The great tit-feeding debate

From time to time I have been known duck into a coffee shop. True, such establishments have fallen from their eighteenth century position of being the centres of civilised discourse, where Dr Johnson, Dryden and Sir Francis Dashwood, with many a quip and sophisticated epigram hashed out the social, artistic and philosophical problems of the day, but caffeine is caffeine, and there's usually a ten month old copy of Movie Review or The Big Issue hanging around to relieve the tedium while satisfying one's addiction. When the Queensland sun is beating down outside, the muted, welcoming atmosphere  is something to be relished as an oasis of cool, womb-like security.

About the only condition guaranteed to ruin the sense of well-being to be found in such places is the high, teeth-grating sound of the infant voice raised in complaint. In fact, the foghorn wail of a baby or screaming child is enough to make me dive under the nearest table.

I am, you see, childfree. Not, I hasten to add, merely “childless.” The latter word can apply, with equal accuracy, to those that wish to produce children and haven't got around to it yet, those who want children and can't have them, or those sit precariously on the fence weighing up the advantages of the money thrown at those who breed by governments wishing to purchase their vote against the disadvantages of sharing one's life with a greedy, demanding creature that takes in food and liquid and spits out vomit from one end and pee and runny poo at the other. Me, I made my decision long ago and never regretted it. While many might find the unstable, upright waddle of the young child cute I regard it merely as annoying. The massive round heads and dribbling mouths of babies, endearing to many, are to me a source of nausea. If I wished to hear the patter of tiny feet, I'd buy a chihuahua and put clogs on it.     

So, when in the name-witheld-to-protect-privacy coffee shop a few days ago, I saw the approach of a woman pushing one of the tank-like strollers favoured by the modern parent, and which contained carrying what may have been a jam roly-poly but was probably her beloved offspring – when this pair approached, my heart sank and I began making immediate plans to swallow my just-served and still scalding brew and make my exit. The fact that (as inevitably happens) the possibly-but-probably-wasn't jam roly poly began the familiar, gorge-producing scream within a few minutes of the mother taking her seat confirmed my worst suspicions.

Help was, however, at hand. While, in most cases, the evil species known as babies produce their ear-splitting howls simply for their own amusement, or as part of the necessary business of training their parents to obey their every whim, in this case at least, the baby's outburst was for a genuine, identifiable reason. The creature was hungry, and the mother had a means to satisfy this need, and restore blessed silence, immediately to hand. With the result that the cacophony was cut off at source, and within a few seconds the baby was sucking happily at her breast.

A good result for all, one might have thought. Certainly, that was my naïve impression as I turned back to the contemplation of the Matt Damon's latest Bourne movie and picked up my coffee for another sip. I was to be proven tragically wrong.

The first indication of trouble was the noise of an altercation behind me. Two female voices raised in disquiet. Within a few seconds, I was dragged from my reverie unable to avoid clearly hearing the words, and being unable to avoid knowing the subject of the conflict.

It was this: That the waitress (in the red corner) was asserting that the feeding of an infant by use of the breast was not allowed in the restaurant, and that the adult performing the act was obliged to take herself off to an area of privacy forthwith. While not using the exact words, there was an evident implication that such an act was disgusting, anti-social and guaranteed either to drive away every other customer present (which consisted of me) or send them mad with slavering desire at the sight of her uncovered nipple. In the blue corner, the mother was countering with the fact that she had paid for her coffee and toasted sandwich, was entitled to sit and consume them, and was simultaneously indulged in an act that was necessary, beneficial and completely legal.

As the supposed beneficiary of the waitress's intervention, I felt it reasonable to intervene. I approached the waitress, and pointed out that as the only other customer present, I had no objection whatsoever to the mother feeding her child. In fact, I greatly preferred her doing this to having to endure the wailing of a hungry baby. I was politely put in my place by the waitress, who made it clear that whether I had a specific objection or not, it was policy, and that was that. Could not a special objection be made, I asked, given that the one person for whom this rule was made was happy for it to be waived? No, I was told. It couldn't.

Now, it isn't usual on my part that I am inclined to take the side of a parent who claim that having bred, they are entitled to disregard any of the rules of society as a reward. Rules keeping howling children from movie theatres or exclusive restaurants, or preventing strollers from blocking emergency exits are, I feel, in place for perfectly good reasons. But what we had here was not simply a policy put in place to protect the innocent. Instead, it appeared to be based on a violation of evolutionary principles.

Let us look at this biologically. Human beings are members of the class Mammalia. This group of animals have the specific property – in fact, one might say it is the main requirement for membership – that they suckle their young. Unlike reptiles that eat their own eggs or newly hatched offspring, mammals nurture and care for their infants, a system that has evolved through evolution, and which has given mammals a huge advantage in the evolutionary race - and which, incidentally, has given us by-products like art, music, language, philosophy and sport. The system of hatching from already laid eggs just does not have the capacity to produce offspring intelligent enough to do much more than eat, fight and fuck. You want a species capable of producing Van Gogh's Sunflowers, the Rolling Stones' Satisfaction, or Margot Fonteyn's Swan Lake, it's the mammal way or the highway. Except that reptiles can't make highways, of course.

Now, as inevitably happens (good old natural selection), the females of species that use this system come equipped with equipment designed perfectly to do the job. Call them breasts, bosom, teats, or other names with varying implications of appreciation, the boob, while it has other uses, is primarily there to feed babies. Sure, like radio controlled planes or x-boxes, adults can enjoy them too, but even in cultures where the breast has evolved as a secondary sexual characteristic – and few appreciate the sight and feel of a good rack more than me – the protuberances retain their primary function. The breasts are a milk duct first, a thing for adults to look at, fondle, tweak and dream over second.

And the unfortunate women sitting at the table behind me in the name-witheld-to-protect-privacy coffee shop was using them precisely for what they were for. A process as “disgusting” as using ears to hear things, opposable thumbs to pick up objects or a spine to walk upright.

Now, I am as aware as anyone that because a thing is “natural” it is not necessarily ideal. Like most people reading this, I do not eat my meat raw, live in a cave, or club women into oblivion before making love to them. I realise too that in a civilised society, it is universally accepted that certain things may not be done in public. Urinating, defecating, the sexual act and revealing ones genitalia are regarded as better performed in areas set aside for the purpose, and probably for very good reasons. Eating and drinking, however, are not among these. One may munch on a hamburger or slam down a soft drink in just about any public mall anywhere in the civilised world, and no-one will think any less of you for it. You can even give some of your food to another person, and passers by will not turn a hair.

And eating or drinking, depending upon definition, were exactly what the baby was doing. And providing such nourishment was precisely the mother's role in the interaction. You'd have to do a lot of talking to convince even a confirmed baby avoider like myself that breast feeding is in the same class as taking a dump in the main street or performing fellatio on the bus.

“But hang on,” I hear you saying – well, actually, I don't, since you're probably reading this long after I wrote it, but you know what I mean - “Breastfeeding involves exposing the breast, right? It's illegal for a woman to walk around in public showing her nipples, for more or less the same reason a guy can't flash his dick. 'cos they're associated with sexual desire. So why is titfeeding a special case?”

Well, it is. And here’s why.

Let's be brutally honest about this. A new mother, with a baby young enough to need to suckle, is hardly in the mainstream sex-object league. It's an easily enough observable phenomena that the slim, slinky, elegantly clad cocotte of the pre-baby days becomes, as soon as parenthood strikes, a drab, harassed-looking slave worn down by the cares of practicality, her face devoid of artifice and her attire chosen for its comfort rather than its sex appeal. Disrespectful as this may sound, it's a fact that new mothers usually have other things on their mind than making men's pee-pees go boing, boing, boing. The mother of a young infant is, in an erotic sense, a neuter, and there are probably good evolutionary reasons for this, connected with giving the new infant the best and most secure start in life.

A lactating breast, for “decency” purposes, is a totally different animal from an un-lactating one revealed for, no pun intended, titillation. Sure, under rule 37, there may be a small group that find a leaking breast a turn on, but are you also planning to ban balloons, the chewing of gum or fat people? The erotic appreciation of all of these have been documented as fetishes. And, in any case, any watching person who feels unable to control their desire in such a situation (or for whatever reason chooses not to witness it) always has the option of looking elsewhere. Which, btw ,is precisely what I'd been doing before the intervention of the waitress.

Anyway, there are a number of sequels to the incident of the argument, all of which I present for completeness. The first was that the waitress won the argument, and the mother, humiliated and defeated, left the establishment, slinking away under a cloud of shame that she certainly did not deserve, not before politely thanking me for my intervention as she passed. The second was that a phone call I made to the manager of the coffee shop in question the following day revealed the information that breast feeding by customers is not, contrary to what the waitress was asserting, banned in the establishment. Said waitress was, then, incidental in losing the repeat business of at least two customers, for I'd never return and I doubt the young mother will either.

Given the age of the infant whose appetites had started the whole imbroglio, I doubt he or she worried too much about having to eat their lunch in a public toilet. The mother, who was made to feel ashamed at feeding  him/her, though, probably did not regard the affair with the same insouciance. For what it's worth, and if she's reading this, I hope, Ma'am, that you found a coffee shop with politer staff, and please be aware that this particular childfree blogger, at least, didn't find your perfectly reasonable actions in any way offensive.     

                  

 

Ring Ring. It’s a telemarketer here...

FROM time to time your humble author has been between jobs, and kept the wolf from the door by a stint or two of telemarketing. 

I never admitted it to outsiders of course – I told them I was anything from a male prostitute to a professional hit man. Telemarketers, you see, are regarded, in the general scheme of things, as hovering  somewhere between child molesters and the Antichrist’s big brother. Given the proliferation of scams that reach one over the phone, one can perhaps see the reason for this.  However, the attitudes that one sometimes encounters when performing the duties step way beyond the normal.

So, let’s have a look at the trade, from both sides.

There are, as with most jobs, advantages and disadvantages, both general and with regard to specific employers.

Advantages include the fact that it’s often reasonably easy to pick up work in the field at short notice, that it’s often easy, that if one’s prepared to put some effort into it there are usually lucrative reward schemes and bonuses, and that one meets a lot of interesting people.

In general, despite what one who has never tried it might think, if one gets the Zen if it, it can be an enjoyable enough experience. You’ll need a thick skin of course (more on this below,) and a sense of humour. I certainly prefer it to working in retail, which is truly dire!   

Disadvantages include the risk of getting the type of employer who treats their staff like crap, with breaks times to the second, ridiculous unreachable targets, and a habit of regarding their staff as dispensable and sub-human. Like most trades, employers vary from the excellent to the truly shitty, with all shades in between. And (this may or may not be a problem of course) the fact that such jobs are usually shift work.

But it’s a fair bet that the majority of people reading this are not telemarketers themselves, but the recipients (some may regard themselves as victims) of the calls. It doesn’t take an especially intensive session with our old friend Google to find a proliferation of Disgruntleds  from Bognor Regis, Arkansas or Moonee Ponds with their tales of the evil telemarketer who called them just as they were sitting down to their birthday dinner or had the temerity to mispronounce their name. And plenty of lists of clever little party tricks to play on those who dare interrupt one’s brooding meditations with a request to change one’s mobile phone provider. So... let’s look at a few facts.

The first thing to bear in mind is that the person who is calling you is unlikely to be doing so with the deliberate attempt of distracting what you are doing, interrupting your favourite TV show or just generally pissing you off. Why would they be? Most telemarketers receive commission for sales made, so why would they bother wasting good selling times making prank calls?  In most cases they are human beings doing exactly what you’re probably doing – a job or work with the intention of supporting themselves and their families, and doing the job as well as they can.

I have always found it strange that a person who would be the first to rush to your aid if you were taken ill in a crowded shopping mall, or would be the sole of politeness itself in face-to-face conversation will turn into a profanity-spouting ignoramus when confronted with a cold call. There are probably a number of reasons for this. The recipient might have had a bad day, and subconsciously relish taking out their frustrations on someone they regard as lower in the food chain. They might live in an area that has been “targeted” simultaneously by a number of companies (as far as I know there is no “collusion” between different companies in different fields, and such coincidences happen) and this is the ninth call they’ve received today.  The most probable reason is that the habit of most current affairs shows to fill their programming gaps with demonization of cold callers (and the careful, one-sided positioning of their audiences) has encouraged a sense of self righteousness in rebuffing the innocent, anonymous person at the other end.

So here’s a few facts that might, hopefully, make it easier and more pleasant for both ends of the line:

Firstly, always remember that the person calling you is a human, with feelings, who is usually genuinely trying to do a good job with as little disruption to your life as possible. It is also worth remembering  that the phones they use are not equipped with video screens, and they do not perform pre-call surveillance of your house and peep in the windows before making the call. They have no way of knowing you are about to eat your dinner, are putting your children to bed, or are in the middle of assembling your 3000 piece model of the Millennium Falcon and have just lost Luke Skywalker’s head.  Given the purpose of your call (to make money) they’d actually prefer to call you at the most convenient time for you. Explaining this will probably result in them politely going away, or agreeing on a mutually convenient call back time.       

“What are you doing calling at this time of night?” when asked as a literal rather than rhetorical question, has a surprisingly sensible answer. Basically, most people are out at work between 9 and 5, and calls will be met with a succession of answering machines or no answers. Or unemployed people and pensioners who, for economic reasons, are probably not the ideal demographic. There is nothing sinister about the habit of marketing calls being made in the evening  –  it’s for perfectly logical reasons. Generally speaking, however, you’ll get few (if any) calls after the 8pm watershed. And let’s face it, if you’re in bed by that time in the evening, you’re either very ill (in which case, what are you doing answering the phone anyway,) in the throes of erotic passion (ditto,) or have problems that go way beyond getting an unsolicited phone call.

“You’re invading my privacy!” – well, urm... NO, actually.  As pointed out above, a telephone (apart from some VOIP or SKYPE systems that telemarketers do not use) is NOT a visual medium. It will not enable the caller to see you naked and dripping from the shower, peek into your lounge room or rummage through your underwear drawer. All the caller can do is hear your voice, just as you can hear theirs.  You really do not have to worry that receiving a cold call will reveal the innermost workings of your private life to the caller. If you think otherwise, I’d suggest you ignore those little voices in your head and go back on the medication that nice doctor prescribed for you.

“I didn’t ask for this call.”  Well, no, fair point. It’s probable you didn’t ask for your favourite TV show to be interrupted by commercials, your magazine to be padded out with ads, or your drive in the country to be marred by advertising billboards either. But you live in a capitalist country in the 21^st century.  Companies that make or sell things will advertise their wares and services.  If you find it so traumatic that it drives you into a rage, you might consider a lifestyle change. There are still unspoiled places in the world, if you don’t mind trading the advantages of electricity, running water, 75 TV channels and democracy for blissful piece and solitude.

“I find telemarketers annoying.” Well, hmm, maybe you do. Probably there’s things you do in your job (or in your day to day living) that annoy people, too. We don’t live in a perfect world. Getting enraged about it will only make your day worse... see my point above about this not being deliberate. 

“The telemarketer has an Indian accent.” Well, possibly she or he does. If you’re a paid up member of the Ku Klux Klan, a Pauline Hansen supporter (are there any of these left?) or think “Romper Stomper” was an epic tale of heroism, then I guess this complaint has some twisted logic to it. Otherwise, how could this possibly have any relevance? Everyone in the world has an accent. Including her Maj Queen Lizzy II, and you. Yes you do. Indian people have to work too, you know.     

“This is probably a scam.” Well, yes. It might be. Quite a few of them exist. Generally speaking, I’d advise strongly against giving out your credit card number, banking details, details of domestic security alarms, and anything else of this ilk to a stranger on the phone. Even if (in fact, especially if) they claim to be from your bank. If your bank does legitimately call you, they’ll have no objection to you taking their name and number and calling them back. In fact, though, banks rarely call or email their customers, and never ask for such details over the phone or on line. If your caller does not ask for anything that could possibly be of use to a scam artist, however, it’s probably a legit call.

“I picked up the phone and said ‘hello’ and there was a silence on the other end.”  Yes, this does happen, and yes, it is confusing. The reason is not that the person is playing a prank call, but that most call centres operate using software that “drops” pre-dialled numbers into their phone systems.  Sometimes, it’s hard to get the timing exactly right. If it’s any consolation, the girl/guy at the other end finds it equally frustrating, and often has to call “Hello. Hello” into the phone 300 times a day.    

“Where did you get my number / this is a silent number.” A personal (or “silent”) number is one that is not registered in your local telephone directory. Years ago, this made sense as telemarketers were reduced to scouring through the White Pages calling random numbers in order to source their calls. In the age of the internet, however, most companies rely on lists purchased from data-mining societies. And whether or not you like it, it doesn’t take much to get on such a list, “silent” number or not.  Just enter a competition at your local store, or fail to tick a carefully hidden box when filling in a form and bingo!      

So, how do I deal with it?

The first thing to bear in mind is that the person who is calling you is unlikely to be doing so with the deliberate attempt of distracting what you are doing, interrupting your favourite TV show or just generally pissing you off. Why would they be? Most telemarketers receive commission for sales made, so why would they bother wasting good selling times making prank calls?  In most cases they are human beings doing exactly what you’re probably doing – a job or work with the intention of supporting themselves and their families, and doing the job as well as they can.

With most reputable companies, simply politely telling them that you are not going to buy their product is enough. Trust me, a cold caller is not interested in wasting too much time one someone who is not going to buy. They may ask for a few details as to why you are refusing. Most people take a default “no” position when cold-called, but if they listen to the full pitch might find it’s a product that suits their needs, and the caller is, after all, a salesperson.  Naturally they are going to make some effort.

If you really dislike cold calls, The Do Not Call Register is a useful tool. (The link given is for Australia, but a Google search will soon locate your own country's version if you live elsewhere.) All reputable companies “wash” their numbers against the register before putting them into the system (again, why would they waste time calling someone who so obviously won’t buy?)  Remember, though, that your registration is not indefinite, and if you’re receiving a lot of calls despite having signed up, you might want to think about checking your registration is still current. And remember too it takes 90 days to become effective.  And market researchers, political parties charities and anyone with whom you have previously done business are legitimately not excluded from calling you. If you do get a call despite being registered, politely pointing this out to the caller will usually result in an apology or at least a decent explanation. 

Clever little tricks. Tempting to try these, of course, if you’re the type that’s into petty revenge.  Just to let you know, whatever clever little trick you try, the telemarketer has probably encountered it a hundred million times before, and knows exactly how to deal with it. And, being human, may well regard it as a challenge.  Here’s a few examples.

Slamming down the phone without saying anything:       

As above, accompanied by profanity:

Putting down the phone and walking away.

Using your children as gatekeepers and having them parrot “mummy and daddy are busy.”

Talking in funny accents, or making silly noises.

Now, it’s possible that if you try these, the telemarketer will take the hint. It’s probably just as likely though that she/he will simply drop the call back into the system, and you’ll get another call half an hour later, from another operator. They shouldn’t, of course, but hey, if you’re setting out to piss them off, they’re only human. Hostile actions tend to escalate. 

Blowing a whistle or sounding an air horn into the phone.

Firstly, are you 100% sure the caller is a telemarketer. Might it not be that your kid has lost his mobile (or the battery has run down) and is calling from a friend’s house? Or that it’s a friend who has recently changed his or her number?

And secondly, doing such a thing constitutes assault. And telemarketers are protected from the law as much as anyone else, and would be entitled to sue you as much as if you’d bashed them with a piece of 4x2. Just saying.      

 Responding with a humorous / obfuscating reply.

Well, this one depends on your aim. If you are attempting to have a fun time as compensation for receiving an interruption to your evening, well and good. It’s a way of getting out of the call without carrying residual rage that may well wreck the rest of your evening. If your aim is to piss the cold caller off, however, don’t bother.  Most of them welcome a bit of humour as a relief after 150 answering machines, and probably enjoy the exchange as much as you do.  

“Give me your number and I’ll call you when YOU’RE having dinner.” Hmm, see your point, but it’s not quite as snappy and moral-high-ground gaining as you might think. Remember unlike your implied goal, the cold caller did not deliberately call at your dinner time just to annoy you (they’d sooner NOT actually – see above.) Hypothetically, even if they were to comply with your request, since they use phones all day, they are unlikely to find phone calls as traumatic as you do. If someone did call them during dinner, they’d say something along the lines of “I’m eating – call me back in half an hour” or whatever. Really, a polite explanation as to why you don’t wish to talk to them right now would be a far better strategy.

And, if after reading all this...

You still dissolve in apoplectic rage after receiving a cold call... well, seriously, I’m sorry. I have no wish to piss off some stranger I’ve never met, and me and my fellow telemarketers really don’t wish you any harm. But you live in 2014, and it will happen. In the absence of a working TARDIS to schlep you back to the 1950s, it might make more sense to learn to deal with it, just as (hopefully) you learned to deal with the internet, laser lights, Gagnam Style, Satnavs, ads on YouTube and other annoyances that plague us all in this year of grace.

Be well, and thank you for reading...  

The Gay Marriage Debate

Why I am against gay marriage.

There’s been a lot of debate in the USA and Australia recently, about whether or not two people of the same gender should have their marriages recognised.  Here I present five excellent reasons why legislation should not be passed to allow this:

1) Passing legislation in favour of gay marriage would automatically make heterosexual marriage illegal. Can you imagine the heartbreak of heterosexual couples who could no longer get married? Or those already in loving marriages, who would be forced to dissolve their unions, and could no longer have sex with each other for fear they will go to hell?

2) Legalising gay marriage will mean that no-one, in the entire world, will ever produce children again, and the population of the world will die out.  Imagine the effect this will have on... well, everything!

3) It is pretty clearly implied that legalising gay marriage also means that humans can marry budgies, alligators, ipads, 1976 Holden Kingswoods or even trees. Can you conceive the humiliation of a child having to admit “I couldn’t come to school yesterday, my mum’s got leaf rot?”   

4) The book of Leviticus speaks very firmly against gay marriage. It also says that bats are birds, menstruating women are unclean, you have to whip every slave woman you don’t have sex with, insects have four legs, companion planting is evil, and that you should eat the flesh of your offspring. We seem to have no trouble accepting these things, so why should the prohibition against gay marriage be any different?

5) Given the massive overwhelming evidence that the book of Genesis is literal, unvarnished fact, it is obvious that the only true, natural sex is between a man and a clone made from his rib. And that their offspring should couple with each other. Anything else is an abomination unto the Lord.  

Of course, if all of these facts were found to be untrue, I’d have to rethink. And then...

Pardon?

Oops.  Erm... gulp... anyone got any white-out?

When We Were Laughing - Climbing Mt Larcom 2001

When We Were Laughing

In 2001, myself, my beloved Jani, along with two friends, Peter Fitzgerald and Marilyn Valis undertook the feat of trekking to the very summit of Mt Larcom, near Gladstone, in Queensland. The epic story of that day is hereby recounted.

IN my humble opinion the one proper thing to be doing at five o’clock on the Sunday morning of a long weekend involves a horizontal posture, closed eyes and a total and complete lack of consciousness.  So the fact that about that time I was sitting on the edge of a bed, somewhere in Gladstone, fumbling dimly for my first caffeine-jolt of the day and cursing all geological formations may be taken as either a sign of my total and extreme stupidity or the devotion in which I hold my lady-love, known henceforth in this piece as MLL.

For it is she who arranged this ascent, and who, furthermore, was now standing by the bed already fully dressed, bright-eyed (a rinse of contact lenses can work wonders) and with her red hair catching the early morning (with the accent on the “early’) light with a Titian intensity. 

Anyway, either sleep or bedroom athletics were out of the question.  Breakfast was offered, but while I make little claim to be a civilised being, breakfast in what I regard as the middle of the night is something not to be countenanced.  Even the click of the lighter as I fired up my first cigar of the day made what seemed to be an explosion of Hiroshimic proportions.  And yes, I know I should give it up.  But at that time in the morning, it was too dark, and I too autistic to notice MLL’s look of disapproval.  And she was too preoccupied, anyway.  She was busy psyching herself up to slay a demon. 

This particular mountain, you see, has brooded over her life since childhood.  Her mother climbed it, in the days when mountaineering was mountaineering, with no convenient well-worn trails, nylon parkas, mobile phones or the other accoutrements of soft early 21^st century living.  The baby-boomer generation, it is universally acknowledged, is soft and effete.  By conquering this natural fortress we would not only be proving something to ourselves, but striking a blow for an entire generation.  It would have been nice to say that these noble thoughts filled my consciousness as I stubbed out my cigar in the ashtray... but I was too busy wondering if I could get away with feigning illness and crawling back into bed.

The sound of a car engine outside, however, cut off even this dishonourable line of retreat.  Our co-climbers had arrived: Peter, a former SAS member, who throughout the climb would carry the laurels of being the only member of the party who actually knew what he was doing, and Marilyn, his own version of MLL, who looked almost as bleary-eyed as I did.

******

Mt Larcom, according to the best information we had been able to gather, was something like 650 metres above sea-level, and therefore, even by Australian standards, not exactly in the Everest class.  It was not, technically, according to Peter, a mountain at all, more of a hill.  I asked him why, in that case, they called it “Mt Larcom” but I knew the answer before I received it.  Australia, being the world’s oldest continent, and having suffered most erosion, has had most of its mountains worn down.  All things, after all, are relative.  Certainly the thing looked formidable enough as we gained our first sight of it, after a rather hectic drive past the mud flats, the power house and then along the road to Targinnie, MLL at the wheel, dodging errant wallabies and listening to Gladstone’s one rock station.  There it was, looming up above the horizon in a defiant challenge, mocking our feeble pretensions.  Our domination over the lesser animals, our symphonies, great art and poetry, our engineering feats, all faded into the background.  “I was here long before you puny mortals” the mountain seemed to be saying.  “And I will be here long after you are gone.  And besides, I don’t have any trouble getting up at 5.00AM!”

I looked back at it... it didn’t look any smaller.

I almost relaxed.  Then we rounded another bend and that damn mountain stared down upon us again.  I stared defiantly back.  The mountain was more convincing than I was.  I began wishing Peter hadn’t told us it was just a hill.  It might have heard!

We parked the car under a tree, and while Peter and I busied ourselves with discussing important things like water supplies and the contents of the first aid box, Marilyn checked our supplies of champagne, carried for the celebration when we reached the top.  Or as consolation if we didn’t.  Division of labour indeed.

******

I might not know much about climbing mountains, but it is my philosophical opinion that any art can, with a bit of imagination, be distilled to the basics.  Surely the idea, I had naively thought, was to keep going upwards, until one reaches a pointy bit, at which juncture honour may be considered to have been satisfied and the ascent accomplished.  Therefore the fact that, led by Peter, we began to head in a downwards direction fazed me slightly.  Had we in fact already climbed the thing, and I had slept through it?  Had the others in the party changed plans, and we were going potholing instead? 

“Er... are you sure we’re going the right way?”  I asked, tentatively.  “I’ve never climbed a mountain by going downwards before.”  “And how many have you actually climbed?”  Marilyn asked.  Funny how there’s always got to be a wise guy!  Or wise gal in this case.  The fact is, I was a mountaineering virgin.  I suppose one has to be a virgin at something.  But it wasn’t a fact I liked bruited around.          

By now, we had formed ourselves into an order of march that we were to sustain for the entire length of the climb.  Peter, as the best qualified outdoorsman, leading, Marilyn second (she was the one carrying the champagne, and we weren’t going to let her out of our sight), MLL third and me last.  Virtually as soon as the climb had started, both Peter and I had picked up sticks, though how one was to use it I for one had little idea.  “It’s a man thing” MLL said to Marilyn, who smiled knowingly in agreement.

By the time we reached the bridge, about five minutes from the car, MLL demanded the first rest-stop.  While swigging water, and being glad I hadn’t worn a jumper of any kind (for the day was, even at this early stage, becoming quite warm) I lit another cigar, and listened to the sound of the countryside.  Somewhere, a kookaburra laughed, or rather two of them, for the famous sound that, for many, sums up the Australian bush is in fact formed by two birds laughing in unison.  There was a bellbird too, I think.  The scent of the gums was wonderful, so much so that I almost refrained from lighting another cigar.  Almost.  For after all, if the climb became a crampons and pitons affair I might not get another chance.  I hoped it wouldn’t though... if for no other reason than that I don’t know what crampons and pitons are.

We began again, to see that the trail was now moving gently upwards, and at last I felt I really was climbing a mountain.  On either side the ground fell away in picturesque fashion, as our route took us in and out of clumps of gum trees, long grass and patches of what looked like Mallee scrub, but which maybe weren’t. 

The next turn in the track brought us to an anthill.  “Wake up you (expletive deleteds)” screamed Peter, bashing the mound furiously with his stick.  I could understand his reasoning exactly.  If we had been dragged out of bed, what right had those cuticle-clad antennae-waving creatures to sleep.  The insects swarmed angrily out of various holes and fissures, and we hurried our pace.  At this stage we were not planning to make too many enemies.

Already, we were far from the sights and sounds of civilisation, and I began to wonder why MLL, as well as a lot of sensible things, had brought along her mobile phone.  It was probably, I reasoned, that it was by now an essential adjunct to her body and persona, rather like a footballer wearing his boots in bed or a photographer even taking a shower festooned with lenses.

Unlike the days in which MLL’s mother had made the ascent, there was now a clearly marked track, signposted with numbered metal markers in numerical order.  Either some numbers had been left out or we were following a rather eccentric route, for there were considerable gaps. I took comfort in the presence of Peter.  If anyone could get us to the top and back safely, this noble Kiwi could.  I gave him the nickname of “Sherpa Fitzgerald”, more a case of whistling in the dark than any attempt at mockery. 

By now, the sun was beating down, and we were even able to indulge in light conversation. We found ourselves examining signs along the way... a dead wallaby, a burned tree, mysterious footprints both human and animal.  The ground was becoming bumpy, and I was grateful for my aged but much loved joggers, as was MLL who praised her Colorados in terms that could have been used by the manufacturers as an endorsement.  I pretended not to notice that the sole of them was beginning to break away... no sense in wrecking her confidence at this early stage!

Three quarters of an hour, and three MLL-induced rest stops later, we struck a ridge, which as far as we could interpret the placing of the metal markers, would take us to within a reasonable distance of the top.  The ground was sloping upwards now, and Marilyn was beginning to wobble unsteadily.  I feared for the safety of the champagne.  Peter scouted ahead, and I ran to overtake the party, wanting to get some idea of the way ahead.  “Show off” MLL remarked.  “He isn’t even puffing!”  Actually, I thought MLL had, herself, done pretty well.  For someone who spends her days desk-bound, she had stood up to things nobly.  I may be biased here of course... I might have remarked before, but I hold this woman in more than normal affection.  As I caught up with Peter he told me that he had marked the way forward... it looked a steep climb, but not (excuse the pun) insurmountable. 

Jokes about “Because it is there” and the likelihood of encountering St Bernard dogs with barrels attached to their collars were beginning to wear thin by now.  It was not all hard work, however.  MLL’s wonderful hair shone angelically in the light, the bush-scents were overpoweringly beautiful and Marilyn, in her white shorts looked almost cute. 

“Nothing to this lark” I thought.  Then I looked upwards again, and saw the top of the mountain, the peak sticking obscenely out of the mass of vegetation that clung to its lower extremities.  That last bit was still waiting.  And even before we got there, there was plenty of hard work. 

Soon it was time for another rest-stop, and as we perched on a convenient rock, MLL and Marilyn exchanged cryptic in-jokes about their schooldays.  I lit another cigar and drank some water, and looked downwards.  Climbing a mountain, I had found, is the opposite of climbing a ladder... if you want to avoid vertigo, don’t look up!  Thus it was that I was the first to see the approach of a muscular young twenty-something male trotting along as if he did this sort of thing every day (well, he probably did), and accompanied by a large and rather fierce looking dog, which turned out to be a friendly thing eagerly moving from one to the other of us to receive a pat.     

“How far?”  Peter asked.

“About half way” He said, comfortingly.  “Just over this rise is a ridge, and after that you’re laughing.”   He ran off, the dog yapping excitedly.  His misinformation was to become the running joke for the rest of the climb.  “Are we laughing yet?, one or the other of us would ask, as the road upwards got steeper and the going harder.  Marilyn was a Catholic, so perhaps regarded this leg of the climb as a good dress-rehearsal for purgatory.  MLL was beginning to waver, and Peter, whenever he looked back, had creases of worry across his face.  My own disquiet too was rising.  So far, it had seemed almost easy.. the slow pace and frequent stops had ensured that I wasn’t tired, and the winter sun was providing a perfect temperature.  But that stark peak remained!

 

******

We had settled into a rhythm by now.  Instead of walking closely, and bunched, as we had done at the start of the expedition, we were strung out, rather like a defeated army straggling home.  We could hardly, after all, get lost.  It was at this point that MLL began to worry that she had forgotten to lock the car.  I couldn’t resist reminding her that she had remote keyless-entry, and the withering look she gave me was almost worth it.  On balance, I was grateful that nobody laughed... an avalanche would have been all we needed at that point.  

The vegetation was beginning to thin out ominously.  Nothing but a few straggly trees, couch-grass and many examples of that amazing plant, the black-boy, which seems to thrive almost anywhere, and which paradoxically is prohibitively expensive if one wishes to purchase one for a domestic garden.  Even its name is suggestive of political incorrectness, and their spiky haircut gives them a feral appearance which is almost human in the right light.

“This pack’s getting heavy.”  MLL moaned.  “Junk some of the stuff.”  I suggested.  “That mobile for a start.  You’re hardly going to need it up here!”  She gave me one of her famous looks... the sort that would make a lesser man shudder.

We took a final rest before attempting the summit.  Our “base camp”... the car... seemed far away.  We were living... this was, I reminded myself, the sort of experience I would look back on in old age. 

Much to my surprise, I didn’t find the thought ironic.  There is, I had found, a genuine joy in taking on nature, a thing that had stood for time immemorial, and defeating it.  I began to think about the picture MLL’s mother had shown us the night before, of when she and a selected group of friends had made the same ascent... a stiffly-posed but somehow appealing group, the forties fashions and monochrome rendering making the shot more rather than less attractive.  “We’re not that soft, us baby boomers” I remarked.  “We’re doing it too!  You can do anything your mum can do, sweet darling!” 

MLL really MUST try and market that look of disdain!  She does it wonderfully…

By now, it was almost like moving into another universe.  The bare peak, which we had seen from a distance, that had looked so forbidding and terrifying was now... well, forbidding and terrifying.  The ridge ran out at this point, and we were on bare earth.   The track, such as it was, led through a fissure that even I, with my sparse frame, could only manage by breathing in, and MLL who was (and I shudder at her reaction when she reads this) the most generously proportioned of the party negotiated the pass only with much difficulty and, I am ashamed to say, humorous remarks from Marilyn and myself.  The gap segued into a steep upwards wall, with little in the way of handholds, but fortunately some kindly soul with a thought for future generations had left a rope.  Peter chivalrously helped up Marilyn and MLL, and we passed out packs up to them.  “Are we laughing yet?”  panted Marilyn as Peter hauled himself up with about as much difficulty as if he were stepping into a four wheel drive.

When my turn came to climb the rope I encountered a difficulty that I had not foreseen.  Despite my emaciated appearance my arms and legs are reasonably strong, and well able to bear the weight of my ten stone body.  The problem was not the height, but the width.  So narrow was the gap that one was forced to combine the upwards climb with wriggling through a tiny hole in the rock as the mountain curved around in on itself.  I managed it in a single upwards thrust, at he cost of head-butting a tree that was waiting at the other end.  The soft cap I was wearing provided little protection, and I was glad that no conservationists were around to observe my actions.

But even sconing myself was worth it.  For as we emerged, in the sort of rebirth of which Carl Jung would have celebrated, we were treated to the sort of view that made the climb worthwhile.  We were not yet at the top, yet already one could see for what seemed like an eternity.  I could well understand why the ancients regarded their gods as living on mountains... were I a Greco-Roman deity I too would ensure that I owned prime real-estate... and prime real-estate this was.  Position, position, position.    

It was, with no exaggeration, something of an epiphany.  What must have been over four-hundred kilometres away one could see a distant range of mountains, shimmering in the haze.  All around was a dizzying view, the sort that made ecstasy well up inside one.  Green plains, decorated only by the occasional farm, town or city, stretched away from us.   Financial problems, the fact that England were losing yet another cricket match, that my car needed a service that I couldn’t afford, that my head was aching, even that I was still four hours short of what I regarded as the requisite amount of sleep... all these petty annoyances and problems fell away from consciousness.  Hilary and his ilk didn’t need the “because it was there” excuse.  Anyone who asks why you climb a mountain obviously hasn’t done it!

It had come belatedly, but it had come.  We were laughing.  I took off my cap, wiped the sweat from my brow, and watched my MLL make the upwards climb on all fours, breathing in the mountain air.  Though the hardest part of the climb was to come, it didn’t matter.  We could do it…would do it.   

It was still before noon when we made the twin peaks of the summit.  I had braced myself for a disappointment, half-fearing that the top of the mountain would not be as I had always imagined, a point, but would level off, so that one had no real impression that one was atop a mountain at all.  I need not have worried.  Mt Larcom is no sawn-off plateau, but a genuine mountain with real pointy bits. Two of them.  And as I made the final effort and reached the top I saw a mysterious but somehow fitting decoration upon the lower of them.  Two pipes, an upright and a cross-piece, in the shape of a crucifix.  Whether this had been made as a celebration of the wonders of creation or was simply some esoteric necessity of the local water supply, neither I nor any of my companions had any idea.  Either way, it seemed a perfect way to mark the summit.  It felt good to be so far from the doings and creations of petty humankind.

We looked across at the other peak... and there it was.  Standing obscenely up from the highest point... a bloody mobile phone tower!  Nothing like a sign of the times to wreck the romance of the moment.  But somehow, as we stood up atop the mountain and looked around at a three-sixty degree panorama, it didn’t mater.  We could see how big nature was... this mountain may have surrendered to us, but it was more than generous in defeat, giving us the sort of view that stays with one for a lifetime.  I followed Peter along the dip between the two peaks and, lying down, peered over the side.  Rather then the sense of vertigo I had expected as I looked down, the ecstasy welled up again.  A steep drop, dotted with black boys, a long way down.  Yet I felt safe.  This noble mountain would let no harm come to me.  Surely it knew I loved it!

Down below, the sound of a champagne cork popping brought me back to reality.  MLL and Marilyn were spreading out our primitive picnic.  Rice crackers, fruit bars, fruit, French cheese.  If this was asceticism, I was liking it!  I gingerly clambered down, accepting a plastic glass of champagne from Marilyn and lighting a cigar.

“It must have been a heroic effort, getting all the equipment for these pipes and the tower up here along that track.”  MLL remarked.  Trying desperately not to laugh too much, we reminded her about the existence of helicopters.  I stroked her red hair...

This was living!

Photographs which Peter took of the event with his digital camera captured only part of the wonder and beauty of that view... my main memory is of climbing back up the phone-tower peak and pirouetting, taking in the entire sweep of that wondrous vista.  Gladstone harbour to one side, a clear view into the inland on the other, and what was probably Rockhampton to the north.  Peter joined me.  We did not speak... just looked out over the view.  It was a moment to remember.   

There was still the descent to come.  A descent which, as it turned out, was punctuated by losing the way, uncomfortable stops for urination among the nettles, both of Marilyn’s knees giving out forcing Peter to act as a human crutch, desperate attempts to keep our footing among the loose track, and the discovery of a marker with the number bleached away, which we fondly imagined and hoped was the lost number sixty nine.  And finding that had parked the car just where it  would be struck by the sun at its hottest, turning the vehicle into a miniature oven.  And I wouldn’t have missed any of it for a share in the running of the Universe. 

You may wonder, gentle reader, what it is like, sitting six hundred plus metres above sea level, drinking fine champagne, eating a picnic lunch, swapping jokes and anecdotes, and gazing all around at an exquisite panorama of beauty.  Truly I can recommend it.  Try it, and I promise you, that even if you have get out of bed at an unearthly hour, dodge wallabies on the way, squeeze through fissures, bash your head against trees and scramble up bare rock to get there, you’ll be laughing.

Eventually.

16 June 2001.