About the restored title: An explanation follows in time.
My place of abode is in an unfenced Government flat precinct on Beaudesert’s northern outskirts. Most passers-by assume the 1950 circa army camp buildings are part of the Wongaburra Convalescent Home and its inhabitants their sedated, tame inmates. While the assumption is not correct, it isn’t totally wrong either. From a distance, we are the average unpretentious and drab, end of life, uneducated, boring working class yobbos, a microcosm of suburbia worldwide but yuck, over fifty-five and old; an age well beyond the tolerance expectations of Bligh’s crooked own-interest Housing fiddlers.
The mental home analogy is on-track at least. Woodridge Area Housing Staff colluded with the local police-friendly, crime-soft RSL for a covert and seamless take-over of this precinct to accommodate their profusion of brain-dead and I’ve been promised little effort is required to manipulate the Mental Evaluation test to demean intransigent tenants like the writer. The aptly and delightfully sur-named Victoria, a long-time rsl flunky and NLP yes-girl maintains a fawning two-way relationship with Housing acquaintances for them to better facilitate the quick transfer of nut-jobs to 220-226 Brisbane Street.
Housing Commission areas are the fiefdoms of public servant megalomania who, having found their vocation now wish to establish and develop their dominance and hone their manipulative skills. Spawned in the storm-water drains of impoverished areas of Inala and Woodridge and generally culturally deprived, these single-celled leeches manipulate their needy, working class clients and get snarky indeed on those who oppose Government stupidity and the Housing cretins who thrive on it. But we pay!
I remain the eternal optimist and enjoyed the morning walk along a main road to get the paper until I became carbon monoxide winded. The then immediate upwind neighbour, Ryan, used aerosol air-freshener as a universal house cleaner in lieu of water and vacuüm cleaner and my request to ease off alerted him to my problem. A twilight dousing of aerosol driven by the prevailing easterlies into my flat became the norm. A failure to close openings one evening, led to a three-day hospitalization and hospital records declaring me a chronic chromer, or one who gets his kicks by inhaling aerosols. Thank you again, indifferent and lazy Queensland Health(?) bludgers. The permanently damaged pulmonary led to a total intolerance to spent cigarette smoke and the beginning of the Queensland Housing Department’s war of attrition against me. My guess is the Government’s white-washing to maintain its tidy front of shop image, had their Housing Department instinctively go into protective, disclaimer mode, by discrediting as being of unstable nature, any legal claims that I, a victim of deliberate aerosol gassing, might make as a future plaintiff.
A daily journal kept in a computer can be altered to suit the occasion and in law its content isn’t worth a pinch of shit, a fact I never forgot after my late partner’s hand written notes delivered us a win against prominent thoroughbred horse thief and common fraud, Barrie Rxxxxx and his drug dependent daughter, Sally. The law accepts that a running, handwritten diary is near enough impossible to doctor. My notes contain date and times of phone calls from the strident Housing nose-picker, Kimberley, and an extraordinary visit by Housing stand-over message boy, Terry O’Br delivering threats under instruction of his Woodridge controllers; threats that they wouldn’t dare make on hard copy. Times and car registrations, gender and other relevant information is noted when actual data is difficult to obtain.
The fore-mentioned Ryan, was a devoted garbage nazi who once moved me, in my great alarm to call him a three word expletive. It came about one pre-dawn moonless garbage day when, en route to get the paper from the early opening service station, I was about to deposit my small bag of refuse when he boomed from his darkened doorway, ” Filling up me bin, are ya.”? He awaits hidden, he had explained in an earlier confrontation, to surprise and frighten the crows away by beating on the veranda rail or fly door even while the morn was very dark. His fellow tenants were loathe to complain for fear of reprisal eviction notices.
I objected to his unusual behaviour and he replied he would sue his Department friend on to me. A day or two later, he proved his word and the apparent misandrist, Schoutens, with a male colleague called on me without notice. She heard me out and declared Ryan’s longer tenancy was proof positive of his lamb-like innocence.
The hard done by Ryan moved to his recently deceased mother’s flat in the same precinct, ostensibly because of its telephone plug, but it was on a whim to avoid my presence and was granted instantly by biased Housing staff. Every attempt I’ve made for a move to escape motor vehicle, industrial and cigarette smoke toxins are met with demands for a doctor’s certificate to justify such a move. Ryan’s level of credulity intrigued me from the beginning and his myriad peccadillo made a novella.
The very offensive Bruce was next to occupy No. 6. In another life he might have been master of making a clean snot with a thumb against one nostril, but every tilt at this practice nowadays ends drastically with the matter being wiped on to railings or walls and his expectoration lobbing where-ever it may. His inadequately rinsed, hand-washed attire created great stench in summer as it dried over veranda items. The general unrest with his hygiene shortcomings and their possible flow-on consequences led to a tenants meeting which, on its conclusion, a female staff member privately admonished me for my intolerance as Bruce was, she stressed, a relatively new tenant and I could have been more sympathetic to his needs.
For a Qld. public servant, her co-chair was unusually enlightened, an outsider amongst the ruffians, drug users and drunks and was probably sent to Coventry and then to Quilpie for telling the sanctimonious Bruce and his new best genteel friend, Ryan that their cussing complaints paled into insignificance when compared to that emanating from any primary schoolyard in the country.
The rsl endorsed love-child of the decade, Garvens was the next major trash to enforce my acceptance of the Hindu sect’s belief that hell is life as we know it; being suffered right here, on Earth, in this lifetime, this minute and with death, Nirvana brings eternal reward. Why this cunning and conniving, criminal psychopath and cherished bubble-wrapped excreta is admired while many genuine RSL people could be honoured has been featured elsewhere, but there’s a few thousand unused words awaiting in the wings. Even the police who work hand in glove with the crooked rsl were unable to falsify an assault charge against me to appease Garven. RSL criminal associate and NLP stooge, Adelaide, then talked the situation over with her crooked Woodridge compatriots and dredged-up the oft-used scare tactic of Housing sycophants, by issuing an illegal eviction notice.
Garven’s psychosomatically diseased mind and body brought about his premature departure. QBuild, followed Murphy’s instructions to the letter and propelled by the joint animosities of Kimberley and Schoutens had the ideal chance to inflict on the residents, but essentially on me, more of that which has such an adverse affect on the pulmonaries of susceptible oldies, namely unnecessary use of strong paints and adhesive toxins, long barred from use in areas habituated by pensioners, but in all complexes, I suspect.
The garden contractor, for the first time in memory was instructed to use poison on the lawn-weed bindii. Another costly Qbuild Maintenance move to use up and dispose of a gross abundance of maintenance money. No bare children’s feet will disrupt a blade on these treated grounds.
What follows are my p.c. observations on the stasi queen who took Garvens flat:
Monday, November 15, 2010.
Something cooks! The most unlikeliest candidate for H.C. accommodation today. Far too polite and ever so cultured. His brag list, the usual ; 25 y. resident of the States; a daughter pictured with a formerly top sportsman,or was she the sportstype? his prize-winning portrait and association with the arts and abiding attachment to American football. You could well and truely say, ” more of the same.” Another unmitigated ego-tripper who knows not shame, introducing the morons to how life should be led. All this from a newly arrived H.C. dweller.
Conveniently deaf woman friend Lucy, sat on top stair while he kefuffled about. She and I exchanged forgettable niceties. He was very quick to chat with Yvonne, and I’ll bet my ugly visage graced a few of his new surrounds pictures.
He, Dale, represents whom–what? If it smells like stazi, it probably is. In a POW camp, he’d be cold meat by now.
His curiosity as to true north interests me also.
My admission to owning a car pleased her and I soon learned that the vehicle they arrived in was hers.
Sat. Nov. 20: Dale brings in bits and pieces. A huge removal truck with the rest of his shit on Tuesday 23.
This Dale much different, yet much the same as all others. Everything must be about him and how his arrival brings with him enlightenment and knowledge to be shared among the uneducated rabble. Making out he didn’t know the masthead diff. of CM & B.Times adds to the query.
It was agreed that after his new frig. was delivered on Wed that I would take him shopping. During the day he knocked on my door and asked me to accept delivery of frig while he went off with his shopping trolley to pay for the frig and do shopping, so I don’t offer him any assistance now.
Claims he bussed to Bris. Thur 25. Was back at 1300 hrs. round trip takes 4 hrs without conducting business and no bus to accomplish the return trip. The Dale is just another fraud. Have printed time-table to produce at the appropriate moment.
His fly-door slamming is unnatural. Deliberate? Ryan did this, if its planned, then a battle will ensue. The ignoramous’s actions are rsl template and sanctioned, I’ll wager.
Mon. 29. Four return trips between slamming fly doors this a.m. The peace was short. He inveigled his way into Yvonne’s after the door slamming, or is it job buddies exchanging notes?
Tues 30. … he be stasi or independent. It’s about him, a know-all and apt Larry Pettums buddy who should, if they haven’t already, come together and discuss joint Amercian exploits. Slamming fly doors; outrageously loud mobile manners. (I’m important, just listen to my transactions!) Who gives a rats about his self-importance?
The annoyances of this fellow echo the irritations of the former occupier, Garvens. I laid the bait when I let-on that the carpet was heavily and irreversibly stained with my blood. The next inspection will undoubtedly include an under mat search seeking out the errant bit.
Tues arvo… Asked Dale if his noise was a message and he, in actor mode, was surprised that he had created such an impression. Things have settled into relative quietness.
Sat. Dec. 4. When leaving to visit Cath. he declined invite to accompany me, mentioning a phone call.