Barry Metcalf's Blog, page 4
February 9, 2015
MY WICKED, WANTON LIFE
PART I
I was daydreaming. Well, not exactly daydreaming because it wasn’t daytime, but rather late at night. The point is my mind wasn’t on my driving. I was dreaming about having sex with a hot little number who’d recently been transferred to the school where I worked. She was young, had a great body, was wearing a short, tight yellow dress that accentuated every curve and, if I wasn’t reading the signs all wrong, she’d been flirting with me most of the evening. I think she was as anxious to get into my pants as I was to get into hers.
Although I was in a relationship, it wasn’t a long-term thing, more of a convenience, a way to ensure regular mind-blowing sex without having to go through all that dating rigmarole. At least, that’s the way I saw it. I’m not too sure about my partner. Anyway, I had just dreamed I'd pulled off this new staff member’s panties and buried my face in her muff when the unthinkable happened.
Abruptly the road ran out, and my Torana nosedived into a ditch. Before I realised where I was, it was flipping end over end. This can’t be happening! I’m too young to die! There was no time for any other thoughts. Next second, my head smacked against something hard and everything grew fuzzy.
I was five years old again. I was riding my trike outside the house owned by my grandparents, pretending I was in the race of my life. “Brmm! Brmm!” I tugged on the handlebars, pulling my trusty vehicle into a tight turn. Around and around the pussy willow tree I sped, each lap tighter than the one before. “Brmm! Brmm!”
Suddenly the trike tipped sideways and together we fell towards the ground. Only inside my mind I was tumbling on a racetrack, spectators and other vehicles spinning in crazy circles around me. Faster and faster I spun, everything around me becoming more and more blurry. Then a whirlwind enveloped me, lifting me and pulling me deeper and deeper into its centre. I was lost, trapped in a world of grey-and-white shadowy figures.
I screamed and opened my eyes. I was confused. I blinked and stared through glass. I was upside down. Although I was in a car, it wasn’t on a racetrack. I was on a country road, and I’d missed the intersection in the fog. There was no sign of other cars, spectators or a whirlwind. The year was 1974, not 1948.
A nightmare! A silly bloody nightmare! I shook my head, trying desperately to clear my muddled mind. While the car was settling, I’d lost conscious, and a childhood dream had resurfaced. Why that memory? No idea.
My head hurt, and I could smell the strong stench of beer. I’d purchased a dozen bottles of Foster’s Lager before setting out for home. During the crash they must have spilled from the carton, smashed somewhere in the back of the car and doused me in their contents. I smelled like a brewery and hadn’t touched a drop.
I groaned, felt for the clasp to unclip my seatbelt, pushed it and toppled onto the inside roof of the car. Bugger! I’d forgotten about gravity and landed on my head. I winced with pain, scrambled onto my hands and knees and searched for an exit. Thankfully the door opened. I pushed it as far as it would go and crawled from inside my upside-down vehicle.
As I sat there in the damp grass with the fog swirling around me the way it does in scary Hollywood movies, I listened to the motor cooling. There was no other sound. It was as if I was all alone in the world. At that moment, I could have believed it.
I reached up and touched my head again. It felt sticky. I brought my hand away and looked at it. In the dark I could barely make it out, but I could see a darker patch coating the ends of my fingers. Blood! Although I couldn’t see it, I could imagine the colour. It would be red. Bright red. It would be a shade of red that, when it gushed from the wounds of others, always made me feel queasy. My head was bleeding, and I had no way of staunching it.
I sat there, holding my head, wondering how I was going to get home. Perhaps the hot little number I’d been hitting on at work will drive past and pick me up. I seemed to recall she lived somewhere out this way. She could offer me a ride, take me to her place, and we could fuck until the sun comes up.
If you enjoyed this, you should check out my latest novel.
Broometime Serenade
I was daydreaming. Well, not exactly daydreaming because it wasn’t daytime, but rather late at night. The point is my mind wasn’t on my driving. I was dreaming about having sex with a hot little number who’d recently been transferred to the school where I worked. She was young, had a great body, was wearing a short, tight yellow dress that accentuated every curve and, if I wasn’t reading the signs all wrong, she’d been flirting with me most of the evening. I think she was as anxious to get into my pants as I was to get into hers.
Although I was in a relationship, it wasn’t a long-term thing, more of a convenience, a way to ensure regular mind-blowing sex without having to go through all that dating rigmarole. At least, that’s the way I saw it. I’m not too sure about my partner. Anyway, I had just dreamed I'd pulled off this new staff member’s panties and buried my face in her muff when the unthinkable happened.
Abruptly the road ran out, and my Torana nosedived into a ditch. Before I realised where I was, it was flipping end over end. This can’t be happening! I’m too young to die! There was no time for any other thoughts. Next second, my head smacked against something hard and everything grew fuzzy.
I was five years old again. I was riding my trike outside the house owned by my grandparents, pretending I was in the race of my life. “Brmm! Brmm!” I tugged on the handlebars, pulling my trusty vehicle into a tight turn. Around and around the pussy willow tree I sped, each lap tighter than the one before. “Brmm! Brmm!”
Suddenly the trike tipped sideways and together we fell towards the ground. Only inside my mind I was tumbling on a racetrack, spectators and other vehicles spinning in crazy circles around me. Faster and faster I spun, everything around me becoming more and more blurry. Then a whirlwind enveloped me, lifting me and pulling me deeper and deeper into its centre. I was lost, trapped in a world of grey-and-white shadowy figures.
I screamed and opened my eyes. I was confused. I blinked and stared through glass. I was upside down. Although I was in a car, it wasn’t on a racetrack. I was on a country road, and I’d missed the intersection in the fog. There was no sign of other cars, spectators or a whirlwind. The year was 1974, not 1948.
A nightmare! A silly bloody nightmare! I shook my head, trying desperately to clear my muddled mind. While the car was settling, I’d lost conscious, and a childhood dream had resurfaced. Why that memory? No idea.
My head hurt, and I could smell the strong stench of beer. I’d purchased a dozen bottles of Foster’s Lager before setting out for home. During the crash they must have spilled from the carton, smashed somewhere in the back of the car and doused me in their contents. I smelled like a brewery and hadn’t touched a drop.
I groaned, felt for the clasp to unclip my seatbelt, pushed it and toppled onto the inside roof of the car. Bugger! I’d forgotten about gravity and landed on my head. I winced with pain, scrambled onto my hands and knees and searched for an exit. Thankfully the door opened. I pushed it as far as it would go and crawled from inside my upside-down vehicle.
As I sat there in the damp grass with the fog swirling around me the way it does in scary Hollywood movies, I listened to the motor cooling. There was no other sound. It was as if I was all alone in the world. At that moment, I could have believed it.
I reached up and touched my head again. It felt sticky. I brought my hand away and looked at it. In the dark I could barely make it out, but I could see a darker patch coating the ends of my fingers. Blood! Although I couldn’t see it, I could imagine the colour. It would be red. Bright red. It would be a shade of red that, when it gushed from the wounds of others, always made me feel queasy. My head was bleeding, and I had no way of staunching it.
I sat there, holding my head, wondering how I was going to get home. Perhaps the hot little number I’d been hitting on at work will drive past and pick me up. I seemed to recall she lived somewhere out this way. She could offer me a ride, take me to her place, and we could fuck until the sun comes up.
If you enjoyed this, you should check out my latest novel.
Broometime Serenade
January 16, 2015
DEPARTURE LOUNGE MAYHEM
I reached the departure lounge, thirsty and out of breath. Out-of-the-way destinations are always located at the furthermost end of the terminal, requiring a long hike along a seemingly endless corridor with machines selling drinks at outrageous prices. And remember, I’d been on the go since 3:00 a.m. Glad to take the weight off my feet, I found a seat as far away from everyone else as possible and glanced at my watch. 7:00 a.m. An hour to kill before my flight boarded. Already the place was filling up with other early risers headed for the same destination as me. I couldn’t blame them for that--Broome’s a fantastic place--but I was never really comfortable mingling with people I didn’t know, especially this early in the morning.
I sighed, extracted my reading glasses from my pocket and my eBook reader from my bag and tried to shut out the antics of my fellow travellers by immersing myself in a novel. That lasted a whole minute. Before I’d completed the first paragraph, I was pulled from my make-believe world by a horrendous howling that threatened to split my eardrums. I looked up, expecting to see a sabre-tooth cat charging in my direction. But no. A young mother had entered the lounge, her mewling baby slung across her chest. The infant seemed to be in mortal agony, or it was teething, or it wanted its breakfast.
Feed it! Calm it! Cover its mouth with your hand and smother it! I waited for her to attend to the child’s needs. But no. Instead of finding a quiet, out-of-the-way spot and hushing its wailing, she took up a potion three seats away, turned up the volume on her iPod, seemingly hell bent on inflicting her infant’s ill temper on all those around her.
What is it with parents today? I sighed again, turned sideways in the hope of lessening the impact on my ears, and returned my attention to my reading.
Suddenly, I was bustled from behind, my reader spilling from my hands. As I bent to retrieve it, annoyance making my top lip curl, a young girl climbed over the back of the seat beside me, bumped my arm again and dashed across the room. A boy of similar age followed close behind. I snarled and turned my head. None of the adults seated behind me seemed interested in the antics of these young hooligans, let alone in reigning in their outrageous behaviour. I clenched my teeth and let my mind drift, pretending I wasn’t here. I recalled another time, a time when things hadn’t gone according to plan and I’d arrived at the airport a mere twenty-five minutes before my plane was due to depart. Perhaps if I’d left home a little later this morning, I’d have been spared this bedlam.
On that morning, I’d departed for the airport with time to spare. Not a lot, not as much as I’d allowed this morning, but enough that, barring accidents, I’d arrive in time to check my suitcase and print out my boarding passes before departure. I cruised along the freeway, keeping to the speed limit, intent on not getting caught by a speed camera and donating several hundred dollars to the Police Benevolent Fund or adding to the demerit points I’d earned last year. My mind was filled with images of swaying palm trees and gentle surf breaking on gleaming white beaches, only partly focussed on driving. At that time of morning, with traffic light, it was easy to navigate on auto-pilot.
Suddenly, I spotted a landmark, a tall building I’d used in the past to mark the spot where I took the exit ramp and joined the freeway that would take me to the airport. I glanced left, expecting to see the slip lane I’d used for the last five years. As I became more aware of my surroundings, I realised that everything had changed. Instead of a curving off-ramp, I found myself in the midst of road construction. Huge blocks of concrete prevented me from turning left, and an array of signs extolled the virtues of this new network of roads. I slowed, shook my head, and tried to get my bearings. Horns honked as cars came from behind me, swept into the next lane, overtook me with upraised fingers which suggested they were unpleased with my change of plans.
I looked right and left. I looked ahead. No exit sign. Surely it should be right here. I glanced in the rear-view mirror and cursed. Some distance behind me, a line of cars were veering left. The exit had been relocated, and I’d missed the signs. I cursed, accelerated and began searching for the next exit. To my chagrin that, too, was hidden amidst a clutter of new roadwork signs and, by the time I’d spotted it, I’d overshot the turnoff again.
Needless to say, by the time I’d found another route to the airport, traffic had multiplied, slowed to well below the speed limit and, when I arrived at the check-in counter out of breath with my suitcase in tow, I was greeted with a condescending smile and told the check-in time for my flight had expired. Muttering to myself, I arranged a seat on the next available flight to Western Australia. Sadly there wasn’t a direct flight to Broome for another week so, instead of the anticipated four hour trip, the journey took up most of the day. With a lay-over of almost five hours while I awaited a connecting flight, I was tired, frazzled and in a bad temper by the time I reached my destination.
No, arriving later wasn’t the answer to my problems.
I jerked upright, pulled from my reverie by the sound of an animated argument. A couple had taken up the seats directly opposite me and were berating one another at the tops of their voices. Apparently she’d forgotten to pack something of his, and he wasn’t happy about it. She was sick and tired of his boorish behaviour and, if he didn’t treat her better, she’d sue for divorce. Back and forth the insults flew without a clear winner in sight. I tried shutting their vitriol out, but I might as well have attempted to stop a charging lion with nothing but my bare hands.
I groaned, closed my eyes and waited for the announcement calling us to board our aircraft.
Broometime Serenade
I sighed, extracted my reading glasses from my pocket and my eBook reader from my bag and tried to shut out the antics of my fellow travellers by immersing myself in a novel. That lasted a whole minute. Before I’d completed the first paragraph, I was pulled from my make-believe world by a horrendous howling that threatened to split my eardrums. I looked up, expecting to see a sabre-tooth cat charging in my direction. But no. A young mother had entered the lounge, her mewling baby slung across her chest. The infant seemed to be in mortal agony, or it was teething, or it wanted its breakfast.
Feed it! Calm it! Cover its mouth with your hand and smother it! I waited for her to attend to the child’s needs. But no. Instead of finding a quiet, out-of-the-way spot and hushing its wailing, she took up a potion three seats away, turned up the volume on her iPod, seemingly hell bent on inflicting her infant’s ill temper on all those around her.
What is it with parents today? I sighed again, turned sideways in the hope of lessening the impact on my ears, and returned my attention to my reading.
Suddenly, I was bustled from behind, my reader spilling from my hands. As I bent to retrieve it, annoyance making my top lip curl, a young girl climbed over the back of the seat beside me, bumped my arm again and dashed across the room. A boy of similar age followed close behind. I snarled and turned my head. None of the adults seated behind me seemed interested in the antics of these young hooligans, let alone in reigning in their outrageous behaviour. I clenched my teeth and let my mind drift, pretending I wasn’t here. I recalled another time, a time when things hadn’t gone according to plan and I’d arrived at the airport a mere twenty-five minutes before my plane was due to depart. Perhaps if I’d left home a little later this morning, I’d have been spared this bedlam.
On that morning, I’d departed for the airport with time to spare. Not a lot, not as much as I’d allowed this morning, but enough that, barring accidents, I’d arrive in time to check my suitcase and print out my boarding passes before departure. I cruised along the freeway, keeping to the speed limit, intent on not getting caught by a speed camera and donating several hundred dollars to the Police Benevolent Fund or adding to the demerit points I’d earned last year. My mind was filled with images of swaying palm trees and gentle surf breaking on gleaming white beaches, only partly focussed on driving. At that time of morning, with traffic light, it was easy to navigate on auto-pilot.
Suddenly, I spotted a landmark, a tall building I’d used in the past to mark the spot where I took the exit ramp and joined the freeway that would take me to the airport. I glanced left, expecting to see the slip lane I’d used for the last five years. As I became more aware of my surroundings, I realised that everything had changed. Instead of a curving off-ramp, I found myself in the midst of road construction. Huge blocks of concrete prevented me from turning left, and an array of signs extolled the virtues of this new network of roads. I slowed, shook my head, and tried to get my bearings. Horns honked as cars came from behind me, swept into the next lane, overtook me with upraised fingers which suggested they were unpleased with my change of plans.
I looked right and left. I looked ahead. No exit sign. Surely it should be right here. I glanced in the rear-view mirror and cursed. Some distance behind me, a line of cars were veering left. The exit had been relocated, and I’d missed the signs. I cursed, accelerated and began searching for the next exit. To my chagrin that, too, was hidden amidst a clutter of new roadwork signs and, by the time I’d spotted it, I’d overshot the turnoff again.
Needless to say, by the time I’d found another route to the airport, traffic had multiplied, slowed to well below the speed limit and, when I arrived at the check-in counter out of breath with my suitcase in tow, I was greeted with a condescending smile and told the check-in time for my flight had expired. Muttering to myself, I arranged a seat on the next available flight to Western Australia. Sadly there wasn’t a direct flight to Broome for another week so, instead of the anticipated four hour trip, the journey took up most of the day. With a lay-over of almost five hours while I awaited a connecting flight, I was tired, frazzled and in a bad temper by the time I reached my destination.
No, arriving later wasn’t the answer to my problems.
I jerked upright, pulled from my reverie by the sound of an animated argument. A couple had taken up the seats directly opposite me and were berating one another at the tops of their voices. Apparently she’d forgotten to pack something of his, and he wasn’t happy about it. She was sick and tired of his boorish behaviour and, if he didn’t treat her better, she’d sue for divorce. Back and forth the insults flew without a clear winner in sight. I tried shutting their vitriol out, but I might as well have attempted to stop a charging lion with nothing but my bare hands.
I groaned, closed my eyes and waited for the announcement calling us to board our aircraft.
Broometime Serenade
January 13, 2015
MORNINGS SUCK
I awoke to the sound of loud voices booming outside my bedroom window and rolled out of bed. Through blurry eyes, I checked my bedside clock. 3:00 a.m., an hour before the alarm was due to disturb me. Outside, the voices continued their ear-piercing calls back and forth, now joined by the slamming of doors and the uneven bleat of a diesel engine warming up. I sighed and attempted to shut out the sounds of the next-door neighbours loading up their four-wheel drive and doing their best to wake the neighbourhood as they departed for their annual holiday to the beach.
Sighing, knowing further sleep was impossible, I turned off the alarm and stumbled into the shower. Scrubbed clean and dressed, I made myself a cup of much-needed coffee. As I sipped the hot liquid, I stood at the window and watched the neighbours piling into their car and, with horn blaring, roar out of the quiet court as if it were the middle of the day. In the houses closest to theirs, lights were blazing. Shaking my head, I wondered yet again why some people had to do everything at the tops of their voices, especially when leaving in the early hours of the morning or arriving home in the dead of night?
Half an hour later, revived by my caffeine fix, I locked my house, tip-toed out into my carport, flung my luggage into the car and, without shouting at anyone, departed as quietly as possible for Tullamarine Airport, about two hours away. At that time of morning, traffic was thankfully light and, despite changed and confusing traffic conditions in the city, I didn’t get lost and made good time. With the car securely parked, airport passes issued and baggage checked, I made my way through the array of security checks implemented since September, 2001.
As usual, something on my person triggered the metal detector, and I was sent back to further disrobe. I’d already removed my watch, belt and the contents of my pockets--eliminating those things that had, in the past, sent the detector into a frenzy--and searched my person for some other offending item. I had nothing metal on me. But wait. A helpful official attracted my attention and pointed to my new boots. Of course, they had metal rings fixed to the sides. I removed the offending items, placed them on the conveyor entering the scanner and stepped through the metal detector again, holding my pants at the waist as they threatened to fall down to my knees.
This time, I made it through without setting off any alarms, and retrieved my boots and other belongings, but I’d caught the eye of a burly bloke holding a baton in one hand and a bulky box-shaped object in the other. He gestured in my direction with the wand and nodded. With my belt, mobile phone, coins, wallet, pen and keys in a plastic tray in one hand and my boots in the other, I waddled toward him, legs spread to prevent my pants slipping down my thighs.
Other people wandered past, but the official seemed only interested in me.
“Have you been near any explosives recently?” he asked.
“Not that I know of.” How would I know if I had?
“Hold out your arms.”
I did as instructed, and he waved the wand over my upper body and then along my arms. More people wandered past, most frowning and shooting furtive glances in my direction.
Do they think I’m a terrorist of some sort? “Out of all of these people, why did you select me?” I asked as he moved the wand up and down the outsides of my legs.
“Your behaviour was suspicious.” He passed the wand up and down the insides of my legs.
“Suspicious? How?” Christ! What if I’ve got some substance on my clothes that he thinks is explosive?
“You seemed to be trying to confuse the metal detector.” He removed the wand and checked a dial on its fat end.
“Can I put my hands down now?”
“Of course, sir.” He sounded disappointed.
I placed everything on the floor at my feet, selected my belt and began to thread it through the hooks on the waist of my pants.
“You can’t get dressed here, sir,” said another official who’d suddenly appeared at my side.
“Can I go?” I asked the official with the wand.
“Yes. You’re clear.” He still sounded disappointed.
I grabbed my belongings and retired as far from the electronic gadgetry as I could, fastened my belt, replaced my boots on my feet and returned the other belongings to my pockets. At this point I realised I’d forgotten my carry bag and looked around for it. I soon spotted it at the collection point at the end of the conveyor leading from the scanner, two other officials staring at it as if they suspected it was a bomb.
Hurrying forward, I excused myself, retrieved my bag and took my leave, glad to have successfully negotiated this facet of my journey. As I strode across the vast expanse of the terminal, I checked my watch. 6:35 a.m. Still two hours before my flight was due to leave. I had time to partake of a hearty, healthy breakfast, but after what I’d just endured, decided on a burger and black coffee from Hungry Jack’s, topped off with a couple of Crispy Crème doughnuts.
Hunger pangs subdued and feeling much more human, I headed to the departure lounge, where I could await my flight and catch up on some reading.
Broometime Serenade
Sighing, knowing further sleep was impossible, I turned off the alarm and stumbled into the shower. Scrubbed clean and dressed, I made myself a cup of much-needed coffee. As I sipped the hot liquid, I stood at the window and watched the neighbours piling into their car and, with horn blaring, roar out of the quiet court as if it were the middle of the day. In the houses closest to theirs, lights were blazing. Shaking my head, I wondered yet again why some people had to do everything at the tops of their voices, especially when leaving in the early hours of the morning or arriving home in the dead of night?
Half an hour later, revived by my caffeine fix, I locked my house, tip-toed out into my carport, flung my luggage into the car and, without shouting at anyone, departed as quietly as possible for Tullamarine Airport, about two hours away. At that time of morning, traffic was thankfully light and, despite changed and confusing traffic conditions in the city, I didn’t get lost and made good time. With the car securely parked, airport passes issued and baggage checked, I made my way through the array of security checks implemented since September, 2001.
As usual, something on my person triggered the metal detector, and I was sent back to further disrobe. I’d already removed my watch, belt and the contents of my pockets--eliminating those things that had, in the past, sent the detector into a frenzy--and searched my person for some other offending item. I had nothing metal on me. But wait. A helpful official attracted my attention and pointed to my new boots. Of course, they had metal rings fixed to the sides. I removed the offending items, placed them on the conveyor entering the scanner and stepped through the metal detector again, holding my pants at the waist as they threatened to fall down to my knees.
This time, I made it through without setting off any alarms, and retrieved my boots and other belongings, but I’d caught the eye of a burly bloke holding a baton in one hand and a bulky box-shaped object in the other. He gestured in my direction with the wand and nodded. With my belt, mobile phone, coins, wallet, pen and keys in a plastic tray in one hand and my boots in the other, I waddled toward him, legs spread to prevent my pants slipping down my thighs.
Other people wandered past, but the official seemed only interested in me.
“Have you been near any explosives recently?” he asked.
“Not that I know of.” How would I know if I had?
“Hold out your arms.”
I did as instructed, and he waved the wand over my upper body and then along my arms. More people wandered past, most frowning and shooting furtive glances in my direction.
Do they think I’m a terrorist of some sort? “Out of all of these people, why did you select me?” I asked as he moved the wand up and down the outsides of my legs.
“Your behaviour was suspicious.” He passed the wand up and down the insides of my legs.
“Suspicious? How?” Christ! What if I’ve got some substance on my clothes that he thinks is explosive?
“You seemed to be trying to confuse the metal detector.” He removed the wand and checked a dial on its fat end.
“Can I put my hands down now?”
“Of course, sir.” He sounded disappointed.
I placed everything on the floor at my feet, selected my belt and began to thread it through the hooks on the waist of my pants.
“You can’t get dressed here, sir,” said another official who’d suddenly appeared at my side.
“Can I go?” I asked the official with the wand.
“Yes. You’re clear.” He still sounded disappointed.
I grabbed my belongings and retired as far from the electronic gadgetry as I could, fastened my belt, replaced my boots on my feet and returned the other belongings to my pockets. At this point I realised I’d forgotten my carry bag and looked around for it. I soon spotted it at the collection point at the end of the conveyor leading from the scanner, two other officials staring at it as if they suspected it was a bomb.
Hurrying forward, I excused myself, retrieved my bag and took my leave, glad to have successfully negotiated this facet of my journey. As I strode across the vast expanse of the terminal, I checked my watch. 6:35 a.m. Still two hours before my flight was due to leave. I had time to partake of a hearty, healthy breakfast, but after what I’d just endured, decided on a burger and black coffee from Hungry Jack’s, topped off with a couple of Crispy Crème doughnuts.
Hunger pangs subdued and feeling much more human, I headed to the departure lounge, where I could await my flight and catch up on some reading.
Broometime Serenade
January 10, 2015
REFLECTIONS ON A LOSS
I awoke this morning at 8:30--late for me--drowsy and listless. I rolled out of bed, feeling as if I’ve lost something or missed an important engagement.
But what?
As I stumbled from my bedroom to the kitchen, boiled the kettle for my first cup of coffee and fired up my laptop, I pondered this question, unable to find an answer, yet unable to shake the feeling of something lost. I blinked, stared at the screensaver, blinked again, and a million images flashed across the screen of my mind.
Broome. Sunshine. Sand. Surf. Cicadas. Cable Beach. Camels. Palm trees. Boab Trees. Seashells Resort. Gantheaume Point. Anastasia’s Pool. Dinosaur footprints. Crocodiles. Streeter’s Jetty. Old Zoo Café. Matso’s.
On this day of the year--the second Sunday of January--for the past sixteen years, I’ve risen around 4:00 a.m., showered, dressed, gulped down a cup of coffee, stuffed suitcases in the car and hit the road. Today was the day I normally headed for Tullamarine Airport, boarded a plane around 8:30 and winged towards Broome.
But not this year.
This year, because of financial constraints, this wasn’t going to happen.
As I sat back, sipped my coffee, I pondered my options. Best case scenario: I can always re-read ‘Broometime Serenade’ and lose myself in its pages. Once again, I’ll be back in Broome, enjoying sun, surf and sand and the millions of other experiences, never really lost as long as I have my memories.
Cheers everyone.
Broometime Serenade
But what?
As I stumbled from my bedroom to the kitchen, boiled the kettle for my first cup of coffee and fired up my laptop, I pondered this question, unable to find an answer, yet unable to shake the feeling of something lost. I blinked, stared at the screensaver, blinked again, and a million images flashed across the screen of my mind.
Broome. Sunshine. Sand. Surf. Cicadas. Cable Beach. Camels. Palm trees. Boab Trees. Seashells Resort. Gantheaume Point. Anastasia’s Pool. Dinosaur footprints. Crocodiles. Streeter’s Jetty. Old Zoo Café. Matso’s.
On this day of the year--the second Sunday of January--for the past sixteen years, I’ve risen around 4:00 a.m., showered, dressed, gulped down a cup of coffee, stuffed suitcases in the car and hit the road. Today was the day I normally headed for Tullamarine Airport, boarded a plane around 8:30 and winged towards Broome.
But not this year.
This year, because of financial constraints, this wasn’t going to happen.
As I sat back, sipped my coffee, I pondered my options. Best case scenario: I can always re-read ‘Broometime Serenade’ and lose myself in its pages. Once again, I’ll be back in Broome, enjoying sun, surf and sand and the millions of other experiences, never really lost as long as I have my memories.
Cheers everyone.
Broometime Serenade
January 8, 2015
ELVIS AND ME
The year was 1962.
After graduating from high school, I moved to Melbourne to start university. Billeted in a hostel with a hundred other youngsters from the country (I was 18 and not officially an adult, and the term ‘teenager’ had been bandied about in the media, usually in a derogatory manner, and wasn’t used by anyone I knew), I was agog with the many wonders of this metropolis.
At a loose end after a day of orientation at Melbourne University, a group of us gathered to decide how to fill in the evening. We settled on killing time at a movie, but couldn’t find one that none of us had seen before. (Even in the country, we got to see the latest releases not long after they’d screened in ‘the big smoke’.) Eventually, someone suggested ‘Blue Hawaii’ and, with some reluctance, the rest of us agreed.
At this time, Elvis had pretty much taken the world by storm, but I’d stayed away from his movies and largely ignored his music. Elvis had garnered some bad press early in his career, and my parents thought him a bad influence. In our house, we listened to artists such as Bing Crosby, Guy Mitchell, Doris Day or Nat ‘King’ Cole, singers I still enjoy today. Although I’d started to rebel in subtle ways, I hadn’t started to question my parents’ choices.
That was all about to change.
Believing I wasn’t about to enjoy this experience, I sat back with a sneer on my lips and prepared to rubbish this offering from this ‘so-called’ singer. How wrong I was. From the moment Elvis appeared larger than life on the screen before me, I became a convert. I watched, mesmerised, as he strode back and forth in front of me, singing and gyrating in a manner I’d never witnessed before. (And let’s face it, he’d been somewhat tamed by the time he returned from his army stint in Germany.) From that moment on, I became a fan. I bought every record as soon as it hit the stores and watched every movie soon after its release. And while the qualities of the movies would never again reach the level of ‘Blue Hawaii’, I remained a fan. For the first time I rebelled against the lifestyle of my parents, and my life changed forever.
Maybe my parents were right. Elvis may very well have been a bad influence.
Broometime Serenade
After graduating from high school, I moved to Melbourne to start university. Billeted in a hostel with a hundred other youngsters from the country (I was 18 and not officially an adult, and the term ‘teenager’ had been bandied about in the media, usually in a derogatory manner, and wasn’t used by anyone I knew), I was agog with the many wonders of this metropolis.
At a loose end after a day of orientation at Melbourne University, a group of us gathered to decide how to fill in the evening. We settled on killing time at a movie, but couldn’t find one that none of us had seen before. (Even in the country, we got to see the latest releases not long after they’d screened in ‘the big smoke’.) Eventually, someone suggested ‘Blue Hawaii’ and, with some reluctance, the rest of us agreed.
At this time, Elvis had pretty much taken the world by storm, but I’d stayed away from his movies and largely ignored his music. Elvis had garnered some bad press early in his career, and my parents thought him a bad influence. In our house, we listened to artists such as Bing Crosby, Guy Mitchell, Doris Day or Nat ‘King’ Cole, singers I still enjoy today. Although I’d started to rebel in subtle ways, I hadn’t started to question my parents’ choices.
That was all about to change.
Believing I wasn’t about to enjoy this experience, I sat back with a sneer on my lips and prepared to rubbish this offering from this ‘so-called’ singer. How wrong I was. From the moment Elvis appeared larger than life on the screen before me, I became a convert. I watched, mesmerised, as he strode back and forth in front of me, singing and gyrating in a manner I’d never witnessed before. (And let’s face it, he’d been somewhat tamed by the time he returned from his army stint in Germany.) From that moment on, I became a fan. I bought every record as soon as it hit the stores and watched every movie soon after its release. And while the qualities of the movies would never again reach the level of ‘Blue Hawaii’, I remained a fan. For the first time I rebelled against the lifestyle of my parents, and my life changed forever.
Maybe my parents were right. Elvis may very well have been a bad influence.
Broometime Serenade
January 3, 2015
THE YEAR THAT WAS
As 2014 disappears into the mists of time and the first days of 2015 roll out, I find myself reflecting on the past twelve months. For me it’s been one of many achievements, and the promise of more to come.
Early in the year, I was contacted by an American publisher and offered a book contract for the second novel in my ‘Oz-Files’ series. The first had been published eight years ago by an Australian publisher and literally gone nowhere so, late in 2013, I’d bitten the bullet and send a manuscript to Evolved Publishing, a fairly new publishing company I’d read about online. Long story short, I ended up signing a three novel contract and, while I awaited the appointment of an editor and a cover artist for the first release, I was so buoyed by my good fortune I managed to complete the seventh novel in the series featuring Martin & Claire, a project that had stalled for almost two years. Once begun, the words flowed fast and furiously and, almost before I completed the epilogue, I’d begun work on the eighth novel in the series.
My writing continued at a rapid and constant pace, and some three months later I’d finished another manuscript. About this time, I began collaborating with graphic artist, Mallory Rock, who managed to transfer the vague ideas from deep inside my subconscious into a fantastic cover for ‘Broometime Serenade’, the second book in this series and my first release for Evolved Publishing. I couldn’t have been more pleased.
While waiting for the appointment of an editor to begin work on ‘Broometime Serenade’ I continued writing, the ideas still flowing in a constant stream, the words demanding release. I completed another manuscript and began working on the ninth novel in the series, where I discovered the lives of my two detectives beginning to take a series of unexpected turns. But you’ll have to wait for the release of those books to find out what direction those changes take.
Around this time, two events in my personal life caused significant upheaval. I moved house and my father passed away. While the first simply ate into my writing time and caused minor disruptions to my schedule, the second threw me into total disarray. Although my father’s death wasn’t totally unexpected, the loss of a loved one always causes one distress. Needless, to say, the writing dried up like a waterhole during a drought.
Not long after my father’s funeral, an editor was appointed to pull my writing into some sort of order, and Mishael Witty and I began working on making my writing tighter and more powerful. At this time, I was thankful for the opportunity to lose myself in the pages of my novel and push my grief to the back of my mind. In due course, the edits were completed and the novel was released in eBook and paperback form. A month before Christmas, I received my first box of books and was able to surround myself with the physical evidence of my achievements. Thus ended an eventful and satisfying year.
Thank you to all at Evolved Publishing.
Broometime Serenade
Early in the year, I was contacted by an American publisher and offered a book contract for the second novel in my ‘Oz-Files’ series. The first had been published eight years ago by an Australian publisher and literally gone nowhere so, late in 2013, I’d bitten the bullet and send a manuscript to Evolved Publishing, a fairly new publishing company I’d read about online. Long story short, I ended up signing a three novel contract and, while I awaited the appointment of an editor and a cover artist for the first release, I was so buoyed by my good fortune I managed to complete the seventh novel in the series featuring Martin & Claire, a project that had stalled for almost two years. Once begun, the words flowed fast and furiously and, almost before I completed the epilogue, I’d begun work on the eighth novel in the series.
My writing continued at a rapid and constant pace, and some three months later I’d finished another manuscript. About this time, I began collaborating with graphic artist, Mallory Rock, who managed to transfer the vague ideas from deep inside my subconscious into a fantastic cover for ‘Broometime Serenade’, the second book in this series and my first release for Evolved Publishing. I couldn’t have been more pleased.
While waiting for the appointment of an editor to begin work on ‘Broometime Serenade’ I continued writing, the ideas still flowing in a constant stream, the words demanding release. I completed another manuscript and began working on the ninth novel in the series, where I discovered the lives of my two detectives beginning to take a series of unexpected turns. But you’ll have to wait for the release of those books to find out what direction those changes take.
Around this time, two events in my personal life caused significant upheaval. I moved house and my father passed away. While the first simply ate into my writing time and caused minor disruptions to my schedule, the second threw me into total disarray. Although my father’s death wasn’t totally unexpected, the loss of a loved one always causes one distress. Needless, to say, the writing dried up like a waterhole during a drought.
Not long after my father’s funeral, an editor was appointed to pull my writing into some sort of order, and Mishael Witty and I began working on making my writing tighter and more powerful. At this time, I was thankful for the opportunity to lose myself in the pages of my novel and push my grief to the back of my mind. In due course, the edits were completed and the novel was released in eBook and paperback form. A month before Christmas, I received my first box of books and was able to surround myself with the physical evidence of my achievements. Thus ended an eventful and satisfying year.
Thank you to all at Evolved Publishing.
Broometime Serenade
December 27, 2014
DONE & DUSTED
Wherever you are in the world, Christmas is now done and dusted. If you’re like me, you’ve eaten so much rich food that you probably never want to look at another slice of pork, smell the rich aroma of Christmas pudding or down another beer. Well, given that I’m still swilling beer at a constant rate that’s probably a tad of an overstatement, but you know what I mean.
Now that the last of the rellies have departed (or are soon to depart) and the wrapping paper has been assigned to the recycle bin, it’s time to assess the presents you’ve received and, apart from the book that grandpa gave you, decide what to do with them. Of course, one of the most thoughtful gifts one can get these days is a Gift Card. Aren’t they the ant’s pants when it comes to giving? At least you can decide to use them to get what you really wanted, rather than what some well-intended but totally misguided rellie stuck in your stocking.
If you’re like me, you’ll want to spurge on books, the more the merrier. It’s now time to put your feet up, open the cover of some enthralling novel and while away the hours. That’s true whether you’ve in the dead of Winter, fighting off the cold, or in the heat of Summer, sucking up as much sunshine as you can. If that’s the case, then you should check out these sites where you can obtain a copy of my latest novel.
Broometime Serenade
Cheers, everyone.
Now that the last of the rellies have departed (or are soon to depart) and the wrapping paper has been assigned to the recycle bin, it’s time to assess the presents you’ve received and, apart from the book that grandpa gave you, decide what to do with them. Of course, one of the most thoughtful gifts one can get these days is a Gift Card. Aren’t they the ant’s pants when it comes to giving? At least you can decide to use them to get what you really wanted, rather than what some well-intended but totally misguided rellie stuck in your stocking.
If you’re like me, you’ll want to spurge on books, the more the merrier. It’s now time to put your feet up, open the cover of some enthralling novel and while away the hours. That’s true whether you’ve in the dead of Winter, fighting off the cold, or in the heat of Summer, sucking up as much sunshine as you can. If that’s the case, then you should check out these sites where you can obtain a copy of my latest novel.
Broometime Serenade
Cheers, everyone.
December 10, 2014
REVELATION
'Mildred leaned forward, one conspirator to another. She opened her eyes wide and held their stares. “I did hear,” she whispered across the plastic tablecloth to her rapt audience, “that the bulldozers clearing the site for reconstruction found a skeleton buried there.” She sat back and devoured the looks of disbelief on her cronies’ faces.'
What is the significance of Mildred's startling revelation? Read more and find out....
What is the significance of Mildred's startling revelation? Read more and find out....
November 14, 2014
Interview with Martin Mitchell
Hi, Martin Mitchell here.
The question I’m most often asked is, ‘When did you first become an agent for the Strange & Obscure Cases Unit, and what did you do before that?’
Before joining SOC, I was a secondary school teacher. In 1996, when I grew disillusioned with that work, I applied for a position with the Australian Security Intelligence Organisation. Although I thought I might be too old to be a field agent--ASIO was recruiting from the under-30 age group--I felt confident that, if I was rejected as an agent, my computer skills would get me a job working as part of their support staff. Anyway, I scored an interview and was soon aboard a flight to Canberra, the location of ASIO headquarters.
After three days of psychological and aptitude testing--the longest and toughest exams I’d ever undertaken--I was whisked into a dingy office in the basement of Old Parliament House and confronted by Gavin August Byrne, the current head of SOC. He’d seen something in my test results that he liked. He interviewed me, seconded me to his department and despatched me on a case--of sorts.
My first assignment--what Gavin liked to call a ‘trial run’--was to return to my old job and investigate a series of bomb threats currently plaguing the local secondary college. I wasn’t thrilled by this--‘How exciting could it be?’ I’d asked myself--but it turned out to be a test of my investigative skills, my perspicacity and my courage in the face of a maniacal, if somewhat demented foe. Pleased with my results, Gavin assigned me my first real assignment--a series of bizarre murders in Adelaide--and the rest is history.
So, that’s it in a nutshell. My advice to everyone out there is to go after your dreams. You never know where they might lead you.
Look for Claire and me--she’s younger and hot!--in ‘Broometime Serenade’, on sale soon.
Broometime Serenade
The question I’m most often asked is, ‘When did you first become an agent for the Strange & Obscure Cases Unit, and what did you do before that?’
Before joining SOC, I was a secondary school teacher. In 1996, when I grew disillusioned with that work, I applied for a position with the Australian Security Intelligence Organisation. Although I thought I might be too old to be a field agent--ASIO was recruiting from the under-30 age group--I felt confident that, if I was rejected as an agent, my computer skills would get me a job working as part of their support staff. Anyway, I scored an interview and was soon aboard a flight to Canberra, the location of ASIO headquarters.
After three days of psychological and aptitude testing--the longest and toughest exams I’d ever undertaken--I was whisked into a dingy office in the basement of Old Parliament House and confronted by Gavin August Byrne, the current head of SOC. He’d seen something in my test results that he liked. He interviewed me, seconded me to his department and despatched me on a case--of sorts.
My first assignment--what Gavin liked to call a ‘trial run’--was to return to my old job and investigate a series of bomb threats currently plaguing the local secondary college. I wasn’t thrilled by this--‘How exciting could it be?’ I’d asked myself--but it turned out to be a test of my investigative skills, my perspicacity and my courage in the face of a maniacal, if somewhat demented foe. Pleased with my results, Gavin assigned me my first real assignment--a series of bizarre murders in Adelaide--and the rest is history.
So, that’s it in a nutshell. My advice to everyone out there is to go after your dreams. You never know where they might lead you.
Look for Claire and me--she’s younger and hot!--in ‘Broometime Serenade’, on sale soon.
Broometime Serenade
