Swimming Pool Blues

© Copyright: Ian Timmins

This poem was first published in The People's Forum February 1997.

Demented's Plea

© Copyright: Ian Timmins

This poem was first published in The People's Forum October 1997.

Dedicated to my parents, both of whom suffered from one of the many forms of dementia, often simply referred to as Alzheimer's disease after the most common form.

Tortoise revenge

© Copyright: Ian Timmins

This article was first published in The Australian 3rd February 1995.

I wanted to own a pet tortoise as soon as I saw the one my friend kept in an old galvanized laundry tub in his backyard. There was a rock in the water for it to rest on, and a ramp at the side so that it could wander around the area. A fine chain was bolted to it's shell so that it could hunt around for quite a distance without escaping. But what appealed most was that it didn't take much to look after - a feed of raw meat occasionally - you never had to exercise or groom it, and it didn't bother the neighbours. You could always find it - just follow the chain. Mind you, it wasn't strong in the tricks department. Throw a stick for it to fetch, and the only reaction would be a blink. And trying to get it to sit and beg was impossible. It wouldn't deter any intruders either, though they could possibly trip over its chain. It could be quite relaxing watching him just watching you. At best I suppose you could call it " different ", a sort of Clayton's pet.

I had just turned 17, and my parents had made me the happiest youth alive when they bought me a car for my birthday, a 1949 Austin A40 that felt like you were driving a top heavy egg crate on wheels which might roll over if you took a moderate corner over about 50 kph, or encountered a cross wind above a gentle breeze. It was so small that sardines would have felt uncomfortable in it.

For the compulsory weekly school sports day, I had selected golf, for the very good reason that by skipping a few holes and inventing some scores, it was possible to leave early.

One afternoon, my group managed to finish thirty minutes early. Being the only one with a car, my services were eagerly sought for a lift, particularly by those with their own clubs to transport. As usual, several friends had jammed themselves into the car, so that clubs and bags protruded from windows and the boot as we left. The road from the golf-course weaved through a swamp, and as we hurtled through this section, defying gravity by remaining upright, I suddenly spied a tortoise crossing the road. I jammed on the brakes, and we slowly came to a halt not far from the lumbering creature.

" Quick, Joe, grab that tortoise " I commanded the front passenger. Not sharing my enthusiasm, Joe climbed out reluctantly to retrieve the tortoise. I think he was hoping it had escaped back into the swamp. No such luck, and he picked it up and returned to the car.

Then as the car slowly gathered momentum again, cries of accusation and denial filled the air as a putrid smell permeated every corner of the vehicle, each occupant glaring incriminatingly at another as they gagged on the odour.

" It's your bloody tortoise " wailed Joe as he stared at a large wet patch spreading across his shirt. Now it seems that wild tortoises have a couple of defense strategies. Foremost is their shell. Unknown to us, however, was their ability to eject a stream of foul-smelling liquid. And as Joe had sat back down in his seat, this was the strategy adopted by my new pet. The first thing to leave the car was the tortoise, hurled unceremoniously through the window, followed hurriedly by every occupant, their exit hampered by the bags of golf clubs which also rained out the doors.

We all staggered around gasping for fresh air, but none more so than Joe, who was covered in the putrid smelling liquid. As the hapless Joe waved his now discarded shirt around in a vain attempt to dissipate the offensive odour, we waited restlessly for the car to smell less repugnant, constantly consulting our watches as our precious half hour frittered away.

Finally deciding we had wasted enough of our valuable time, we climbed into the car. Joe had some trouble getting back in since none of us really wanted him to accompany us. Eventually relenting, and with my backseat passengers fighting for window seats, I drove as fast as only an ageing A40 could back to the school to drop everyone off.

But the saga had not ended for poor Joe. Unfortunately for him he still had to endure the embarrassment of a train ride home. And reports from reliable witnesses confirmed his claim that he had the carriage to himself most of the way ! This came as no surprise to the rest of us !

I had no more desire to own a tortoise from that day !

Hometown

© Copyright: Ian Timmins

These song lyrics were first published in Capital News April 1996.

Dedicated to my father who longed to revist his native Scotland before he died.

Dunny Cart

© Copyright: Ian Timmins

This article was first published in The Australian 7th March 1995.

They played an essential role in everyday life in my youth. You always knew when one was nearby, even if you couldn't see it - by the smell. They were the ubiquitous night or dunny carts.

In our town they were painted a bright fire engine red. There was no doubt some logical reason why the colour denoting danger was chosen. Perhaps the owners regarded them as emergency vehicles! Maybe it was to alert those with absolutely no sense of smell of their presence, or to ensure that drivers had adequate warning to avoid them, for a traffic accident involving a dunny cart was your greatest nightmare.

There was nothing worse than being stuck immediately behind one in traffic, particularly in mid-summer when you needed the car windows open to keep cool. There were many strategies used to avoid this situation as you slowly gagged, or risked unconsciousness from holding your breath. Some would simply slow down, putting an ever-widening gap between themselves and the offending vehicle, vainly hoping somebody would overtake. When that failed, they would either pull over or pretend to stall, waving the following vehicles past. To the observer, it looked like a game of mobile leap frog. The novice would turn down the first street they came to, invariably finding it to be either a dead-end, or the on-ramp to a freeway taking them miles out of their way. And if one happened to sneak up unseen behind you, all the car's occupants would look suspiciously at each other.

You also tried to avoid meeting one at a corner, for they had an intrinsic flaw in their design. The cans slid smoothly on the metal shelves, but there was no way to secure them in place. However what went in easily came out just as easily, particularly when they rounded a corner too fast. A can could shoot out the door like a rocket to spill its contents all over the road and any nearby cars or people, and the stench lingered in the area for days, even if the driver had cleaned it up and spread fresh sawdust over the offending patch. Everybody knew to avoid driving through fresh patches of sawdust on the road!

The smell of a newly tarred empty can with it's accompanying scoop of sawdust was surprisingly fresh in a way. However the bouquet of a week-old one awaiting collection could have only appealed to the contractor's banker.

Dunnys of that era were a far cry from today's sterile porcelain and tile toilets. A toilet duck back then would have been a feathered variety that fed on flies that frequented the area. A small trapdoor gave access to the can. In the more modern structures, the cans were collected through an external trapdoor. Who can forget the surprise of sitting quietly reading the paper, or contemplating your toes, when suddenly the trap-door opened and the can disappeared from beneath you? You sat silently holding your breath, trying to pretend you weren't there, until the replacement can was slid back in. I always suspected the collectors had a competition among themselves for the highest number of bare bums in a day, for they seemed to sneak up very quietly.

Toilet tissue really only came into it's own after the introduction of sewerage systems. Prior to that the relatively indestructible newspaper sufficed. Some still maintain that it was the best place for many publications! At least there was always something handy to read. In our house it was my job to tear the newspapers into squares which were impaled onto a nail in the wall. The way the ink stained my hands performing this task makes me suspect we walked around with the blackest bums in the world in those days.

But what heroes were those collectors who fearlessly hoisted the fullest can onto foul-smelling leather pads on their shoulder. It was felt prudent to reward them with a bottle of beer at Christmas to ensure they didn't accidently stumble in your yard one day, leaving part of their load behind.

The increasing installation of sewerage systems finally signalled the demise of the carts, much to everyone's delight. But one group of youngsters mourned their departure, since it meant an end to their free admission into the local theatre. It was their practice to slide a pan out of a cubicle, then squirm through the the trapdoor and up through the seat into the theatre toilets. One of their ( more sane I suspect ) members would remain outside to slide the pan back when all of his mates were inside. Picture the sight of a string of youths filing out of a cubicle that was flat out holding one, picking cobwebs and dirt from their hair and clothes, and smelling a little strange ! No doubt they found nearby patrons would shift once they were seated.

The dunny cart is gone now, and I, for one, hope they never return.