Bullshit Managers

"But, he's a nice person, " says the BSM, in defence of her best friend's son.  On initial meeting, he is "a nice person".  He greets you with a bright-white, picket- fence smile; and softly modulated words of engage- ment.  Jeremy is a lithe, slender, clear skinned, 20 year old, just a tad under six feet.  His clothing is neat and clean, in merging blues, greys and blacks underscored by soft-textured pale-blue sneakers, a soft pink line dividing the soles from the uppers. The sides and back of his head are shaved, his thatch coiffed and gelled forward, into a high five, above his forehead. Cool.  Your eyes concur with the BSM - clearly - "he's a nice person".
Chit-chat  reveals , a private school education (obviously unsuccessful, otherwise he would he would not be here), a resident of an SUV suburb, living with his parents, a hyphenated surname, and family discord, "My parents are freaks and my sister, a chronic pest."  On further engagement, on the job and in the workplace, the persona of a nice person quickly unravels.  He appears unable or unwilling to follow simple instruction, displays singular inattention and cannot or will not complete tasks successfully, or on time.  Deeper into the week, he fails to arrive at work on time, damages equipment, and begins to disappear from his assigned workplaces.  "I had to help Helen move her stuff from A block to C block.  She's moving offices. Don't you know?" Cute. Every time his supervisor wishes to speak to him, he needs to gesture to this nice person to remove his headphones.
Inevitably, the supervisor complains to the BSM.   "But, he's a nice person; truly he is.  Don't worry, I'll talk to him and we'll go from there."  On Friday morning, the supervisor is summoned to the office of the BSM.  The nice person has complained about poor supervision and lack of proper instruction.  Uh-oh, the nice person has experience.  The nice person is given a new supervisor and an identical story to that of the first supervisor is retold.  Nothing has changed since the staging of these events.  The BSM is not going to terminate her best friend's son's employment, though she has known for years that he is a misfit, firstly at school and then unable to find employment without inside help.  She was his last chance. " I'm not going to implode my relationship with my best friend, muses the BSM, "these thing have a way of sorting themselves out, and if I'm lucky enough to score a suitable transfer, out of this job, or out of this shit-hole of a place, or better still, be made redundant, he'll be someone else's problem.

Swamp creatures

Circa 1940s and  1950s,  in Cairns and Townsville, workers had to be cautious, leaving work or arriving for work, early in the morning. For instance, the telegram boy who manned the Townsville Post Office, at night,  never left, without inching the front door open, ever so slowly and carefully, scanning the front verandah for crocodiles that may have ventured up, from  Ross Creek, during the night.  Eagerness to finish the shift early was tempered, by the fear of what may have been waiting outside.  Sometimes, before opening for business, brooms and specially designed poles were used by Post Office staff, to persuade these reptilian migrants, to return to the creek.  Cairns, during a sustained wet season could produce crocodiles in drains, on roads and under the high-set houses.  It was best, to keep the dog inside the house, during these wet periods and just hope the chooks could find safe perches in trees. It was always recommended to approach your car, (if you were fortunate enough to own one) cautiously.   A not uncommon occurrence was a crocodile slithering out from underneath the chassis, on your approach, or still more unnerving, after you started the car.

Circa 2016, Cairns, school cleaners working in a school, adjacent to low-lying, inhospitable vacant land (formerly called a swamp)  have been banned from starting work before dawn, because of the danger posed by the swamp's present low- life inhabitants , drug addicts.

Vanity Plates

Neat, Lenin fig-shaped beard, without the moustache, John Lennon spectacles, enamel blue fedora atop, Ace Ventura shirt, beige slacks and moccasins.    Here I am, off the side of Mogill Road, jump- starting 'Lenin Lennon's' car battery.  I'm becoming vexed - I"m slow getting the leads attached, and this guy is telling me how to do it.  He must be in a hurry.  I'm too much of a coward to ask him, where his leads are, or why he isn't a member of a roadside assistance service.  It's not as though he can't afford these things.  His car is a recently minted, V8 Twin Turbo, automatic, Diesel Toyota Land Cruiser.  Curiosity cooled my irascibility and I interrupted his flow:  "What do you do for a crust?  "I'm an academic."  "Yer, and what do you teach?"  "I don't, I'm a leader of an sustainable environment research team."  I reverse, stop and wait for him to drive away.  I look at his front number-plate to determine the year of manufacture.  95PHD!  Irony has lost its teeth, hubris has no limits and altruism leaves me cold.

Queenslander

7.30am, Kenmore Shopping Centre.  Just parked, then another car pulls up , beside mine.   Its driver, alights, from the ground up wearing thongs, shorts and T-shirt, quintessential Queenslander chic.  I'm wearing closed shoes, socks and trousers and  my torso is layered with a singlet, long sleeved shirt and hoodie. Self doubt invades my consciousness.  Could my defensive clothing be a sympton of a demented imagination?  I check my I- phone - temperature: 8C    

The Bicycle and its role in the emancipation of women in England, circa 1900.

The sound of a bicycle being propped against the wall outside was less frequent than that of a horse's hoofs; but there were already a few cyclists, and a number of these increased when the new low safety bicycle superseded the old penny-farthing type.  Then, sometimes, on a Saturday afternoon, the call of a bugle could be heard, followed by the scuffling of dismounting feet, and a stream of laughing, jostling young men would press into the tiny office to send facetious telegrams.  These members of cycling clubs had a great sense of their own importance, and dressed up to to their part in a uniform composed  of a tight navy knickerbocker suit with red or yellow braided coat and a very small navy pill- box cap embroidered with their club badge.  The leader carried a bugle suspended on a  coloured cord from his shoulder.  Cycling was considered such  a dangerous pastime that they telegraphed home news of their safe arrival at the farthest point in their journey. Or perhaps they sent the telegrams to prove how far they really travelled, for a cyclist's word as to his day's mileage then ranked with an angler's account of his catch.
   "Did run in two hours , forty and a half minutes.  Only ran down two fowls, a pig, and a carter", is a fair sample of their communications.  The bag was mere brag: the senders had probably hurt no living creature; some of them may have even dismonted by the roadside  to allow a horse carriage to pass, but every one of the them liked to pose as "a regular devil of a fellow".
    They were townsmen out for a lark, and, after partaking of refreshment at the hotel, they would play leap-frog or kick an old tin can about the green.  They had a lingo of their own.  Quite common things, according to them, were "scrumptious", or "awfully good", or "awfully rotten', or just 'bally awful'. Cigarettes they called 'fags' : their bicycles their 'mounts', or ' my machine', or 'my trusty stead': the Candleford Green people they alluded to as 'the natives'.  Laura was addressed by them as 'fair damsel', and their favourite ejaculation was " What ho!' or 'What ho, she bumps!'
    But they were not to retain their position as bold pioneer adventurers long.  Soon, every man, youth and boy whose family were above the poverty line was riding a bicycle.  For some obscure reason, the male sex tried hard to keep the privilege of bicycle riding to themselves.  If a man saw or heard of a woman riding he was horrified.  'Unwomanly.  Most unwomenly!  God knows what the world's coming to,' he would say; but, excepting the fat and elderly and the sour and envious the women suspended judgement.  They saw possibilities which they were soon to seize.  The wife of a doctor in Candleford town was the first woman cyclist in that district.  "I should like t tear her off that thing and smack her pretty backside ,' said one old man, grinding his teeth with fury.  One of more gentle character sighed and said; 'T'ood break my heart   if I saw my wife on one of they', which those with the figure of his middle-aged wife thought reasonable.
    Their protestations were unavailing; one woman after anotherappeared riding a glittering new bicycle.  In long skirts it is true, but with most of their petticoats left in the bedroom behind them.  Even those women who as yet did not cycle gained something in freedom of movement, for the two or three bulky petticoats formerly worn were replaced by neat serge knickers - heavy and cumbersome knickers, compared with those of to-day, with many buttons and stiff buttonholes and cambric lin9ings to be sewn in on Saturday nights, but a great improvement on the petticoats.
    And oh! the joy of the new means of progression. To cleave the air as though on wings, defying time and space by putting what had been a day's journey on foot behind one in a couple of hours, with a light ting,ting of the bell and a casual wave of recognition. 
    At first only comparatively well-to-do women rode bicycles;  But soon almost every one cunder forty was awheel, for those who could not afford to buy a bicycle could hire one foe sixpence an hour.  the men's shocked  criticism petered out before the fait accompli, and they contented themselves with such mild thrusts as:

                         Mother's out upon her bike, enjoying of the fun,
                        Sister and her beau have gone to take a little run,
                       The housemaid and the cook are both a-riding on their wheels;
                      And Daddy's in the kitchen  a-cooking of the meals. 

And very good for Daddy it was.  He had had all the fun hitherto; now it was his wife's and daughter's turn.  The knell  of the selfish, much-waited upon, old-fashioned father of the family was sounded by the bicycle bell.

Flora Thompson  LARK RISE to CANDLEFORD  First published  1945 Oxford University Press; pages 492/493/494.