Over four years I write 95
fortnightly bulletins, one-page quirksters for the back of people’s payslips.
Most enjoy the humour, get the message that life is not to be taken too
seriously. Some people, of course, wouldn’t know humour, irony in particular,
if it kicked them in the cods.
My former employer flatters me
into it. Six months after leaving their employ I bask in the glory of a phone
call saying the staff miss their fortnightly bulletin and would I be tempted to
resume writing for them, monthly, two pages, same off-key style?
I pitched this option to them
when I left Bendigo—a generic bulletin, more humour, strange factoids, less
company line, as I wouldn’t be there to know what the company line is. Back
then I’m thinking I might be cobbling together a semi-retired man’s income.
Anything I can chuck in the pot is fair game. They pass.
Now I don’t have time, but I’ve
got the gig. I set about a new format, new layout, not easy. These days I just
write; desktop publishing, rudimentary as mine was, is behind me. Word offers
me online templates for newsletters—Microsoft crap. Apple’s Pages program has
better templates, but the Macbook’s tiny screen is too small for this sort of
job.
After some farting around I
adapt an old layout, bang a second page on. Emails and phone calls to Bendigo
elicit that my business email isn’t working. The copy they’re supplying for
editing finally arrives and I start turning it into something else, readable to
begin with.
I have permission from two of
my daughter’s former school friends to use their mini book reviews. Whack
Cockatoo Mobile Library in your search engine to check them out. People love
recipes; they’ll get one from my recipe book, heavily spiced, of course. And
I’ve bunged in a little piece on testicular cancer, so things aren’t too flip.
As soon as it whirrs away over
the interweb, I’ll be back at the keys chasing my tail preparing for three days
of non-stop MM action.
Rock on.
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