symptoms

I’m under the weather. My throat is scummy and my head aches, a dull ache that shoots knives into the inside of my skull when I cough. I try not to cough but sometimes the throat dries suddenly and an involuntary reflex kicks in.

Yesterday Nicky and I ride up the Tourist Road to Olinda. I lead, but only because if she goes to the front I won’t see her again. I tell her that pride is all that’s keeping me in front of her. I’m working on cadence, sticking near or above 70 rpm.

My strength is fine but my cardio fitness is down and I huff and puff when the gradient nudges five per cent and beyond. Foolishly I suggest Ridge Road just for variety. Nicky’s never ridden Ridge Road: the grade arcs up to double figures for 700 metres as soon as you veer right off the Tourist Road. Wisely she says she’s not ready yet.

My health is mostly a source of pride: it’s robust and fights germs off without much fuss. Many times I sense something coming on but 24 hours later it’s gone. That’s what I hope for yesterday after riding when my throat feels a little odd and clearing it frequently develops into an irregular dry cough.

This morning in 6:15 pump class my lower back is grabby and doesn’t respond to the gentle stretches I try to placate it with. Still I hope that the signs mean nothing, but as the day moves into late afternoon I know things are bad.

For a five-year spell I have not so much as a cold. Then last year I have two, three months apart. Even then I can console myself, pride myself, that unlike the month-long grips others suffer, I’m all but over mine in seven days, although days three to five are tough going when the sinuses saturate then inundate.

So I wait to see what will come now, knowing that in 48 hours I’ll be on a plane to Adelaide to meet the national MindMatters team I’m about to join. Nice look, the wet hanky hanging out of a pocket, turning away from conversations to hack up a lung, gasping for air between sentences with a bung up each nostril. Makes a fine first impression.

“Leigh. Yes, I think he’s the pasty-looking guy slumped over there behind that potted palm. I’d stay well clear of him if I were you.”

  

Rock on.

induction

The JRT goes nuts when an Australia Post van rolls into my driveway a couple of minutes after seven. I gallop up the hall, bowl of Weeties in hand, to receive not one, but two parcels—a box and a large envelope. I should be more excited about the unexpected parcels than the Weeties, but hey, Weeties are the food of the gods.

The box holds five books, ordered online, and delivered 36 hours after clicking Submit on my order. The young atheist’s handbook feels lovely in my hand. Carrie Tiffany’s Mateship with birds has rave reviews. Alain de Botton I will give to my mother. Jonathan Franzen’s Freedom is thick enough for countless train journeys to and from the inner suburbs.

  

The sender’s details on the large envelope bear my new employer’s name. A clear folder cover with a broken clip spills the contents of a fat induction package over my breakfast table. On top are two copies of the employment contract I must sign and return.

I read the contract, careful not to smear it with the butter dripping from my toast. The only surprise is the salary, which I’m much too modest, and embarrassed, to disclose. Even at three days a week it’s $20k larger than my previous salary. I’m accustomed to working for a pittance after 12 years in the community sector.

I’m unsure what sector I’m about to work in; education, I guess. The contrast with my previous working life could not be starker. In community welfare I received no package and no induction. I signed a contract and got on with the job. I salary packaged more than 50 per cent of my salary to pay my mortgage.

Among the forms in my induction pack are sign-ups for Cabcharge, two car hire companies and an accommodation booking service, luxuries never contemplated in the community sector. I liked that lean and mean organisation and prided myself on costing it little more than my salary.

I check the staff list in the induction pack; what do all those admin support people do all day? Well, they send emails lodge to me with details of my travel to Adelaide and accommodation at an exclusive hotel. My night in the Sealake Hotel at $35 seems like something out of Dickens. It was.

I’m nervous enough about starting a new job, meeting new colleagues, finding my way to an office in Collingwood. But this excess of administrative and corporate wealth is freakin’ me out, man!

Rock on.      

holiday

Apparently it’s a public holiday. What would I know of that? I’m hardly Joe Public and the unemployed know nothing of holidays.

My good woman is on holiday. She’s with me in the Jazz on the way to Wonthaggi to ride our bikes on the Bass Coast rail trail. The trip down is easy enough. I fill the vehicle with petrol and my good woman provides lunch: burek—cheese, cheese and spinach, and cherry, bananas and vegetable juice.

I unload the bikes at Anderson just as the V/line bus pulls in. I re-attach pedals and front wheels and away we go. At Kilcunda the trail crosses Bourne Creek on a marvellous old trestle bridge pretty much on the beach. The 12 kilometres from here to Wonthaggi are flat and there’s not much to see but six wind turbines whirling in the easterly breeze.

Wonthaggi is shut for the holiday. My good woman wants to walk on a beach so we pedal back to Kilcunda. A metre of gloriously coppery snake freaks her out as it slithers across the trail. She can’t even look at it. I stand between it and her as she pedals gingerly past. It nudges my front tyre before crossing the track.

We lock the bikes to a sturdy bench, descend rickety wooden stairs to the beach, and wriggle out of bike clothes and into gear appropriate for beach-combing.

Surf fishing is big today and two surfers brave to pounding waves. We see neither a fish nor a wave caught. The spray crusts my glasses and I stumble through the coarse sand in a fog. My good woman collects beach ephemera and stares out to sea. I wonder how I’ll get the sand off my feet before putting my bikes shoes on again.

Back at Anderson I stow the bikes in the car and we polish off the last slices of burek. An unbroken stream of traffic trickles down the road from Phillip Island and onto the South Gippsland Highhway. At times it simply stops. I consider taking back roads through the Gippsland hills but decide that road works near Bass are causing the delay and once past we’ll scoot along. And so it is.

Just before six we’re home, tired, sunburnt, and sleepy. A cup of tea goes down a treat before we say our goodbyes for today and retreat to our respective worlds; hers will be catching up with her children and cooking, mine catching up with three programs of football highlights and feeding the dog and cat.

Late at night I go online to report my work and job-seeking activity to Centrelink. I tell them nothing, especially that I’m on holiday.

     

Rock on.

locals

Although thousands of folk reside in my suburb, we encounter few, me and the JRT, when we walk the local streets.

People like Fio and Alvena in Unit 4 drive to work and occupy their house. The only time either walks out the front gate is on bin night. Dan from Unit 2 shambles to the milk bar 100 metres away in the morning to get the small paper but otherwise ventures no further than the bus stop out front. The adult Liberians in Unit 3 only leave the property in cars.

Various dog-walkers pound the pavement at different times. Don we encounter irregularly—perhaps on three consecutive days, then not for a month. I speculate: has the booze got the better of him? Has he just dropped dead? A tall older woman—Dutch?—who leans forward from the waist stalks along with two golden retrievers and a black lab on leads. She looks neither left nor right, says nothing.

   

Nobody beats the mystery woman from a big block of units up the road for regularity. At 8:08 every week morning she steps onto the footpath and sets a brisk pace for the station. Her return is less regular, somewhere between half six and half seven.

She is about my age, perfectly coiffed, elegant like no one else in this part of town. She drapes a swanky bag from a shoulder and carries a more substantial bag by hand. Her clacking heels announce her coming and she leaves a perfume trail the dullest-nosed human could track ten minutes after her passing.

I concoct her story: owns a swish boutique of high class women’s fashions on the upper deck of a large shopping complex, husband confined to a wheelchair in their cosy unit.

This afternoon the JRT and I wander off on a long mid-afternoon ramble. I stop at the top of Mystery Woman’s drive to whistle up the JRT who’s sniffing every blade of grass, lagging badly. And here she is. It might be Sunday but she’s immaculate. We exchange hellos as we do when we pass in the street. She moves off.

“Excuse me. I hope you’ll pardon my curiosity. You leave here at the same time every morning. What do you do?”

She catches the train to the city, the 8:25—“You can always get a seat”—works in sustainability, training people. She goes to the gym on her way home.

I thank her for enlightening me and ask her again to excuse my nosiness. Having got my story so wrong, I decide not to ask after the crippled husband.

  

Rock on.

seven days

They say a week is a long time in politics. And football.

My family goes months and nothing much happens. This week is the usual seven days long but a year’s worth of events unfolds.

My sister and her husband buy a magnificent house for $830K. My son and his partner Katie finally get the kiss of approval from an estate agent for a rental in Carrum Downs. Mo tells me he has saved a sixth of a deposit to buy a house in two months since resuming work after their round-Australia trip.

My mother falls down steps while inspecting my sister’s new house and, according to my sister, is miserable. I speak to her several times on the phone and while I hear her pain, she seems chirpy enough. I visit and she seems OK. When I take my leave in the late afternoon, she almost implores me to stay for dinner.

My daughter, touring Tassie, ends up in hospital after a tick bite undergoing tests for Lyme disease. My grand-daughter has a foot, mouth and hand rash. Gemma rings early while eating breakfast on the bank of Lake St Clair. She’s fine, she says. So is Nerri; it’s just teething, eye teeth, and her resistance drops when she’s got new teeth coming through.

I go to Ballarat to organise some training I’ll present, work on the templates project, and land a paid job on Friday.

My back and buttock pain finally disappear all but completely. I return to the gym for three early morning classes—two pump, one spin. And Rock hops back on his bike, broken rib OK, torn shoulder ligaments under sufferance. We set a record slow time up the One-in-Twenty but our only aim is to get to the top.

After everything else, it’s enough.

Rock on.

validation

It’s a beautiful number but I’m happy to relinquish it. I am no longer Job Seeker 616666009. I’m no longer unemployed. I have a job to go to.

I’m in the middle of my fortnightly phone appointment with Sarah, discussing the templates project, when an unknown number appears on my smarty-pants-phone’s screen. I know who it is.

“Sarah, another call. Ring you back soon.”

It’s Jill, the MindMatters national program manager. I hear no joy in her tone and prepare for bad news. She circles round, offers me a job, but not the full-time job I applied for. Someone left, she explains, and the other project officer wants to work part-time, so she wants to appoint two part-time project officers. Would I accept a position three days a week?

Would I what! I’ve worked three days a week for the past six years. Even at three days a week this job is a substantial pay rise on my employment for the past 12 years.

“I’m delighted to accept your offer,” I chortle.

“Welcome aboard then.” We discuss a starting date and other details. My first day’s work will begin at 4:10pm Wednesday week when I fly out of Tullamarine to be at the MindMatters annual one-day staff conference in Adelaide the following day.

Immediately I call and text my good woman, my parents, son and daughter, my referees, anyone in my personal address book. Everyone congratulates me, says how smart I am. I don’t feel smart at all. But suddenly I am again a person wanted for my skills and talents, and paid for them.

  

Why is a job so important? My abilities are no less for not having one, but a job validates me, gives me an identity people incidental to my life can hang on to. “What do you do? Victorian project officer, eh? Mental health promotion. What’s that about?”

This should not be so, but for most of us it is.

 

Unemployment could be a catalyst for new opportunities, but in practice it strangles most. Money drains from bank accounts and is not replaced. Life contracts, everything goes on hold.

Now I can think about replacing the TV my son will soon repossess, getting the new glasses and denture I need, paying my owners corporation fees, and the JRT’s registration.

My slide into retirement has hit the wall.

Rock on.      

hats

I roll down to the gym in the dark for the 6:15 cycle class. My buttock hurts on the stationary bike when I sit up between tracks. My body’s aches mystify me.

After breakfast I work up a major sweat moving a rock border in my garden and revamping the bed under the side fence. The satisfaction is immense.  

I shower and settle into my office. Time to bite the bullet. I ring ‘Jim’s man’, a property manager and valuer, to ask questions about our owners corporation. He’s a hectoring bully like Jim. I have no expertise in subdivision or property values, so I’m powerless to challenge his unsubstantiated assertions. I don’t trust the man and go hunting an independent arbiter on the interweb.

A red car pulls up at the front door. Liz waits in the garden while I reply to a voicemail and confirm that I will attend an interview next Wednesday for a full-time, full-on state wide project officer position in mental health promotion in secondary schools. To me the salary is huge. I’m surprised and excited to get an interview in what must be a large and talented field.

Liz and I go over the SKIPS training we will present in Sydney next Monday and Tuesday: the travel arrangements, the running sheet, the on-screen presentation. She leaves and I hunt the interweb again, this time for background material for the big interview next week. Then I prepare for this afternoon’s interview.

My good woman rings and says she will come around with afternoon tea. I can think of nothing nicer but have to tell her I’m walking out the door right now to go to a sexuality educator interview.

Two women sit on cheap chairs in the middle of a long white back room in an old church in Camberwell. The first question throws me: it challenges my unconventional approach to the selection criteria. I defend myself by saying that I’ve always been unconventional. Later I think of five better responses. I emerge uncomfortable. The fit is not right.

I sit in the car—windows down, door open—eating chips from the bag in a side street. The first training session for AMES tutors begins soon. Five tables each seating five tutors squash into a community hall. Late middle-aged woman predominate; four in their 20s add some spice. In coming months we will share our experiences of teaching refugees English.

During the break, Robert, one of only three blokes training, approaches. “What do you do?”

Although my previous job is nearly two months gone, no one has asked this question, and I’ve not considered an answer. “I guess I’m either unemployed or retired.”

Sometimes it occurs to me that this jobless interlude might continue indefinitely. I don’t think of my business, Plain Talking, as consuming enough time or generating enough income to call it a job.  

So many hats I’ve worn on such a long day. Very late, on the phone, my good woman listens to my account of the job interview. “Nah,” she says in her strangely endearing way. “You don’t want this job.”

She’s unerring. I don’t want this job.

   

Rock on.   

modules

Driving home from work about 15 years ago I’m listening to the radio. A woman—researcher, social commentator, whatever—talks about the way of the future for humble workers. Modules.

The increase in part-time and casual jobs means workers will construct incomes from work modules. At lunch the other day Andrew tells me he has three jobs—two days a week at a southern community health service, one day at an eastern service, and two days lecturing at a university.

So far I’ve applied for one full-time job. I put a one-day-a-week job in the bin. One is three days a week, and the other casual—a half day or evening as required and no work (and no income) during school holidays.  And I’m about to begin volunteer tutoring with AMES. Piecing it together won’t be easy.

Tomorrow I go to an interview for the casual job. It won’t pay the mortgage, no matter how many half days or evenings I work. Two days a week of reliable uninterrupted income would keep me afloat, with my business just bridging the gap. The business is irregular but up till now it just covers times when the bank balance nudges empty or a big bill crops up.

It’s a strange society where so many complain of being asked to work too long, while many of the rest of us try to manipulate work modules into a mosaic that helps us picture exactly who we are. Andrew tells me he struggles with it.

In 2003 I work Monday, Wednesday and Friday in community health and Tuesday and Thursday in tertiary education. No two days of continuous identity. Both jobs suffer and so do I. Now instead of being two workers, I might end up being four.

    

Rock on.   

interviews

I get no response to my first job application—for an admin position I probably don’t want.

This morning I go for an interview to be a volunteer tutor at AMES, the Adult Multicultural Education Service. I’m amazed that it’s been going—AMES, not the interview—since 1951, the year of my birth, under a name minus multicultural.

Family Life Victoria started in 1926 with a different name—the League of Youth and Honour. Their address in Camberwell begins ‘Rear of’ which suggests limited funding. I waltz into their meagre HQ bang on seven o’clock for my second job-related event of the day, an information session for prospective sessional educators. Twenty-five of us will vie for six positions.

The AMES interview is not so much an interview as a briefing on what I’ll be doing. Training is five two-and-a-half-hour Wednesday night sessions. I ask about paid teaching of English to migrants and refugees. Eventually I want to teach groups and be paid. I’m told money is tight—it’s a bad time—but given the names of two people I might speak to at the local TAFE where classes run.

So the first component of constructing a new ‘working’ life slots into place.

As a 12 year-old I go with my father to a Father and Son night at a local church hall in Ormond. The one-hour session is literally about birds and bees, with a couple of chooks in the act too. As sex education it’s both primitive and enlightened.

Family Life, the former League of Youth and Honour, then the Father and Son movement, still run evening sessions in suburban halls. Now they’re for families, undefined, and are about sexuality not sex. The programs are no longer primitive, but remain enlightened, as they were in 1963, in being value-free—no morality, no bullshit. They celebrate human diversity.

Three women about my age run the session and the organisation. They’re fine people and utterly dedicated to their cause: facilitation of discussion between ‘family’ members about sexuality and human relations.

The evening family sessions are only one part of a sessional educator’s work; most sessions run in primary schools in class hours and are almost identical in structure and nature to the mental health promotion program I’ve presented to grade five and six kids irregularly over ten years.

The pay is unattractive, the hours spread across days and evenings. It’s work that chews up time but not the mortgage, and they want a cast-iron commitment to the cause for two years.

I come away enthused but wondering if I’d soon become bored.

  

Rock on.   

application

I email my first job application. It’s not a job I want and I doubt I’ll be considered. But Centrelink demand ‘activity’, so activity they will get.

CrimCheck check police records for new employees in community organisations. They need an administrator; it’s a job share position for 19 hours per week with flexible working times. I’m no administrator, but I know the community sector and I like flexible hours.

I address the selection criteria in haste as other things limit my application writing time. The first four criteria are routine things about communication skills, computer skills, commitment to quality improvement and ability to organise oneself.

By the fifth criterion I’m low on space, energy and time—I need to hit Send in about seven minutes to make close of business. My “understanding of the not-for-profit sector” includes this: “What can I say? I’m a not-for-profit human being. My business is not-for-profit. People laugh and tell me to charge more.”

Under “proven administration skills and a demonstrated capacity to perform general office-tasks” I offer that “I run my own home office which is neat, tidy and efficient, although I could do better. I’m a neat-freak. I like routines. A friend refers to my home as the OCD house. Attention to detail? Yes, please.”

If they have no sense of humour, I don’t want to work for them. If they do, they’ll laugh as they bin my application.

Rock on.