make me faint so I could join them. Being in a Catholic school I thought He might favour my wish. I was wrong. I never fainted and looking back I realised I could have faked it but I was too naïve or stupid to come to that conclusion as a child.

Children now would never be raised as my generation was.  Thank goodness for that! That world no longer exists and we, hopefully, learn by our mistakes.  I survived my childhood but I wouldn’t wish some of it on others. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t all bad.  We had the freedom of playing outside when stranger danger wasn’t as great a threat it is now. I feel the children of today are no longer ‘seen but not heard’ and that is a positive thing.  Children are now given more importance, though the advent of the internet has brought a new danger where ominous strangers can lurk. Only time will tell how humanity goes about to hopefully remedy this for future generations. 

*Ed. Note
The notion of children being ‘seen and not heard’ has greatly contributed to pre-internet acts of grooming by adults.  Where adults are revered as all-knowing and to be obeyed at all times by children creates opportunities for the construction of environments and circumstances which children do not have the knowledge and experience to navigate safely.  Children are to be both seen and heard and any other perspective needs to be addressed as a society for the safety of our future generations, especially in the technological age.

As a very young child, my mother would take me to her hairdressers with her. Her hairdresser had a young child of her own and I was forced to play with her. I do mean forced as Roberta was a demon incarnate. Roberta was a couple of years younger than me and I was told to look after her and that I was responsible for her while we played out in the backyard.  She’d often put pebbles and dirt in her mouth and giggled as she did so. I would try to remove these from her mouth frightened that if she’d swallowed and harmed herself I’d be blamed. Roberta would spit, pinch and bite me with a look of pure delight on her face. I was tortured this way once a month each time my mother had her hair done. I dreaded these playtime periods that were thrust upon me. I never revealed to my mother what I endured from Roberta for I thought, being older, I’d be blamed somehow and would be reprimanded. 

Thankfully I started school so there came a time where I no longer accompanied my mother to her hairdresser. Roberta’s family kept in contact with my family even after we moved from that area when I was 10 and I was fortunate that I only saw Roberta at gatherings where I didn’t have the responsibility of minding her. Years passed and my family received an invitation to Roberta’s wedding. At this point I was old enough to make decisions for myself and informed my parents I have no interest in going and that I’d be busy on that day. My mother later informed me that Roberta was really disappointed to hear I wouldn’t be attending. “Tough” was my response. 

I was visiting my parents one day when who shows up for an impromptu visit but Roberta and her mother. Impromptu, my arse. This was obviously sprung upon me. Roberta went into a long speech detailing how much I meant to her and how much she wanted me to attend her upcoming wedding. It seemed that I was her first friend and was also her only friend during that time. Those once a month tortured days for me was what Roberta looked forward to the most. As she spoke and I listened I came to realise her over the top bad behaviour was due to the fact that Roberta had no idea how to behave with other children because she’d never had a playmate before. 

I could now see that she was never a demon child, only a misunderstood child who’d matured into a pleasant adult. I didn’t have the heart to tell her of my dislike for her when we were children. How different our perception of our shared childhood experiences had been. I did end up attending her wedding and it was a lavish affair that I really did enjoy.

I spent a good deal of time partying in my 20’s and 30’s which was during the 1980s and 1990s. The music was great. The vibe was great. It was a great time to be young and carefree. I was recently asked by a young current-party-goer if I missed my party days. I replied honestly that I’d had my time in the sun and although I enjoyed every part of it I was content to now be a homebody. My mindset has changed, as most people’s mindsets do with age. Raging or having a good time for me now is a catch up with an old friend or two or staying up late with a good book. 

During my party days Melbourne had live band entertainment aplenty and I’d often enjoy this form of free quality entertainment at one of the many available venues. Well, almost always free. I had to pay once, kinda. 

A close friend of mine was bugging me no end to attend a CD launch that I had no interest in. She was well acquainted with the band and wanted someone to accompany her to the event. I only relented because of her persistence. She picked me up on the night and while we were driving on our way to the venue I lit a joint to help dull the pain of being forced to do something I didn’t want to do. I continued to protest my attendance all the way to the door of the venue. I soon found myself being asked for an entrance fee at the venue door. 

“There’s an entrance fee? I’ve never been charged to see a local band before”.

“It’s only $5”, was his response. He points to my hand and continues, “Is that a joint?”

Damn. I was so preoccupied with my bitching that I failed to realise I still had the joint in my possession instead of getting rid of it once I’d left the confines of the car. “Am I in trouble?”, I asked tentatively.

“Tell you what, if you let me have a couple of puffs I’ll let you through”.

“All yours”. I smiled with relief as I handed him the little that was left and walked through the door into the crowded venue. 

The CD launch was a huge success and celebrations went on all night long. It finally came to an end with a late morning brunch with some of the band members. As my friend and I stumbled wearily but happily back to the car I thought not a bad night after all when another thought suddenly struck me. It was Father’s Day! I had a family dinner that night to honour that event and I’d still not gotten my father anything. My body was aching to crash but I forced it to persevere and my friend to drive to a local market to get my father a gift. 

We got there as the market was packing up to close its Sunday morning trade. There wasn’t much to choose from as most of the stalls had shut by now. The only thing I could see that remotely could be given to an adult male was a budgie in an ornate cage. It made a change from aftershave, jocks and socks.  I figured beggars can’t be choosers. 

My father christened the budgie Giorgio and it became a common sight to see Giorgio chirping away on my father’s shoulder while he was in the garden. Even though I’d started the weekend kicking and screaming in protest it turned out to be a blast, ending with a happy pater. It just goes to show you never can tell how things will pan out.

The brothel industry in Australia has people who are known as ‘shoppers’. These folks show up intermittently with miscellaneous goods that are rumoured to have fallen off the back of a truck. Some who show up are legitimate in their business but most are not. I was dubious of this practice and, at first, uncomfortable with buying shady goods but soon found myself a willing client. The prices were such bargains. Perfume, make-up, grooming products, DVD’s, clothing, jewellery and a treasure trove of female accessory products were available all in their original unopened casings. It was obvious these goods were department store quality.

I was able to do all my Christmas shopping without leaving work. A huge advantage considering how much I hated the chaos and frenzy of shopping malls the fortnight before Christmas. There is a two-fold advantage for sex workers in shopping via this means. Not only are they able to avoid the aforementioned madness of Christmas shopping but they also love the distraction from sitting in a lounge waiting for bookings. After spending money they would often choose to work longer, so a plus to the numbers (choice) on shift.

The shoppers brought in female-orientated goods as we were predominantly female staff. A polite young man came in on my shift one night and introduced himself as Mark. He had brochures for a popular sports-wear brand. At last, a range of Christmas gifts I could buy for males in my family! I could choose the clothing I wanted from a catalogue and payment terms were cash on delivery, no up-front cost and reduced risk of being ripped off. Mark and I chatted easily and I found out he was married with a young child.

I ordered a number of items but Mark did not return with the goods on the date promised. I wasn’t too fussed as payment on delivery was the deal. Mark showed up a couple of weeks later wondering if I was still interested. Christmas was still a month away and I was relieved to see him as males are not easy to buy for. There was an all-weather jacket I really wanted for my fishing-obsessed father, plus a couple of other items for the males in my family.

I asked him what had been the delay and he responded he spent some time in prison for being apprehended with stolen goods. I’m surprised and ask what he stole. He looks at me amused and says “have a guess”. I’m still somewhat confused. I figured it couldn't be the sports-wear goods as he had brochures and a catalogue I was able to order from.

“How does one manage such a complicated heist”, I asked him.

He looked at me as if I was a dumb blonde. “You ever hear of something called a warehouse?” he responds. That had never occurred to me. I really thought he was legit.  I asked him if it was wise that he was continuing to dabble in unlawful enterprises considering he’d only recently been released from prison.

“I’ve got a wife and kid to support and it’s Christmas soon. We still good to go?”, was his response. 

I thought about it for two seconds and concluded 'fair enough'. The prices were too good to resist.  “It’s your neck on the line and I have no clue who you are if anyone asks. Let’s do it”.

Footnote: This blog is a fiction piece. I have never been a willing party to receiving or handling stolen goods. Does anyone know if there’s a statute of limitations for committing such an offence? Asking for a friend.

The reason I write my blog is to give me a reason to get out of bed, since my ill health currently restricts me from working, and helps to keep my mind occupied while my body recuperates.  Brain fog is a symptom of my ill health and writing always helps to stimulate my mind. My blog is also a link to my novella; a weekly addition to my monthly released chapters that makes me feel that I’m accomplishing something.  It’s a bit like homework but I always feel satisfied once it’s done and my Internet or Netflix bingeing is a reward rather than a lazy habit. Well, that is what I tell myself because basically, I’m a lazy person by nature. Maximum results with minimum effort is my life motto.  I can happily waste a day or more debating issues with strangers on the Internet or spend time bingeing on Netflix or YouTube. I have no need to socialise in person.  

Writing my weekly blog entry isn’t the difficult part though.  Thinking of what to write about each week is the real dilemma. Sometimes I get on my soap-box to extol injustices I perceive in our world which can be very therapeutic.  I call these opinion pieces. I get to release some very self-opinionated ruminations that have reverence to me. My fluff pieces, as I like to call them, are excerpts from my life experiences.  

This week’s blog is a fluff piece about my blog.  Now that I’m done with this week’s fluff blog I can go back to debating on the Internet, which I validate to myself as improving my writing skills, and bingeing frivolously till next week’s blog is due.  Netflix, YouTube, the Internet or whatever else takes my fancy, here I come.

Footnote: This blog is the fluffiest of fluff pieces and its short simplicity is a testament/homage to my laziness. 

Hate is taught and grows from the smallest of seeds.

Going on from last week’s blog regarding bigotry towards transgender people I wanted to express the very real danger of hatred becoming action.  Hatred for others comes from fear or resentment of what is unfamiliar or unknown.  To physically hurt or kill someone for nothing more than who they are is immoral, inhumane and a hate crime.

To validate and legitimise their violence folks often claim that their beliefs are being infringed upon and taken away or that they’re being forced to accept things that go against their beliefs.  Their beliefs and rights are not being taken away. It is that toxic beliefs are being challenged. No one is forcing their lifestyles on others or stopping them from living the way they want (except for maybe extremists).  The only agenda happening is equality.  

If someone has a problem with a different religion, with gay marriage, with trans people, people of a different colour or any other minority then there is the option to keep it to themselves.  I’m not saying others have no right to speak their truth but that their truth is not the truth.  People don’t get to denigrate others freely because of their feelings or to turn the lifestyle of others into a daily battleground due to their refusal to respect others rights to equality.  People have every right to sprout their beliefs as much as they like, just like I’m allowed to call others a douche when their beliefs cast negativity on others. People should expect to be challenged for their beliefs and opinions when they choose to share them.

The death of Matthew Shepard made him a martyr of sorts.  Though never intending to be, Matthew became a poster child of the reality of hate crimes.  The intense violence that he suffered at the hands of his perpetrators affected many. His death strengthened the gay community in their resolve for equality because he was one of their own.  To others, his death shone a light that intensified the reality of hate crimes. It was such a horrendous act.  

Resentment for the ‘other’ may grow into an irrational hatred that is fuelled by propaganda and manipulation by the media.  People will sometimes also look for an echo chamber to justify their xenophobia and insecurities. This only intensifies the paranoia of a non-existent threat to their way of life.  

Knowledge is a great thing as it diminishes fear of the ‘other’.  Fear of the ‘other’ should never grow to the extent of needing to kill, maim or inflict suffering on another being.  Mathew’s horrendous death has left behind a legacy reminding us to continue to fight the good fight against evil being done due to wilful ignorance of the unknown.  

As I’ve stated before, I belong to a couple of groups on Facebook that discuss politics, religion and other interesting facets of society.  I’ve noticed that awareness of the issue of transgenderism is growing. What I’ve also noticed is most of those opposing the existence of our transgender community are the religious folk and the boomers.  It’s like now that being anti-gay is accepted as a form of bigotry because sexuality is now known not to be a choice, the bigots have focused their negativity toward transgenderism claiming it’s a mental illness.  The good news is there are more folks willing to defend transgenderism than not and science is exploring this topic more thus giving transgenderism validation.

I have written before in my blog about transgenderism and I feel more needs to be said because these people are being murdered for simply being who they are.  Whatever your feelings about the transgender community the bottom line is that they are people and commonly victims of unlawful death.  Twenty-six transgender or gender diverse individuals were killed in the USA in 2018, the majority African American.  There have been 20 deaths of transgender or gender diverse people in 2019 so far.  These statistics are an underrepresentation of the true figures.

Everyone has a right to their opinion but if your opinion is derogatory of someone else’s lifestyle then you’re a bigot.  Being willfully ignorant is no excuse in the present where the internet is part of our education and literally available at one’s fingertips.  I had one guy claim I was a bigot for supporting the transgender community by giving them validation instead of helping them seek mental health services.  He also claimed my support was akin to validating a schizophrenic’s choice to not take their medications. I tried to educate him to the fact that, unlike schizophrenia, transgenderism is not a mental illness but his mind was closed therefore I came to learn nothing I could say would change his stance.  He also claimed that the high rate of suicide amongst transgender people was proof of their unstable minds. I responded that it was those like himself that continued to invalidate transgenderism that was a major factor for these suicides and that he and those of his ilk had blood on their hands.

Bigotry exists and people are allowed to be bigots but they should be prepared to be challenged.  It amazes me how defensive bigots are, claiming that they have a right to believe as they wish and, yes, everyone has a right to their beliefs.  Yet if your beliefs harm and encumber the rights of others then you are part of the problem. One person’s rights never trump the rights of another.  I will always be an advocate for the LBGTIQ community. I am passionate in my stance for these are people I know personally and love and will defend till my final breath. 

I was brought up Roman Catholic but drifted away from that religion in my early teens when I began to question my faith.  In the Roman Catholic Church faith without question is a big deal. In fact, blind faith was the deal for the era I grew up in and therefore that’s all I knew or was allowed to know.  Any queries were frowned upon and discouraged, so being the rebellious teen that I was I decided to find out more on my own.

The first thing I noticed about the Bible as I skimmed through was that a lot of females were bad guys.  Eve, Jezebel, Delilah, Lot’s wife, Salome, and the list continues extensively. My favourite of the bad girls was Lilith, Adam’s first wife.  Yes folks, Eve was not the first female created by God. The story of Lilith has been tucked away, hidden and banned from The New Testament because Lilith had the audacity to want to be equal to Adam and when refused that option chose to be a demon rather than be subservient to Adam.

The second thing I noticed about the Bible was comparing Satan’s and God’s relationship with humanity.  Both are competitive when it comes to collecting souls. One was said to be benevolent and the other arrogant although I’ve always believed that actions speak louder than words.  According to the Bible Satan is the big bad dude as he wants your soul at a price. That price being whatever you want or desire while you spend time on the earthly plane. Once you die your ass is his to remain in Hell for eternity.

God’s deal is complete faith in Him and choosing Him as the all powerful one.  He gave us free will to choose but if we don’t choose Him we are instantly and eternally condemned.  That’s one strange idea of free will. It’s almost like human kind is set up to fail because there really isn’t much of a choice.  Poor Abraham was tested by God to sacrifice his son, Isaac, to prove his faith. Just before Abraham was about to do the dastardly deed a messenger sent by God appeared telling Abraham that now God knows he fears Him there is no need to continue the sacrifice.  That is one sadistic deity in my book.  

God is also full on when He gets pissed off.  At one time He committed genocide against every creature on the planet except for one family and two of each species.  Similar examples of death and destruction from this so called benevolent God are throughout the Bible.

Most religions condemn the LGBTIQ community to Hell for nothing more than being who they are.  Seeing as most of my friends fall into the LGBTIQ category it makes Hell sound very inviting. I’m not one who is too keen on the heat but from what I can gather Hell sounds like the better alternative when it comes to the company I get to keep.  I’ve met some of the religious zealots and I sure don’t like the idea of spending eternity with those of that ilk.  

I’m not saying the devil is an angel (well, not anymore) but he sure sounds like the better deal to me.  I’m sure that some folk will feel that I should burn at the stake for having such thoughts. Well, I’ve always preferred to be cremated at my funeral and seeing as I also prefer to end up in Hell anyway it sounds like a win/win to me, so I’m good...oops I mean evil.

My first full-time job was as a tea-lady in a nursing home.  I was straight out of high-school and my mother, who was the head cook, got me the job.  There would be no interview for me as nepotism was my way in. I soon learned I was the most popular employee to the residents unless I was running late.  God forbid!  It wasn’t my personality that contributed to my popularity. My popularity was because I served food. Though I didn't prepare the food myself my job consisted of serving breakfast, morning tea, lunch and afternoon tea.

The residents would line up at least an hour before the doors opened and then upon entry to the communal dining area would sit in the exact same spots every time.  I soon came to realise that I was a distraction from the endless long days with little to do. I stayed at this job for three years and I was fortunate to be offered training as a nurses aide by the admin staff while I was there.  It was a nursing home for Italians run by the Catholic Church and it was difficult to find nursing staff that also spoke Italian. Unfortunately for them not long after my training, I left to work for the district nursing service where I visited those still able to be cared for at home.  Those at home and in need were also grateful for my presence but that had nothing to do with me serving them food. It had to do with helping them to remain home and continue their medical treatment without being hospitalised.

I was affected by seeing these poor souls waiting for death so needed to distance myself.  Years after I left this form of employment I was wandering a hospital’s corridors late one night after bowel surgery unable to sleep.  My post-surgery recovery consisted of a hospital stay of a fortnight and I was encouraged to walk as much as possible. On my walk, I was surprised to hear my name being called from a room I had recently passed.  My walking gait was slow due to the surgery so I hadn’t gotten too far when I heard my name. I entered the room to see a resident from the nursing home I worked at bidding me closer to her bed. She grabbed my hand and pleaded with me that she wanted to return to the nursing home.  She’d been in hospital for months, although she didn’t know why she’d been hospitalised. I explained that I had no power to help. I felt bad but knew I couldn’t help her.

A few months later I attended a Christmas party held at the nursing home with my mother.  I returned every year for the Christmas party as my mother was still head cook and I enjoyed catching up with staff.  While I was enjoying myself I felt my hand grabbed by Rosa, the lady from the hospital, who thanked me profusely for getting her back.  I tried to convince her otherwise but she wasn’t listening and was busy kissing my hands with gratitude. I was very uncomfortable. Though I originally left because the place depressed me in my youth I came to realise at that moment for some it was their home.

Due to my Crohn’s disease I’ve had numerous colonoscopies.  Colonoscopies don’t faze me. It is the night before the procedure that is the torturous part.  One might as well move their bedding into the bathroom as the toilet will become an essential partner all night long.  Yet, the one colonoscopy that sticks in my mind most is when the procedure became the torturous part.

I needed surgery for partial removal of the small bowel due to it being inflamed.  My gastronomic specialist, who was also a surgeon, was worried my emaciated body would not recover post-surgery and was desperate for me to put on weight before he dared to operate.  I was on heavy painkillers and my main worry was my growing addiction. I was taking more painkillers than prescribed combined with strong alcohol to combat the constant pain. Though I had often discussed this dilemma with my specialist he always responded that his main focus was for me to gain weight prior to my much-needed surgery and the addiction problem could be tackled after.  We were soon to realise how bad my addiction had become.

On the day of the colonoscopy I was sedated and all was normal, at first.   During the procedure I became aware of my surroundings. One is conscious but unaware when undergoing a colonoscopy.  We may even hold a conversation but don’t have any recollection of what was said or even know what is happening due to the sedative administered.

I became aware mid-procedure wondering who was making all the noise I could distantly hear.  A lot of groaning and swearing. Then the pain hit and I realised it was me making the noises.  The pain was so excruciating I honestly thought I’d been in some freakish accident where I’d been impaled by a telephone pole.  I had my legs akimbo and I could see my specialist busy between my legs with a nurse standing by him. Another nurse had her back to me further away.  I realise I’d not been impaled but the inserted probing camera sure felt like it. I thought I was going to die from the pain. The conversation went as follows. 

“Get it out of me!”

“Not much longer”, my specialist responds calmly, still engrossed in the procedure.

“Get it out of me! It’s hurting too much. Fucking get it out of me now!”

“Not much longer.  I’m nearly done”, he calmly replied.

“Why the fuck do you keep saying ‘not much longer’, for fuck sake! I can’t take the pain anymore.  I want the camera probe out of me now!”

Nurse and doctor are both staring a little alarmed at me now.  “Celia, where are you?”, the doctor asked.

“What the fuck kind of question is that?  I’m in fucking Siberia. Where am I??? I’m in the Heidelberg House unit of a hospital having a colonoscopy and why have I still got that fucking camera in me!?  Why haven’t you got it out of me? Get it the fuck out of me NOW!”

By now all three are staring at me with their mouths open.  I honestly thought it was because I was swearing so much, not realising becoming ‘aware’ during colonoscopy was a very rare occurrence indeed.  That was all I recalled once I came to after the procedure had been completed.

When I see my specialist at my next appointment I enquire what the hell happened.  He’s surprised I remember. “You really were aware then? You scared everyone. I kept administering more sedation till I was worried I was going to kill you.  It took 3 times your body weight to calm you down”.

“Now do you believe me how bad my addiction is?”, I questioned.

“Oh, I believe you.  Now we have two hurdles to overcome.  Weight gain and your addiction”.

Needless to say it was a difficult road but I eventually gained enough weight for surgery and overcame my addiction.  It was a time in my life I don’t recollect fondly. I’ve had an addiction problem before but getting off prescription painkillers was worse than weaning myself off any other drug I’ve taken, which is pretty much every drug that exists.  But that’s a different story for another time. 

I am the youngest of the baby boomer generation and was a tomboy as a young child.  I loved to play outdoors and run around with the local children. My hair was always short and long pants were my main mode of dressing.  I was also very careless and often come home dirty and grubby from my play. My mother soon abandoned hope of dressing me up girly unless it was for a formal event.  My generation defined little girls and boys as very separate entities and was very black and white when it came to socially constructed gender roles. Little girls were allowed to be tomboys as long as they grew out of it while boys were never accepted as effeminate.

Males and females had strict defining roles.  Fathers were the providers and mothers the nurturers and homemakers.  Females lost a lot of their autonomy when they married including losing their jobs, especially once they became pregnant.  Banks only offered loans to husbands as they were considered the head of the family and responsible for the control of household finances.  This made it difficult for a female to leave a bad marriage as financially and socially restrained she had nowhere to go.  

Even though my parents had a very happy, loving marriage most of my childhood friends could not say the same.  I was eventually to realise how fortunate I was. By the time I was a late teen most of my friends parents had divorced.  Maybe this was because divorce no longer carried the stigma it had in the past, and that the feminist movement was now in full swing.  

We are a product of our life experiences and surrounding environment.  As a child I was programmed to dream of a handsome male waiting to fulfil my every desire and a big white wedding to follow.  After hearing about the dysfunction occurring behind a lot of white picket fenced homes from my friends my thoughts extended to the days after the wedding and the very real consequences of making the wrong choice.  This is a major reason, other than my illness, why I haven’t married.

I’m now 55 years old and looking back it’s mostly been a good life.  I was fortunate that a loving home as a child gave me the inner security to cope with most of life’s obstacles. Some of those obstacles were horrendous at the time but they passed and I was often left with a lesson learned.  I’m happy I was born in the period of time that I was and if death came knocking at my door I’d be good to go. I know that is a little morbid for some but my faith has me believe that the soul is eternal and I truly don’t fear death.  I’m very fortunate that I’ve achieved everything I set out to in life and feel an inner peace I very much lacked in my youth.

I’ve always had a slight fascination with Gods and Goddesses of Ancient Greece.  These deities held superhuman traits that were specific to each individual God or Goddess. Gods that supposedly held the fate of humanity in their hands could change a mere mortal’s destiny on a whim.  The favoured of these celestial beings protected and rewarded. Others were not so fortunate and were condemned to a fate of tragedy and pain. A favourite example of mine is Oedipus Rex. Poor Oedipus Rex was condemned to a pre-ordained and twisted destiny before he was even born; one that was to involve killing his own father and marrying his mother.  This was a punishment by the Gods for his parents daring to go against their will.

It’s strange how many ancient cultures had similar beliefs and a need to appease deities. Offerings and prayers were often ritually performed to ensure prosperity and a means of survival, whether it was for success in harvest, fertility, war, or just for a sense of protection against perceived evils.  The majority of humanity has always had an inborn belief of a higher power and a shared belief in the power of celestial beings even though their diverse cultures were once cut off from each other. Aztecs, Vikings, Ancient Egyptians, indigenous Americans, Celts, Imperial China . . . and the list goes on.  Even in modern cultures this inborn need for belief in deities persists.

Another similarity that these diverse and isolated cultures each share were myths and legends.  Some myths and legends are very specific to certain cultures yet there are other myths and legends that are similar.  The walking dead, ghosts and evil spirits have been common in almost every culture since humanity began. From the Chinese mythical version of a snake-like creature with four clawed legs that could breathe fire to the European version that was a portlier creature with large bat-like wings, dragons were legends that existed in cultures from opposite sides of the world.  Bigfoot, also known as Sasquatch, is a commonly known legend in North American folklore yet there is a creature in Australian Aboriginal folklore known as the Yowie that shares many of its features.

How did it come to be that cultures once cut off from each other shared such similar beliefs in myths and legends?  Is it that for early humanity sharing a primal fear resulted in a mindset which constructed a shared manifestation of those primal fears?  Or, is there some truth in it? Could it be that with all our perceived differences we are more alike than we realise? 

I have chosen not to involve myself with Snapchat, Twitter or any other social media platforms as my addictive personality would have me on social media 24/7.  As it is, I spend more than enough time on Facebook. I belong to a couple of autoimmune illness groups on Facebook and a couple of religious/political ones and because of this I came to realise how much of a lucky country Australia is.

Social media is a fascinating place to be.  I have gotten to know some interesting folks from all over the world which has led to learning what Brexit is and that the German population feels bad about WWII, amongst so many other things.  I can also keep up to date with my Italian relatives through this platform. Those that amuse me the most are the Americans. In my autoimmune illness groups, it is the poor Americans that suffer the most due to their farce of a healthcare system yet through the political-religious groups I have learnt most Americans are against universal health-care.  It amazes me that the only people that are against universal healthcare are those that don’t have it. If my family had migrated to America instead of Australia I’d be bankrupt or dead by now. Therefore I don’t understand the mentality of ‘as long as I’m ok, who cares about anyone else’. I’ve heard this mostly from conservative American Christians which I find ironic.  Hypocritical would be a more accurate word. Our debates in these facebook groups are civil but often heated. The rules of the groups include no personal insults but celebrities, politicians or religious groups are a free-for-all. What is allowed is to attack an argument but not the person.

I’ve come to realise that Americans don’t know much outside their own country.  I’ve learnt it’s not their fault as they are not taught much in their school years about history, geography, society or anything outside of America.  The average American seems to have this misconception that they are the freest country in the world.  I often remind them that all western nations enjoy these same freedoms. One American bloke once tried to convince me that American’s right to bear arms is what gave them the number one position of freedom and liberty in the world.  I responded that no other western nation lives in constant fear of their government taking over. That’s one fucked up sense of freedom in my book, I concluded. My response resulted in me being blocked by that person.

Whilst working in the sex industry I became aware of how insular Americans are.  A gentleman with an American accent rang to ask if we had any African American ladies available that day.  We were lucky that Foxy, who lived in Sydney, had travelled to Melbourne to work for a couple of weeks. African or African descendant sex workers in Australia are rare and while Foxy was English she was of African descent.  I told him I only had an African-English lady who was very popular. “Would she do”, I wondered?

“What is that supposed to mean? African-English!” he responded angrily.  I was confused as to why he was upset so I calmly responded, “It means she’s English born but of African origin.  You do understand that Africans are just African or the nationality that their born into? African-Americans only exist in the United States”.  He didn’t respond but I could hear him breathing on the other end of the line. He then gently hung up on me. I don’t think he was being rude.  I honestly believe the poor guy had no idea and needed time to process this new information. He didn’t call back, which was a pity as Foxy was gorgeous and a lot of fun.  Maybe if I’d have told him she was African-American he wouldn’t have known the difference. I’ll never know.

This week my blog is short but certainly not sweet.  I currently have depression most likely caused by malnutrition from Crohn’s disease and an iron deficiency.  There are many forms of depression such as major depression, psychotic depression, melancholia depression, antenatal and postnatal depression and seasonal affective disorder depression.  The list goes on. At times Crohn’s disease can cause my body not to absorb certain nutrients which results in malnutrition that contributes to my depression. It depletes my motivation and sometimes makes me numb.  Mostly I feel immense sadness for no particular reason. The best way to describe my depression is seasonal melancholia. The changing of the seasons affects my illness and my mood changes negatively with it.

It’s taken years to learn how to adjust.  Antidepressants don’t work for me as I just become anxious instead of depressed.  Also, I’m on so many other medications adding another might affect the ones I’m already on.  The best way forward for me is to accept the melancholia that engulfs me and try to ride through it.  To deny it only brings on an onslaught when the melancholia erupts, as it always does. It’s not an easy process as while I’m like this it feels like an eternity, even though I know it doesn’t last.  I’m not strong. I ride with it and accept it because I don’t have a choice.

To be left alone is the best for me.  I’m fortunate at the moment that I am able to be alone.  I try to keep my mind occupied even though whatever I’m doing I feel detached from, even the things I normally enjoy.  It is taking every effort of my being right now just to write this blog for my depression is at its peak. I take each day (sometimes each hour, each moment, each second) as it comes otherwise my thoughts spiral into a downwards whirlwind of negativity that overwhelms me.

My mantra is to accept the bad times and revel in the good times.  Nothing lasts forever. It’s the only way I know how to cope.

I caught up, as per usual, with a good friend who recently started a new job. They were feeling a little overwhelmed after receiving limited and incorrect information during training from the person leaving the role. I know my friend is more than capable to succeed in this role and reminded them of this. As we chatted we came to the realisation that their predecessor’s behaviour was more sabotaging than helpful and our conversation evolved to become about the subject of toxic femininity.

Toxic masculinity has become a hot topic in today's society. Toxic masculinity is often misunderstood as ‘being masculine is bad’. There is nothing wrong with being masculine. A manly man is masculine, an effeminate man is also masculine. If a man uses his masculinity to bully or be derogatory to another person then that is toxic masculinity. Toxic masculinity has nothing to do with being masculine but is about being an arse-hole.

What has not become a hot topic is the other side of the coin; toxic femininity. Females can be just as guilty as males when it comes to being toxic. Females can also be just as competitive with each other as males. For example, giving bad advice under the guise of friendship, such as telling a female friend she looks good in an outfit when she doesn't, or telling a friend her new romantic relationship is not positive when it is. This could be due to jealousy, envy, the need to manipulate or any other number of reasons. Insecurity also comes to mind.

In the brothel business being competitive is a big part of the job. Sex workers who are new to the job or new to a particular brothel may often receive advice that is an underhanded form of sabotage. New sex workers often make good money when they start working in a brothel, especially if they're young. This can become a problem for some of the more established sex workers. It's not uncommon for a new girl to be given incorrect advice to get her to leave such as by naming another brothel that’s guaranteed to make her even more successful with bookings. What can also occur is the spreading of rumours that new girls are breaking the rules by performing extras without charging or providing services without using condoms. These things are done to eliminate competition.

The movie ‘Mean Girls’ is typical of toxic femininity. Let's face it, teenage females can be the most horrible beings on the planet. Ask any parent of one and they'll tell you that some can be more diabolical than a teenage male. I remember myself as a teen thinking I knew better than most adults and would sometimes play and manipulate one parent over another in an attempt to get what I wanted. I rarely succeeded but that didn't stop me from trying. 

Toxic femininity can include patronising behaviour, gossip, bullying, manipulation and subtle negativity and, as I've already stated, often under the guise of friendship. Most times this toxic femininity isn't hidden and it's just bitchiness for the sake of it.  There’s nothing wrong with being feminine, but exhibiting toxic femininity is a problem.

Brothel premises in Australia are not allowed to participate in street-level advertising.  Only the name of the brothel is allowed to be displayed. This leads to some folk stumbling in accidentally and unaware on the odd occasion. 

There were four occasions where I encountered clueless folks wandering in. The first time was when a guy walked in when business was slow.  He stumbled upon 12 scantily clad beauties waiting patiently in the open lounge area for the 3 pm tradesmen rush to commence. He looked around puzzled and asked where all the men were. I told him they'd be in soon enough. He then asked if we were a gay bar as someone had directed him to us as being such. I informed him that someone was playing a joke on him for we were a brothel. He quickly and silently retreated out of the building. 

One brothel I worked in was a beautiful building that had once been a luxurious hotel many years ago.  The interior decor was evidence of this fact. A young woman with a toddler and baby in tow opened the front door during my day shift to inquire if we would exchange paper money for coinage she needed for the parking meter.  I replied in the affirmative and helped her with the pram over the front steps so she can wait in the lobby while the exchange was being made. As she was thanking me and admiring the ornate ceilings and walls she asked what type of establishment we were.  Informing her we were a brothel brought about a wide eyed response and an utterance of “oh my, oh my, OH MY!” and she started to hyperventilate. I tried to allay her fears that no harm would be done to her but she was having none of that and couldn't get out quick enough. 

Approximately a couple of weeks later I get a couple walk in with their luggage asking if they could rent some rooms for a couple of nights.  This petite elderly country woman and her huge country son had heard about our establishment years ago from an acquaintance when it was still a hotel.  I thought to myself ‘here we go again’, and explained to the couple, fresh in from rural Australia, that we were no longer a hotel and that we only rented rooms by the hour.  In other words, we were a brothel. I prepared myself for the panic but she calmly looked around and said, “Well, I must say you've done the place up lovely, dear. Is it a heritage building?”  I was pleasantly surprised by her reaction and it just goes to show you never can tell how people will react. I told her I didn't know if we were heritage listed and as we were quiet I offered to show her around downstairs as my hostess made enquiries for more suitable accommodation close by.   She accepted my offer and we embarked upon a short but pleasant tour together remarking on the beautifully intricate and ornate work that you no longer see much nowadays. 

On another occasion I was on day shift at the Daily Planet.  It was a Sunday and business was slow. Now, for those not in the know, the Daily Planet is also the name of a fictional news corporation in the Superman comic book series.  This Englishman came in, approached me at the reception desk and asked if we sold ‘The Times’ newspaper. I explain we are a brothel and not a newsagent. We both had a good laugh when he told me his sister, who he was visiting from England, had obviously set him up.  This brothel would often get phone calls from guys jokingly asking if Lois Lane was available for bookings. I'd often reply that she was not, but Clark Kent sure was. This response would cause some callers to hang up on me but I got a good laugh out of it and still chuckle to myself when thinking back.

It was the paternal side of my family, the Capace, who migrated to Australia.  The Capace have a bad temper and we can go from 0 to 1000 instantaneously. Yet if left alone (read, walk away) we calm down quickly.  All of the Capace have inherited that temper. I came to this realisation when my father’s eldest brother, who was an intelligent, gentle soul and family man, stomped all over fresh concrete he’d just finished smoothing on the driveway because a sudden downpour was ruining his hard labour.  As a 10-year-old I watched this amusing drama unfold hidden from behind a curtained window, while he stomped all over the wet concrete whilst looking skywards cursing at the clouds with raised fists. If my favourite uncle, who was a gentleman in every sense of the word, was afflicted with the Capace temper I knew I would also be doomed.  I was right. We Capace are proud, crazy motherfuckers that do more damage to ourselves than others with our temper. My temper has gotten the better of me on a number of occasions and there's a prime example of this in the 11th chapter of Madam Is Not A Four Letter Word.

My mother was the head cook for nearly 20 years at an Italian nursing home run by the Catholic Church.  My mother is Catholic and my father was an atheist yet he respected my mother’s faith except for when he got mad.  When my father got mad his temper had him cursing, cursing that always involved damning saints, doubting the verification of the Virgin Mary’s celibacy and adding her son’s legitimacy into the mix.  Italians don't tend to swear as much as they curse. My father didn't mean any offence by this, it was just his way.  

While the nuns from the establishment where my mother worked were staying as guests at our beach house one time my father lost his temper for some reason and could be heard cursing in his usual way from the back garden as the rest of the household was enjoying breakfast.  My mother and I looked at each other with desperation and embarrassment then quickly focused on engaging the nuns in conversation in an attempt to drown out my father's continued religious cursing. It was obvious my father was oblivious to the fact that he could be heard from indoors.  Finally, a nun turns to my mother with a twinkle in her eyes and says, “you told us your husband wasn't a religious man yet here he is where we can hear him praying heartily”. Thank goodness the nuns had a sense of humour.

Members of my immediate family tell an amusing tale of acquiring a pub in Johnston St, Fitzroy in the early 1960s.  At the time it was a predominantly Irish neighbourhood. The Irish were livid that these dagos had dared to overtake their local pub.  They warned my immediate family that they were not prepared to accept this perceived injustice and trouble was in store. The warning included a date and time of the trouble to come.  I’m not sure if they were being polite, fair or just dumb. So, on the said night this Irish mob come into our new establishment brandishing clubs, heavy chains and ready fists. The male Capaces with other Italian acquaintances were waiting for them, lined up behind the bar counter.  The Irish menacingly approached and the Italians pulled out guns and rifles from under the counter, loaded and aimed. Long story short the Irish ended becoming our most loyal and best customers.

It's been a bad Crohn's week and my energy levels are low.  Well, non-existent actually. The pain hasn't been too bad considering how nasty it can become but it has constantly been causing lack of sleep.  My brain fog, on a scale from 1 to 10, is … what was I doing? I can't remember. The one good day I had I minded my nephew who was too sick to go to school that day.  

I love having him to myself.  He's a 7-year-old sweetheart chatterbox that's constantly hungry though I think it's more to do with Aunty spoiling him with treats rather than hunger.  We watched the remake of Jumanji and thoroughly enjoyed our choice of movie, though I had to pause it constantly because the little chatterbox doesn't switch off.  He was ill, folks. He wasn't faking it yet he had the resilience of a child who wasn't going to let feeling bad ruin his time with an Aunt who spoils him. He didn't want to go home when it came time for him to be picked up so I volunteered to take him home later myself.

As I said, I love having him and enjoyed every minute of my time with him but I was also pushing through my illness and I paid the price afterwards with an intense flare-up.  Chronic illness always makes one pay when we overdo it. We may be smiling and looking like we are having fun but we often fake being well so that we can still function as a part of society.  Sometimes this is preferable to sulking in our dismal reality and at other times we have no choice and must succumb. I'm fortunate that currently my illness is not as bad as it has been in the past, but I'm definitely not great either. There was a time when I always woke in pain and any good days were a distant memory to me. That went on for years.  I didn't think I'd ever have a normal/good day again.

Luckily things changed for the better when I found the right medical professional.  There was a quack of a doctor who nearly killed me, literally, but that is in my novella, Madam Is Not A Four Letter Word, so you can read all about that adventure there.  Yes, I'm plugging my book. That's the reason for this blog, a blog that I'm not even sure I'm doing properly, a blog that gives me a reason to get out of bed while suffering a Crohn's flare up episode.  (Well I'm not out of bed but I did the blog anyway). I’ll sign off now before my brain fog just goes into a repetitive babbling of nothingness, for it does that often and well.

I love living in Melbourne and I loved growing up in Melbourne.  It's a beautiful city, especially at night when it's all lit up. Driving through the city after night-shift always gave me a kick.  There was always minimal traffic at 4 am or 5 am on a weekday morning and I never got tired of checking out my surroundings as I cruised through the city centre on my way home.

Another reason why I love Melbourne so much is its entertainment scene.  Melbourne is the music capital of Australia and in the 1980s and 1990s, we were spoilt for choice. Practically every pub had live music and most didn't charge an entrance fee so I was able to see INXS and Mental as Anything for free.  Pub bands were not the only music available. From classical to punk rock all genres was catered for. I saw the Royal Melbourne philharmonic orchestra at the Arts Centre and, for a while, Jazz After Dark was a favourite of mine.  

We Melbourne folk love our music so much that many international acts have recorded their live concerts in Melbourne.  Pink and Dolly Parton are two that I was fortunate to be in the audience at concerts which were chosen for recording live.  Other international acts I saw were The Village People (my first) and I was also at their 30-year reunion tour concert. I was fortunate that I had the opportunity to see all my top favourites.  David Bowie, Blondie, Brian Ferry and The Divinyls. I've seen many more international and local bands and never walked away disappointed. Musicals and plays are also a big part of Melbourne culture. I've seen too many musicals to mention.  Phantom of the opera, The Pirates Of Penzance and Muriel's Wedding are my top 3. I had to attend more than one performance of each, of course.

Melbourne has a hugely popular Comedy Festival.  When the festival wasn't running, for there’s always a show on in Melbourne, I was able to see Billy Connolly and Rowan Atkinson and locals Judith Lucy and Denise Scott.  In fact, there are many shows and sights to see in Melbourne and I'm so grateful that we are so spoilt for choice.  

One of my best memories of Melbourne’s nightlife was as a 20-year-old at the Split Enz ‘Enz With A Bang’ concert tour.  It was at Festival Hall and I can recollect with much clarity that moment when I turned to see the lass standing next to me was Jane Clifton.  She looked back at me and smiled. Jane was an actress on my favourite TV show as a teen, Prisoner.  Prisoner was like my religion during high school and I never missed an episode every Tuesday and Thursday nights.  In those days once you missed an episode that was it as there were no home recordings available. Anyhow, there's Jane smiling at me when suddenly the crowd went wild as the first cords of a Split Enz popular major hit started and everyone crowded towards the stage in a rush, Jane included.  This was my first ever ‘it doesn't get better than this’ moment.

Music isn't the only thing Melbourne has to offer as we also have some beautiful beaches.  The Great Ocean Road is a testament to that. We are also renowned for our coffee and, as an Italian, that's high praise indeed.  We are known as The Garden State for greenery abounds,  The Dandenong Ranges are breath-taking. I could go on. I love my home and I love where my migrant family chose to live.  I love the multicultural vibe, the bright city lights, the many gorgeous sights, friendly and laid-back city that is Melbourne.

I'm a pacifist.  A passionate one.  I spend a lot of time arguing with gung-ho Americans on social media. Immature, I know, but sometimes they're asking for it.  That second amendment is like a shining beacon held up every time there’s a mass shooting. “We have the right to bear arms to protect ourselves from our government”, is the familiar catch cry.  No other western nation appears to live in fear of their government taking over as the Americans do. Strange that. They can keep their guns but who's going to protect them from one another is the real issue.  Anyway, that's their business.  

What's not their business is straying from their borders with their weaponry to impinge on other nations.  The United States has caused more destruction on our planet in the past 50 years than any other country. They are currently combating 7 different nations yet consider themselves the world’s good guys.  Not since WW2 have the Americans fought for the common good. I don't blame Americans or even the American troops but everyone on our planet has woken up to the reality of the actions of America, but Americans themselves.  Not all but most Americans get very upset when you try and open their eyes to these facts. Some understand the reality of this situation but are soon shouted down by those who are gullible and propaganda swallowing. 

Good guys in WWII, bad guys ever since.  To criticise one's own government is every free citizen’s right and obligation if that government is corrupt.  I am ashamed of the way my government treats asylum seekers and leaves them on Islands to rot. I belong to a group that is trying to change this.  It doesn't mean I don't love my country. I'm still proud to be Australian yet I know I'm not responsible for the atrocities of my government.

9/11 was a tragedy that changed the world dramatically.  Yet, there is no proof of who attacked the United States.  This event is used as a great excuse to go on a rampage attacking third world countries for their resources.  It is worth remembering the world is still waiting for evidence of those reported weapons of mass destruction which led to the invasion of the Middle East.  The carnage in the Middle East was so bad that the Pentagon instructed US troops to stop counting the civilian dead in Iraq because the numbers were bad for publicity.  That death toll reached over half a million.

My problem is with warmongering conducted under the pretence of the greater good.  I have a huge problem with warmongers. American troops are praised, blessed and thanked by the American public during their service but forgotten by their government once they've served their purpose.  Many returned vets are in dire need of healthcare and counselling yet these poor souls are forgotten about by their own government. This is as tragic as those dead civilians in Iraq. The spoils of war are never justified yet governments will have you believe otherwise, seeing how they're the only ones to benefit. 

The world is currently experiencing a massive asylum migration problem which is partly a result of constant USA interference in the Middle East.  The USA is experiencing a massive asylum problem on their southern borders also partly as a result of their interference in South America. I'm not saying the USA is totally responsible but they sure aren't helping, and neither are they the good guys.  ‘Policing’, my arse. The rest of the world knows invasion when we see it. Governments cannot function without the will of the people as they need us more than we need them. There is strength in numbers and it's time we held our politicians accountable. People power!

I will end my rant with a salute to the protesters in Hong Kong.  The world stands with you and hopefully, it will not end the way of Tiananmen Square.  Governments need to start listening to its citizens instead of focusing on self-interest and power at any cost.  Without us, the citizens of this world, our governments are less than nothing.

In Australia, past immigration legislation has been very specific and at times racist.  We started as a penal colony but the discovery of gold changed that and the four corners of the world soon flocked to Australia.  My family arrived in the 1960s during the mass migration of European immigrants to Australia as the White Australia policy was being systematically dismantled. The White Australia policy, as it was officially known, which came into effect post-1901, was intended to colonise Australia in a specific way.  

For Southern Italians, my family is quite fair-skinned so we had no problem migrating to Australia.  A family that came from the same village as my father were rejected though they tried numerous times to apply for immigration to Australia.  Their only difference was having a darker complexion. In Australia at that time it didn't matter if you were educated or disabled; as long as you were white you were in!  If you were British and white you could possibly get a discount for travel expenses. Apart from British (English) immigrants who were referred to as ‘pommie bastards’ every other migrant was called a ‘wog’.  Italians were special in that they were not only referred to as ‘wog’s’ but also as “dago’s”. I don't know why we Italians were selected to hold this honour though I was told by a local Australian it was because “hardly a day goes (dagos) by that you don't see one”. 

Racism was common in Australia prior to, during and following the White Australia policy. An English woman spat on me when I was a child and I knew then this was for nothing more than my ethnicity.  A couple of years later she told me with her thick English accent at least we look more like her than those new devils, the Asians. As a young child I thought her very unattractive with crooked teeth and bad skin.  I didn't really understand her motives and thought with horror ‘I don't want to grow up to look like you. Ever!’

Following the dismantling of the White Australia policy the next wave of mass migration occurred which became colloquially known as ‘The Asian Invasion’.  This occurred in the 1970’s at the end of the Vietnam war when Australia opened its doors to Vietnamese asylum seekers. Other Asian nations soon followed.  Since then Australia has seen the migration of many Middle Eastern and now African people. Each influx has suffered the same prejudices of those who came before them, often perpetrated by those who came before them, but xenophobia has mostly diminished.  The indigenous, penal colony descendants, wogs, Asians, Lebanese, Polynesians and African populations of Australia have created the rich multicultural tapestry that is now Australia. I count myself very fortunate that my family were able to migrate to Australia and reestablish ourselves in this wonderful, beautiful Southern land and I openly welcome those migrants yet to come.

* Immigrants have a range of adaptations to make once they arrive in Australia.  A part of Australian culture is the common use of swearing in everyday speech. Immigrants often find this shocking at first but quickly adapt by picking up this habit as a part of their new Australian way of life.  An example of this was my father who could often be heard swearing at the television if unhappy with the programming. “Poofter bastard” was one of his favourite curses. My father didn't really know what those words meant but males, females, animals, objects and countries were all “poofter bastards” when my father was upset.  My father embraced the Australian way of life in more ways than one.

It all started with puberty.  Puberty hit far too early when I first menstruated at the age of 11.  This clueless tomboy was ill prepared for becoming a ‘woman’. All I knew about menstruation was from elementary school biology, as there was no internet for me to seek information at the time, where I learned that humans and other animals can go through a form of menstruation.  I thought you bled once, and once only, to indicate the body was now fertile. I had no idea you were ‘blessed’ again, and again, and again, and again, and again….

My mother called me in from playing outside enquiring about her discovery of my new predicament whilst doing the laundry.  Smartass and delusional know-it-all me responded that I knew it meant I could now have children. So what?

“Ok, but I need to show you for next time”, my mother responded.

“There's a next time?”

“Cara mia, you have forty years of this”.

The horror! I am a crying mess by this time and tell her I don't want it.  It was apt that I was so upset as I was to learn it was called ‘the curse’ for a reason.  My mother came from a generation when ‘rags’ was a slang term used for when a woman was menstruating.  The term was accurate as pieces of cloth were folded to fit into plastic underwear with clips to hold the cloth in place.  This experience was like wearing a nappy. As soon as times changed in regard to sanitary items I happily followed. Cloths were soon replaced by pads and in time by tampons, all positive steps forward but unfortunately nothing helped with the Crohn’s flare ups that came with my cycle every 3 weeks.  

God sure punished women for taking a bite out of that damned apple by gifting pain in childbirth and constant reminders of that pain once a month.  My menstrual cycle was every 23 days. The first day was severe menstrual cramps combined with a Crohn's flare up. This torture was every menstrual cycle.  

My GP had sincere compassion for my dilemma.  My body would not absorb ‘the pill’ so that was not an option and attempts to regulate my period by use of an implant, Implanon, were also unsuccessful as it exasperated my dilemma by causing constant menstruation flow.  An alternative option was a Merina but, as this was usually only prescribed to women who had previously given birth, my doctor had to fight for five years before it was available to me. I was 47 by this time. The Merina changed my life for the better though my menopause decided to crash that party.  I'm now 55 and my menopause is in its 2nd year and counting. Even though I’m no longer menstruating due to the Merina and no longer suffering Crohn’s flare-ups associated with my menstruation cycle I am now experiencing constant reminders of the death of my menstrual cycle. It’s like there is an alien inside of me expelling horrible symptoms of its last throes of death.

Menopause made me fat.  This is not uncommon for middle age can include middle spread in both sexes.  Menopause took my eyebrows but gave me a beard as compensation. I also suffer calcium problems which affect my hair, teeth and bones, hot flashes which would rival hot lava erupting within my body, severe brain fog and ever changing emotions that have me turn from a functioning human to a dribbling mess with serial killer tendencies.

All I can say is I can’t have many eggs left.  I don’t want many left!

Transgenderism has existed since the beginning of time and it’s about time we realised this.  From Native Indian to South Pacific island nations to Indigenous Australians many cultures have had expressions of transgenderism within their societies.  Today, transgenderism is a hot topic and yet still considerably misunderstood. Western society has defined genders of male and female rigidly for so long that to separate what we believe we know from what is reality is confusing to some.  Throughout my novel you will find varying examples of transgenderism and of my experiences being enlightened regarding the continuum of gender working with transsexuals in the adult sex industry. For the benefit of the uninformed, transgenderism is an umbrella term for all gender-diverse individuals while transsexuality is a subset of transgenderism which applies to those who commit to living full-time in the opposite gender role to their birth sex.

In Western society sex and gender have generally been considered one and the same when this is far from the truth. The problem is the general population in Western society can't seem to separate sex from gender.  Our genitalia is our sex biologically. We have no choice in the genitalia we are born with. We don't choose our gender either as gender is who we identify as. They are not the same and this is where most make the mistake understanding transgenderism.  Transgender individuals are not changing who they are in their gender transition but are revealing who they always were. Our gender is a big part of our personal identity and how we fit and relate in society. With some people, their bodies and brains just don't match.  

Our genitalia is not a confirmation of our gender. The gender spectrum from manly-man to girly-girl has many variations in between.  The gender identity of transsexuals is opposite to the sex they were born with. Transsexuals don't want more rights than others and they don't want special treatment.  They want equality and the respect that should come with that equality. What harm is done to give them both? What harm is done in referring to transgender individuals as the gender they ask to be identified as?  None. 

The world classifies transsexuals according to their genitalia, regardless if they have received gender reassignment surgery or not.  And yet it is mostly only with transsexuals where this overriding fascination and preoccupation causes others to overtly question what genitalia is in their underwear.  People are not their genitalia. Asking anyone about their genitalia is ridiculous! Transsexuals want you to ask how their lives are in general but not about their genitalia.  Unless you're in an intimate relationship with the person their genitalia is none of your, or anyone else's, business. 

I worked with transsexuals for five years and still associate with a few.  From my experiences working in a transsexual brothel, I’ve dedicated three chapters of my novel to what I have learnt about transgenderism and transsexuality. My life is more enriched for knowing transsexuals and I don't understand the anger and disrespect directed at them.  Transgenderism has existed since the beginning of time and it’s about time we realised this.

Although Kaz lived in Sydney she frequently travelled to Melbourne for work.  At the time of meeting Kaz, I had just returned from a break from the industry and was preoccupied with finalising a previous booking as she approached the reception desk.  While she stood at the desk introducing herself and making her request to leave work for a couple of hours, not something I normally agreed to but did on this occasion, I managed to lock the keys to the safe inside the safe, something which did not escape her attention. It was strange how Kaz and I ‘clicked’ the first time we met. 

Kaz started life on a cattle station in Central Queensland. Her paternal family were hardy Nordic cattlemen stock and her place as the first born male sealed her fate as far as her father was concerned, but Kaz knew she was different from a young age and destined for a different path. The little she knew as a young boy growing up on an isolated cattle farm made her think she was gay but Kaz was and is transsexual. Without any knowledge of transsexualism, what other conclusion was she to come to but of being gay since she was attracted to men? This quandary between gender and sexuality is not uncommon amongst the transsexual community. 

Sex and gender are two very different things (something you should come to learn from my novel). Your sex is what you're born with, which is part of biology, and gender is what we identify as which is socially constructed and part of sociology. Kaz may have been born male but her brain is very much female. Kaz doesn’t want to fuck other men or be fucked by other men as a man. She wants to be made love to as a woman. 

In time, that caterpillar of a country lad evolved to become the butterfly of an intelligent, beautiful and very insightful woman. Kaz is now doing her masters in criminology, focusing on race, gender and offender profiling, works as a forensic crime scene cleaner and volunteers with the Women's Justice Network and a community legal centre in Sydney.  She has also been the editor to my novel, Madam Is Not A Four Letter Word, and is still editing my works. Most of all, she's a very close friend that I call a sister. We share so many interests, especially our interest in human behaviour, and as we live in different states FaceTime is a Godsend. Whenever I have asked for advice to answer some of the riddles in life that I have encountered she has provided thoughtful and intelligent responses and when she hasn’t had answers she has always informed me so.  I particularly admire and respect her for this. Somehow, I feel we are attuned even though our lives have had such different paths.

Kaz has surpassed so many obstacles in her life. Physical, psychological and emotional abuse at the hands of her father, sexual abuse at the hands of a boarding school teacher and religious deacon and a society that failed to provide protection and security (neither of her abusers was convicted for their behaviours although charges were bought against both) are just a few of the more salient challenges she has overcome.  It is no wonder she found herself with a well-developed and unsustainable drug addiction in her early adulthood, not to mention her twisted sense of humour. Through all this, Kaz’s one regret is not being a mother although she hopes to adopt one day to provide a loving home for a child in need.

To become the woman she is was a long battle and reminds me, transsexuals are our humans too.  This blog is, obviously a homage to Kaz, who is so much more than her gender and one of my closest and most supportive friends.

I've associated with the LGBTQI community most of my adult life and spent eight fabulous years sharing houses with gay males.  I was to meet the 'T' in LGBTIQ when I managed brothels. Spending five years working in a transsexual brothel, of the 12 years I worked as a brothel manager, were the years I loved the best. I learnt so much from these ladies and grew to really care for a few. I understood by their stories these ladies are true warriors in choosing to be who they really are and that their world was a judgemental and dangerous one, too often lethal.

I still am in contact with six of these lovely ladies, one is now highly respected as an advocate for the transgender community in Sydney and another is well on her way to becoming the same in my home town of Melbourne. Then, there is the one who became midwife to the book I gave birth to. Without Kaz, I'd not be where I am now and you'd not be reading this. Kaz and I became so close that I chose to spend my 50th birthday with her. I treated myself to a 10 day trip to Sydney for that birthday and gorgeous (in more ways than one) Kaz was ecstatically my hostess.

Kaz was there to pick me up at the Airport.  Now, I knew Kaz and Deni Hines were acquaintances but I was still very surprised to see Deni as the driver when I jumped into the back seat of the car. ‘Well, hello Sydney!’ was what exploded in my mind. Kaz must have filled her in somewhat about me for Deni turned to me and said, “so, I hear you have a smother”. This gorgeous soul was to become the cherry on top of my trip to Sydney. We three loved our music and a laid back party atmosphere developed between us, where singing, grooving, talking and laughing became our norm. They tried to show me the sights but I was entirely happy where I was. I had a chocolate croissant every morning, hand-delivered by Deni, and got to groove and talk each day without having to go anywhere.  Deni loved to hear about my job, especially celebrity clients.

In conversation one day Deni mentioned the song, ‘You Don't Own Me’, that she felt is as powerful for females as ‘I Am Woman’. Not only do I wholeheartedly agree but tell her it's one of my all-time favourite tunes. She then proceeded to sing it to me acapella. I was enthralled at such talent giving me a private mini-concert and was in bliss, thinking to myself it doesn't get better than this.

On the last day of my holiday, Deni dragged me out of the house with Kaz, even though I protested, and it was to be the perfect ending to my visit. The three of us eating ice cream while sitting on a stone fence in a famous Sydney street and that great Australian sun shining down was to become a favoured memory etched in my mind. The afternoon continued thusly bittersweet for the holiday that had gone too quickly.

Footnote

I surprised Deni by showing up to her album launch a few short weeks later. It was one of the best concerts and weekends ever. 

* Shirtfronting is a term originally coined in Australian Rules Football as an illegal challenge where a player charges another with the intent of bringing them to the ground.  In lay-mans terms shirtfronting has evolved to mean challengingly pushing one’s chest out in a threatening manner. The term was popularised after a threat by a previous Australian Prime Minister, Tony Abbott, to shirtfront Vladimir Putin regarding flight MH17 at a G20 summit.

I discovered that kangaroos mostly travel in families, and dawn and dusk is the time they tend to travel. Every dawn and dusk the 2 biggest dogs, who lived on the front porch of the house and proudly guarded all from harm, barked up a storm because a family of Roos was passing by. This mad barking only lasted while the kangaroos passed but one dusk the barking became prolonged and even more intense. I looked out to see the head of the kangaroo family was shirtfronting the dogs, his stance saying all. “Oh yeah? Come and get me, wankers”. The kangaroos eventually had their fun and passed. The dogs never strayed from the front porch unless Adam allowed them to. Adam had told me foreign dogs had been shot on farmland where sheep were kept and the neighbouring farmland was all wheat and/or sheep. Adam had lost a very much loved dog that way and did his best not to go through that experience again. 

There was a big drama with another shirtfronting that involved the guard dogs. This time it was a deadly snake. One day the dogs went nuts barking all of a sudden. Adam was quickly out front with a broom warding off a black taipan. The snake was shirtfronting Adam and his weapon of choice, pushing back at the broom with vigour. Adam admitted he had never seen anything like it. He commanded the dogs inside and the snake decided to retreat.  Alaska was a Irish Wolfhound mix and being white in colour Adam was able to detect that Alaska had been bitten. Poor old brave Alaska was rushed to the vet and was able to recover, although it took months of therapy. Adam knew the snake would come back the next year reckoning it was after the dogs water and, considering the time of year, had probably just come out of hibernation. The house was surrounded by a creek yet that snake seemed to prefer its water in a bowl. Adam was right. That snake did come back and Adam was waiting and ready. The ensuing battle ended as intended, one dead snake. 

This city gal had a lot to learn as I was clueless about country life, and the lovely Adam knew I was clueless and patiently filled me in. I was curious and he was informative. Did you know some anthills in Australia are flat? I found out the hard way. Also, one always needs to watch where they step when outdoors as there are rabbit and fox holes aplenty, and the wildlife also shit a lot. You also had to be mindful of standing on some of the wildlife. Another thing I learnt was to always keep your petrol tank full when you live in one of the driest parts of Australia. One might need to leave in a hurry and you never know how far you’ll need to go.

Country life is definitely different to that of the city, that’s for sure… In Australia, anyway.

Where I wrote my novella in the back of beyond had 21 rescue animals.  This included 5 dogs, 6 chickens, a bird of some kind, a goat and 8 cats.  Rusty was the oldest of the cats. Partly blind, handsome, grumpy and 16 years old, he spent his days swiping anything or anyone that dared to get near him and spent most his reclining years inside the bottom of a cupboard in the kitchen.  One night a few days into living at my new abode I found Rusty scratching at my bedroom door. I let him in on the condition that he could hang around for a while so we could get to know each other. An hour or so at most but he then had to leave for I mostly prefer my room to myself. 

Two weeks later that bed hog had me constantly uncomfortable in my own bed.  It was like I'd suddenly gained a husband, but one who snored. I had a double bed and Rusty was allowed his half, plenty of room, but he preferred being right up against me.  I mean that the cat needed to be attached. I wouldn't mind so much but he vibrated when he purred and he purred whenever he slept. It was like sleeping next to a running car engine.  By day I was person non grata (Rusty didn't want to know me), yet every night he was scratching at my bedroom door. In time I came to the realisation that I was not sharing my bedroom with Rusty but Rusty had decided he was sharing his bedroom with me. 

The top K9 in rank of the 5 dogs was the smallest, BooBoo, whose breed was Maltese Shih Tzu.  He made it known to all and sundry he was boss. He always availed himself of my lap when I had food and made sure to let whichever other animals in the room know that my focus was to be on him.  BooBoo hogged all the time of all humans present and made sure we catered to mostly him. BooBoo was given the afternoons to do his business, toilet wise, and for some exercise. He often refused commands that his exercise time was over and it was time to come inside.  My nerves still flinch from many a time hearing from my room loud cries of, “Booboo, BooBoo inside, BooBoo, BooBoo”, repeated every evening. It nearly drove me insane. It was the ridiculous sound of that name being loudly repeated that agitated me for some reason. 

I once adopted a stray cat for a short while.  She disappeared a year into our adoption and I never found out why.  I named her Whoopi, after Ms Goldberg. Unfortunately, I discovered yelling “Whoopi, Whoopi!” out into the garden every night from the back door had the neighbours wondering what I found so enjoyable.  Anyhow, that first world problem didn't last since, unfortunately, my relationship with Whoopi was not to last. Our furry friendships always tend to turn out to be the best ones, like my friendship with Rusty.

As a small child, I have a vivid memory of looking at a book with words and pictures and wanting very much the capacity to read. I couldn't wait to learn to read so I could understand the story being told.  I stumbled upon an interesting story myself as an adult, a story I once had no idea about, a story I learned a lot from, a story I feel needs telling.

The story?  Sex workers are humans too. They're not the dregs of society that societal stigma makes them out to be. When prostitution is legalised there is no need for pimps or madams, and this reduces the need for trafficking.  When those who have chosen and function as sex workers are free to be, supply meets demand. Whatever your feelings about prostitution it's not going away.

In 1996, Australia made prostitution legal. This gave sex workers a union, support and a voice, and rates of sexual assault in society also decreased. A win-win situation. These assertions are supported by the research of welfare organisations and the criminal justice system.  I decided to write a novella to share the insights I gained from my experiences working in the sex industry as a brothel manager. I became part of a world which was previously totally foreign to me. Not only did my staff teach me so much about themselves but I was to learn things about myself that I didn't know existed.

Managing all that drama had me evolve and delve into traits I didn't know I had. The job was so dramatic at times. I was to become tougher, wiser, meaner, more compassionate, a mother, a cold bitch, a confidant, a friend, an advisor and so much more, but most of all an advocate. This is the reason for writing my book. I want to share the journey I experienced where I came out the other end understanding and knowing the world of the sex worker as I do.

The novella has 20 chapters. I'll upload individual chapters monthly on my website while I prepare the manuscript for publication as an e-book. I'm hoping you'll find walking a mile in my shoes a worthy stroll indeed.

- CeeCee (Celia Capace)

Whatever my illness has taken from me it has also given back to me, but it has taken 30 years for me to realise this. My illness is a part of who I am and it has greatly contributed to my life’s experiences. I travelled to New Zealand on a holiday and stayed, something I could never have done if I was healthy and married with children, and found a whole new career at the age of 40.  I chose not to have children and my illness was a huge factor in this decision. I haven’t really missed out as I adore my nephews and nieces and have found myself motherly towards a few in the LBGTI community who were rejected by their own families.

Being alone and being lonely are two very different ways to be.  I have become accustomed to my own company and strangely never felt lonely when alone, whereas I’ve felt very lonely twice in my life, both times while in a committed relationship.  Living with someone who has a chronic illness is difficult and therefore I decided to sacrifice having a permanent relationship. I have a lover, and this is not a bad way to live. I have come to find myself choosing quality time over quantity time in romance as it has permanently kept my relationship in the honeymoon stage.

I am responsible for myself, only, and can be selfish with my time.  I, luckily, choose how or with who to spend time (current health permitting).  I can eat what I like when I like and can watch whatever I feel like on screen or lose myself on the Internet without the interference of someone demanding my attention.  I can sleep whenever and however long I want or need. I can go on road trips at a moments notice without the need to ask or inform others (again, current health permitting).  Spending a great deal of time with a body that is dysfunctional led me into dark, hard times and has had me evolve into someone without the need for others approval or disapproval.  My body gives me enough to contend with. As long as someone doesn’t affect my life and how I live it I sincerely don’t care what is thought of me. This is a wonderful freedom.

My illness forced me to leave behind the memory of the healthy person I was before my illness and, after a period of grieving for losing the person I was, I was able to reestablish myself with a new identity.  Of course, I would love a cure but I can’t say I wish I’d never had Crohn’s disease. It has given me experiences that have made life interesting, given me wonderful relationships with humans who I care for greatly, and a perspective on life that is a little bent but keeps me constantly amused.  Life is to be lived as best as we can, as hard as it becomes, riding through the bad times and revelling when life is good. Enjoy the now and not fuss too much about tomorrow, for nothing lasts forever…good or bad.

At the age of 23 I was diagnosed with Crohn's disease.  30 years later I still suffer Crohn's disease. 

Lesson one, autoimmune illnesses are chronic, which means we are never going to be totally better.  Lesson two, it's hard enough adjusting and coping with an illness without the burden of others thinking they know better and questioning the severity of our illness. “You don't look sick” is the most ignorant thing you can say to a chronically ill person.  Most people don't look ignorant and yet they exist.  

We of the chronic illness variety have good and bad days.  Even on our good days, if we push it, our bodies react negatively.  If you see us smiling or enjoying ourselves we are either pushing through the pain or we will pay for it later.  Many of the ignorant think we should wallow in misery as a permanent state of being and how dare we behave otherwise, for behaving otherwise must mean we are faking it.  Wrong!  Real illness is not always visible, if it were people would not be dying of cancer due to late diagnosis. 

An example of this ignorance is the experience of a fellow sufferer of an autoimmune illness, Jane.  Jane was fortunate to have a supportive partner and her partner had convinced her to go for a drive, as she'd literally not left the house in weeks.  Jane knew that a shower or even a change of clothing would drain her completely so decided, to appease her partner, to set off still in her pyjamas.  At first, Jane found the drive pleasant but her body soon grew weary and sore.  On the way home her partner stopped to get petrol and to pick up some supplies for home.  While Jane was waiting in the car for her partner to return her best friend approached and, in a fit of rage, tells her off because she had cancelled on a dinner invitation the night before and hadn't accepted invitations for weeks. Her best friend had been told in detail about the symptoms of Jane’s illness yet here she was screaming through the car window, not noticing Jane was in pyjamas and not giving her a chance to explain.  Jane was going through an inflammation of her condition and finding it difficult to function when she lost her best friend.  She was devastated. 

Sick people are under no obligation to prove to the healthy their condition. Unless you live it, you can not begin to comprehend.  Listen to us, believe us, be there for us if you can, but under no circumstances doubt and judge us.  That is the humane way to treat sufferers of chronic illnesses.  Most of us are struggling daily and it's a lonely, painful, never-ending existence. We have enough to deal with without a lack of empathy and insight. 

Now that I'm done with my rant, to those who have no idea what it's like to have a chronic illness, I will get off my soap-box. 

There came a time in my life where I found myself on the road less travelled. This was not by choice but was forced upon me. My Crohn's disease was in a flare up and I knew stress was a major factor. My body was in such distress that I needed to stop working. I was fortunate that I had somewhere to convalescence, the family home, yet I knew, from previous experience of Crohn's, that to heal I needed total isolation. My body was so fragile that sound hurt and coming from an Italian family the family home was not able to comply with my needs. I asked the universe for help and it responded with someone who I hadn't heard from in over 20yrs sending me a friend request on Facebook. This person was now living on 7 acres in the middle of nowhere with no access to wifi and 21 rescue animals. I became the 22nd.

I decided this haven was the perfect place to write the book everyone was goading me to. To my immense surprise, I did write that book. I also had a bit of an adventure in my surroundings whilst in the back of beyond while writing.

Welcome to the blog of Celia Capace.  This blog documents the life experiences of the author of Madam is Not a Four Letter Word, an expose of the sex industry in Australia and New Zealand, and the process of writing her novel. 

Living with a chronic illness and choosing to escape to rural Victoria to convalesce, Celia Capace shares her experience of joining a couple on an isolated farm to become number 22 of the rescued pets.

Also, monthly instalments of the book, Madam Is Not A Four Letter Word, are posted here.