Homosexuality: It's about survival - not sex | James O'Keefe | TEDxTallaght

The Guy I Wasn't Going To Talk About... Life is Too Short, After All

I was just thinking about one aspect of the Donald Trump win, despite my decision not to discuss him here, life is too short, never the less, that tape on the bus where he spoke about women, presumably, not knowing he was being recorded.

Trump said that he could effectively use his name to have sex with woman, even against their will, or words to that effect. They may not be his words, but I'm sure I captured the meaning. His fame and his wealth and his name afforded him certain liberties when it came to women.

This was dismissed by that idiot Australian red-haired, and women from America, who I saw interviewed, who were voting for him. The same reasoning was offered by both, the reasoning that that was how men spoke in private.

I saw a TV interview with the idiot red-head and Derryn Hinch where she trotted out the same reasoning, which Derryn disputed.

"Men do not speak about women that way," Derryn protested. "Men do not talk about the sexual assault of women."

The idiot red-head disagreed. It was a cheap shot designed to point score. Ah yes, what men say in private. I guess a lot of woman agreed with her. Locker room talk. All you have to do is have a snappy come back, in these days of post-truth, it would seem, and even sexual assault can be brushed under the carpet.

I'm a gay male, and being a male, gay, or not, other males feel free to speak the way they would in the company of males, but while I have an audience with them, I'm not committed to the "chick talk." I hear it all, but don't participate, which makes me the attentive listener on the sidelines. And I would just like to say, men do not talk about women the way Trump did. They certainly say, I'd like to suck those tittees, or I'd really like to tongue her snatch, they may even say they want to bang her doggie style until snot runs out her nose (actually, I think that was a line from gay porn, never the less) they have no compunction in fantasising about where they would like to bury their, obviously, big cocks inside a woman. They say all of that, and many women may find it distasteful to listen to.

However, men do not talk about committing sexual assault on woman. Men do not theorise on the ways of making woman have sex with them against their will. To say that, does not understand the male mind.

When guys are talking about those gorgeous tits in their mouths, or her split Brazilian smeared across their faces, or those woman with snot running down their faces as they head into non-stop multiple orgasm territory, those woman are absolutely loving it, because our casanova is the most irresistible beast known to man... er... woman.

Woman want them, with some deluded boys, sure, every woman wants them. Woman want their big, sexy shlongs, their incredible bodies, whether they have incredible bodies, or not. Women want men to make them feel like women, that is what men think. Men talk about women wanting them for their manly charms... not sexual assault.


So, that still leaves us with the fact that the American public condone sexual assault on women? Or, the American public are willing to overlook the sexual assault on woman, if they think it will benefit them. Either way? You know what I am saying? Even women have excused sexual assault on women for what? Jobs? Money? The words of a narcissist?

Diana Ross

I have never been much of a Diana Ross fan, not The Supremes, not her solo career. I always thought she was a light weight. A bit like Beyonce.

I liked Bette Midler and would dance around the sunroom to Live At Last on my own as a 15 year old… repeatedly. That was the only tell tale sign. I came late to being gay, the 1990s, and while I adore many soul divas, Diana Ross just never seemed to be one of them.

However, somehow I went from the daily news, to a YouTube clip, to Youtube, from car renovation shows, to entertainment, to a 1994 Diana Ross interview, you know, as you do, this morning, as I drank my morning coffee. And she seemed like a really together and gracious person. I don’t think I have ever heard her speak, I’ve just heard the maniacal diva , Miss Ross, rumours. So I watched a recent Oprah show featuring Diana Ross. And again, she seemed like a nice, down to earth person. She bought all of her kids on, she claimed to be just a mum, and all of her kids seemed happy and as though they adored her.

It got me thinking about her.

I had a Diana Ross anthology that my exboyfriend, Lauri, gave me, and I had a more recent album I bought in an opshop for 50c, which I had never bothered to download into my itunes. So I went and dug them out.

I've been listening to her on my daily walk. She has a much better voice than I ever gave her credit for, and she sings some great songs, some really great songs, but in the end, they are all just a bit the same.

Still, I have a much great appreciation for her, and I'd, perhaps, be tempted to listen to her again on another walk. I'd say she, tentatively, makes it onto my play list. Like Wikipedia says, more conformation needed.

Snatching Victory from the Jaws of Defeat... or is that, Landing On My feet, I can't decide

Yesterday, I was awake at 6am. I got up and got dressed in the dark on the floor, as you do, and then headed downstairs. I couldn't get the new job out of my head, 4 days per week. Do I really want to work 4 days per week? Isn’t this my time for writing? Isn’t that effectively saying, I give up, I’ll never be able to write anything, I might as well go back to a shitty corporate office that I hate? Isn’t that what that is saying? Didn’t I decide that I’d rather be poorer doing something that I love, even if it gets me nowhere, than richer doing something I hate? Didn’t I say that? Why am I giving it up so easily? I have been pleased with the writing that I have been doing these last 10 months, I have written quite a few stories, I seem to be getting into the hang of it. I still seem not to have a clue what to do with them when they are done, but that will come? Self-pusblishing comes to mind, but, I am pretty sure, it has to be a novel. With an awful lot or rewriting, I could transform Amy and Lillian into a novel. I could. (I have more 5 chapters)

Beck called early, I was taken aback, 4 days per week was suddenly barking at me and I didn’t answer. The thought of working 4 days per week… um… er... suddenly in my face, I recoiled.

I went for an hours walk, to think about it, listening to the last of my Diana Ross tracks, then it was straight back onto my Rolling Stones ballads playlist. It is forgivable to not take Beck's call, I could have been doing anything, but I would have to call her back, I knew that.

When I pulled my glasses out to change the music, as I was walking, I must have pulled my house key out too, and with headphones on I didn’t hear it go jangle, jangle to the ground. So, when I got home I had no key. I messaged Leonard to see if he was home. Then I called Andy, as it is Friday he was still home at 10am. He left not long after. Few!

I headed to the locksmith to get a new front door key cut. I called Beck. The job will be kind of casual, she is going to work full time, moving back to Melbourne, she did a tree-change not long ago. "I'm going to commute, it will be great." But she missed Melbourne, let's hope she can afford to buy back the house she sold. And I am going to take up the slack. And it doesn't start for nearly a month. It sounds perfect. Beck asked me to send my resume. They still have to build a business case for my role, and it still has to be okayed by head office. Beck has told Siobhan, another ex-work colleague, who is very excited.

I whistled on my way back home, yes, whistled. I caught myself whistling. WTF, I thought? Why am I whistling? It was a gorgeous day, sure. But, you know, I reckon it is because the anxiety of not having a job, the anxiety around wondering if I should get a job, the anxiety around thinking I have done the right thing regarding my job, had all lifted. Suddenly, not a care. Funny, the way the mind works, hey?

C'ology

Cupology - The art of placing cups, to be things of beauty

not to be confused with

Carpology - The art of nagging, to get your way

not to be confused with the ancient Japanese art of fish management.

or

Cappology - the theories of hat wearing and how the cap was revived by bald men late in the 20th Century.

or

Coppology - Taking one for the team.

not to be confused with the study of why young men with an authority complex go into the police force.

or

Cobbology - the study of why drunk young men often secretly chew on their best mate's cobb late in the evening, more often than not feigning amnesia the following day.

not to be confused with the theories on mateship.

New Job

Melissa is a girl who works with my old boss, Beck, who has a job that I wanted. When I first left the black law firm, I applied for a job (the only job I have applied for in recent years) but they gave it to Melissa. Then a short time later, Beck got the manager’s job.

Rachael told me to put Melissa’s name in the freezer?

“What?” What kind of nonsense is this?

“Write their name on a piece of cardboard,” said Rachel. “And put it in the freezer.”

“Their name in the freezer?” Simple, I like it so far.

“That’s what I do,” said Rachel in that matter of a fact way Rachel has of saying things.

Well, I did. Not that I believe any of this for a moment. Of course, David squealed and got that look on his face that he gets when he thinks he is proving that I do believe all that nonsense.

Beck doesn’t like Melissa, I mean, she likes her well enough as a person, but her work is sloppy and she never stops talking and she used to take a lot of time off. Beck and I worked together for ten years, and we just work the same way, head down, mouth closed. We’d always stop and have a chat, every hour, when we got coffee, when somebody disturbed us, you know the normal corporate office, but other than that…

As soon as I slid the name under the ice block tray, I have to say, Beck messaged me and said, Good news, Melissa is pregnant. Do you want to do the maternity leave? It was 3 days a week and I really wanted to have more hours than that, back then, to be truthful, but I was taking it, of course. A short time later Beck messaged me, Bad news, Melissa had a miscarriage.

That was five years ago.

Beck told me last time I had lunch with her, a year, or so ago, that Melissa had breast cancer. That was the next time I thought about her name in the freezer. Beck said Melissa was doing therapy around work. I remember wondering how miserable that would be.

And just as it happened, I was cleaning the freezer on Sunday (Mitch left stubbies in there that exploded) and Melissa’s name fell out and slid onto the tiled floor coming to rest at the very end of my shoes. I looked at it, Melissa, on one of Shane’s old business cards that we use as roaches, and I chuckled, checking myself as to the appropriateness of a chuckle, and I put it back in the freezer, back under the ice block trays.

Well, Beck messaged me on Monday and Melissa’s cancer has returned and Beck asked me if I’d be interested in doing Melissa’s job, of course, temporarily, at this stage.

I told Rachael she is a witch.

She messaged me back, You’re welcome.

I wondered if my work clothes would still fit me. Beck will have more news soon.

I wondered if I could get it done in 3 days, considering Melissa, apparently, spends a lot of her time on the internet, much to Beck's chagrin.

So, just like that, I am going back to work. Into a corporate office, what's more. Am I ready for this??

But as the current saying du jour says, I guess, Sometimes, you just have to grow up... even if, 3 days would be better. 2 days would have been great. I just want to get out of the house, vary my routine, find horrible people to write funny things about, that is all I want from a job now. Still, I have my own office, apparently, so I can write at work. USB, easy peasy. My last job, because Fatty Cake took so many sick days, (first post-truth comment, do you think that was because she was so fat?) I used to write for most of the mornings, certainly all of the mornings she was away. And as she took multiple days, as well as working from home, as often as she did, she'd barely ever complete a full week, I was writing most mornings at work. I used to get there at 8am and write until lunchtime, have lunch, and get all of my work done in the afternoon. I'd often write for a time, and then when I needed an imagination recharge, I'd do my work, then I'd go back to writing. Let's face it, any role I have done, it has only ever required 50% of my time. I've never worked over 50% capacity at work, it's never really been needed. Once I master a role, I can usually do it in half the time it would take anyone else, it's true. It has always given me lots of "other" time at work, which I have used wisely, and not so wisely at other times. It certainly gives you a lot of spare time to fester about the shit job you have. So, I write instead.

Oh yes, that paradigm. I remember... I remember... I remember. Back to that, hey? Ten months off. It went so fast.

It is not one of my favourite paradigms, I have to admit, I’m not telling you anything, but, I should work when it is offered to me. And this is really a 2IC job, so easy. Jack was sending me on too many managers jobs, he knew I didn’t really like them, but I always did such a good job, flying by the seat of my pants, living in a state of anxiety every time I crammed all the information in my head, just in case whatever exec wanted whatever figures, and I just don’t want to do that any more. And it is all Voula has offered me since she took over. I still haven’t answered any of Voula’s calls, not since that day she caught me off guard, and there has been multiple calls every week, so I keep figuring that bridge is burnt… although, she hasn’t stopped calling. That’s how I treat my boss. Hah. They only want to employ me casually, then I get to act like a casual worker.

This job, I just do what I am told and I go home at 5pm, heaven.


8am. I just saw fat chick coming out from Starbucks coffee with take away ice coffee with cream on top – Sam.

He’s in Brisbane working. You know what that means? (Okay, so I’m pretty sure he doesn’t read my blog, but he could if he wanted to. So code for this part) I’m keeping it a secret this time. (That is code to myself, so don’t even try to figure it out, but when I come to review this entry, as I surely will, I’ll know what that means)

Sam sends me footage of said fat chick.

So, do I take Melissa’s name out of the freezer now? Surely that bitch has suffered enough, one part of me thinks? But the other side thinks, finish the job. She makes a recovery, she comes back to work, I’m out of a job again.

Will I like working though? It hardly seems fair to take some woman’s life, on a whim of working.

I ask Rachel, she responds with, Do you want the job, or not?

I should ask David. What was he raving about the last time I saw him? Guys doing tarot readings in German sex on premises venues. Perhaps, we should do a reading?

I'm sitting on my balcony with coffee, the morning sun is shining, the birds are singing, the air smells fresh, this is the paradigm I much prefer.

Mitch's Meat

Mitch went out for a work get together, bonding session, surely it wasn’t a Xmas "do" already? Anyway, it was an open bar from early evening until late. And that’s all Mitch does really, booze, and fuck boys. But that is what you are meant to do when you are 22, let’s face it, booze, smoke pot, take drugs and fuck boys. Not that I think Mitch takes drugs. There is a steady stream of boys through his bed. Many a morning, some fresh faced lad has come out into the kitchen in his jocks, his hands over his crotch saying he just wants a glass of water. That is one thing about Mitch’s trade, they are all very polite.

When I say Mitch does booze, you always know when he has a few days off, the beers appear in the fridge, and consequently, he makes many more visits to the kitchen. He often staggers home drunk, happy and bleary-eyed enthusiastically wanting to give the details of his night. He can certainly put it away, but he is a big lad, tall and blond. He’s athletic, but in that post-teenager, getting puffy from too much boozing, athletic kind of way. However, the boy’s seem to like him.

He has a definite hung-over, morning after expression. Blood-shot eyes, somehow his face seems to go out of focus, incoherent, twitching (only slightly, it is no Tourette's situation), not really fully at one with reality.

I was in the kitchen making coffee, when Mitch appears at the kitchen door, squinting at something. He is in his jocks, one hand is inside them massaging half a woody, he has one arm over his chest, he has one eye closed, squinting noticeably.

“What does that say?” He still looks smashed.

I’m sure he is staring at the clock. “8.30.”

“AM?”

“Yes,” I say. “8.30 in the morning.”

“Thank god (I wish people would stop thanking god, when they don’t believe in him, it gives God a false positive in society) I lost my phone and I had no idea what time it is,” he says.

Who would be able not to look down at what his right hand was doing? I know I should. Higher ground! Higher ground! My still, small voice tells me, but I have already looked down before that thought is complete. He has a big dick, it was kind of hard not to miss it, he had a semi, I think is the term, he was rolling it around in his jocks, which were kind of bunched up around it, you know, kind of sweaty, damp clinging. Blond pubes. Good legs.

“I thought it could be 4pm,” he says. He shakes his head and goes back to bed.

He had to be at work at 4pm.

Good luck with the work thing, I think.

Tattoo'd Guy

Monday, that really hot day when I went out early and did my errands, I saw a guy yesterday walking towards me in the street in blue shorts, baggy soccer shorts, and a wife blue beater. He wasn't terribly attractive and he wasn't terribly athletic, he had pasty white skin and limp blond hair, kind of long, which didn't help, but certainly was only a minor part of the look. On his side, was he was young, in his early twenties, but this didn't really help either.

He had tattoos, not especially elaborate tattoos, no sleeve, not an eagle on his back, but lots of small tattoos, seemingly, all over him. When I first looked up, and took the view of him in, he was about 50 metres away from me, he honestly looked like he'd been scribbled over, much like a toddler might draw on himself with his crayons. He looked so bizarre, I blinked, as if to reboot, as though my cache memory was malfunctioning. He looked so weird in that moment of focus. I wanted to rub my eyes with my hand.

What possess some one to do that? I thought. I’ll graffiti myself, like the mindless wall art that plagues the city. It is as if graffiti has now transformed itself into a medical condition. I’m going to scribble all over myself? Every where. All over. Cover myself. The world’s most tattoo’d man was a side show at the circus when I was a kid.

As he got closer, the effect just got more bizarre, as though some lover had taken a pen and drawn all over him in some mindless crystal meth sex session, or drunken buddies had stripped him to his jocks and scribbled on him in some straight boy bonding ritual. (Oh sorry, that might just be my fantasy) Or, perhaps he just loathed himself that much.

Admittedly, I am no fan of tattoos. Funny, I think you can pick the people who are really into tattoos, as opposed to those people who are just following the latest trend. Those people who are really into them, I think, are the ones who look great with tattoos. You know, some tattoos look really sexy on some people. But the multiple tattoo in the hands of a Pauline Hanson supporter, it is one of my just-want-to-point-and-laugh life moments, when I see someone with tattoos, you just know that a huge proportion of them, some day, at some time, will want to have them all taken off again.

“Oyi wished I’d never dunit.” (We’ll get to judgement a bit later)

If our greasy-haired blonde, in the monotone ensemble, spent all that money on a gym membership, or a good set of running shoes, he could quite possibly look equally as good, as he does bad with his body ink, I thought. Instead of covering it up, he could show it off. He could get a pair of tighter work shorts, you know, a pair that gives him a lunch, and a booty, get his hair cut, stand up straight, use some shampoo.

I some times wonder if someone covered in tattoos has dysmorphic body condition?

Both Arms. Both thighs. Ankles. Feet. He hadn’t got to his neck yet, which I hate more than any other tattoo, it just makes people look really odd. I wanted to turn around and check out his calves. I wondered if he would think I was checking out his arse? You can look at any guy, you can look at any part of any guy you want to, its an inalienable right, but you can never look back, life mantra.

If you want to check out some hot guy’s arse, you should change direction really subtly and go have a look. Follow him a bit, to fully appreciate the peach that he possess.

I laughed to myself and thought, no judgment, isn't that one of life's mantras? Pity, I thought. I chuckled, still judging. Our blonde-haired friend got with in touching distance and I couldn't help but smile.

He smiled.

He passed by.

It Was Hot

It was 38, apparently, 35 degrees today. Buddy and I stayed inside all day in the quiet out of the sun, doors and windows closed. It felt like a tropical snow dome. (Stellaaa!) I sweated, you know that kind of semi wet feeling under your clothes that makes you feel kind of slippery. Shorts and t-shirt, of course. (first time for the year) My favourite loose fitting t-shirt naturally, (the one I wouldn't be caught dead in outside the house) but I still felt sticky and wet, still do. I don't know how Buddy felt inside his bulldog suit, as such, (dogs are always 10 degrees hotter, apparently) but he did lay like a dead dog by the couch.

Ah the hot weather, it has only just arrived. It seemed to be a very long winter and quite a cool spring, up until this point. We were all wondering what gives with the cool weather? We had the central heating on until October, which is unheard of. It was warm on the weekend and I was already beginning to whinge about the heat. Oh the summer is nearly here. Yay.

Today it was hot and windy. And then it rained late in the day and that just made it humid indoors. It was 35 degrees at 5.30pm and then 20 degrees at 6.30pm. Whoosh.

Tomorrow it is going to be 15 degrees. Lovely. That's Melbourne and I quite like it that way, as there is always relief from the heat.

Amy and Lillian Go On A Cruise

The silver Mercedes CLA45 AMG sits in Amy’s drive way. Lillian is looking at it beyond the large opening concertinaing doors at the back of the house.

Pan in.

Lillian is standing in the middle of Amy’s lounge room in a sailors suit. She is clutching her wallet and her passport and her tickets in her hand. Her suitcase is sitting next to her. “Five minutes darling and the Uber will be here.”

“I’m nearly ready,” calls Amy from some where inside the house.

Lillian is wearing huge tortoise shell sunglasses, she feels safe behind them, and a wide brimmed straw hat, she feels safe under it. Her skin is pulled magically tight, she thinks, as she glances at herself in the mirror over the mantel.

A car pulls up out the front, the front door is open so the street is clearly visible.

Lillian moves her case to the front veranda. “Oh come on darling,” says Lillian. “My scars will have fully healed by the time you get yourself out here.”

The Uber is a rather ungainly tall-boy designed car, with a rather small luggage compartment, which only saving grace is that it fits Lillian’s wide brimmed straw hat in without a worry. Amy looks poured into the seat next to Lillian, her belongings some how piled up on top of her.

“I think that was quite unfair,” says Amy. “You rushing me like that.”

The driver is African and speaks with an accent.

“The dock,” thank you driver,” says Lillian.

The driver doesn’t seem to know what that is.

“The dock. Boats?” says Lillian. “We are going on a cruise.”

“Sorry?”

“To the port,” says Amy.

The driver looks around at Amy and smiles.

“Oh never mind,” purrs Lillian. “I’ll direct you. Take a right at the end of the street.”



The ship is big and exciting.

“Sexy, isn’t,” says Lillian when she first looks at their luxury liner.

“It’s big, isn’t it,” says Amy.

Amy and Lillian have a two-bedroom suit on the upper deck with views of the ocean. They get settled quickly into their luxury surroundings.



There is a Captain’s Dinner celebrating their departure. Dress formally. The captain leads the feast. They all stay up late and party the night away.



The morning is slow. Amy sits at the kitchen table drinking coffee. Lillian appears in a black one-piece bathing suit, enormous black sunglasses and a straw sun hat. She removes her glasses. “I’m going to hang out at the pool.”

“You just think Rodolfo will be there,” says Amy.

“You say that like it is a bad thing,” says Lillian.

“Oh, I don’t mean to.”

“I’m hoping it will be a bad thing,” says Lillian. She laughs. “And Rodolfo being the swimming instructor, there is a fair bet he’ll be there.”

“I’m glad we got separate rooms,” says Amy.

“Why do you think I insisted,” says Lillian.

“Did you see that boy in his speedos?”

Lillian smiles. She puts on her over sized sunglasses and exits the cabin.



There are sunset drinks on one of the upper decks, everybody dresses up in cocktail frocks and drink and eat.

Lillian gets drunk and goes back to Rodolfo’s cabin.



The sun has come up, Lillian has just come in. She closes the front door, as Amy comes out of her room in her nightie with cold cream on her face.

“Oh my, my, my, my.”

“Good morning,” says Amy. “How was your night?”

“Oh my, my, my, my.”

“You have been repeating that ever since you got back,” says Amy.

“Oh Amy…”

“Lillian?”

“It was so quick, and, and, and, impersonal,” says Lillian. “I’ve never…” She laughs.

“Never…” Amy looks questioningly.

“I should have tried a few more before I married Denis,” says Lillian. “That is clear to me now.”

“You did try a few more before Denis.”

“Well, I should have tried a few more than that.”

“So Rodolfo was good?”

“I can tell you he is anatomically correct,” says Lillian. “Goodness me.” She laughs. “I’d recommend it.”

“Oh, Lillian,” says Amy. “I’ve only ever been with Carl.”

“As untrue as that statement is,” says Lillian. “Oddly, that is rather my point, luv.”

“What ever do you mean?”

“Well, it wasn’t really just Carl, now was it? Who do you think you are talking to?” says Lillian. “But, be that as it may, I have no idea what is stopping you getting back on the horse now?”



The ship is huge. The two women get dressed up and head out to dinner. In their first state of sobriety since that have been on board, it is as if they are seeing the ship a new again. The dinning room is immense and exciting, all colour and movement and filled with people. Lillian stops them at the door, by putting her left arm in front of Amy. Lillian closes her eyes and takes a big breath, she looks at Amy when she opens them again. “Party time.”

The ship, it is like a palace on the water, it is like one huge luxurious shopping centre, it is like being shut in a casino for a week of parting.

The discos throb all night, the girls are up every night dancing, pissed on too many glasses of chardonnay. Sleeping away the morning. Surfacing at lunchtime for the buffet. A little herb therapy after lunch, “On the poop deck,” laughs Lillian. Sitting by the pool in the afternoon. Dressing for dinner. After dinner drinks. Change of clothes for the nightclub. Repeat. Amy and Lillian are exhausted.

Lillian finds a Taiwanese man, named Howard, who sells cocaine on board, so of course she buys a couple of bags. “Think of it as a lazy stash.” That is inhaled with much enthusiasm for the good part of the time they are on the water together.

Lillian humps Rodolfo like a woman possessed.



The sun is shinning, the sky is blue overhead. Lillian is on a chaise by the pool. The water reflects the sky. She is reading.

Amy is a sleep on a chaise next to her, her towel pulled over her face.

Lillian puts her book down on the white plastic table next to her. She takes a hand rolled cigarette from a silver cigarette case and lights it with her silver lighter, held in her talons, her white painted nails.

The sun shines on Amy’s smooth face.

“You are going to have to give them up, if you want, you-know-what, to work.”

“I’ll just have more you-know-what, to get rid of the effects,” says Lillian. “It was a doddle.”

“You’ll end up like those trout pout Hollywood stars.”

“Show me the brochure,” says Lillian. “My old life is behind me, and meeting people now a days is meeting new people. None of them know what I look like from one day to the next.”

Amy holds out a painted talon for the joint.

“I thought you said you were giving up?”

“No, I said you were giving up.”

Lillian hands the joint to Amy. “If my children could see me now,” says Amy.

“My children would stab me,” says Lillian.

The two women laugh.

Amy And Lillian Have Plastic Surgery

The room is white, it is a double room with two patients. Two women with bandaged faces are sitting up in bed, it is impossible to tell which is which.

One of the women is groaning loudly.

The other woman is pressing her call button for the nurse.



A couple of days later…

The two are sitting up in bed like cadavers, both smoking. There is just a mouth slit, through which to suck smoke and blow smoke.

“I’m surprised someone hasn’t come around…” mumbles Amy, holding her cigarette in the air.

“Oh, they did, darling,” says Lillian, through gritted teeth. “I had to give her many hundred dollar notes to get her to go away again.” Everything she says sounds as though it is through gritted teeth

“It’s just you and I sharing,” says Amy. “Who is it harming if we smoke?”

“It is only a double room, I kept repeating and repeating to matron,” says Lillian. “She didn’t get half agitated. But, I said pet, I said luv, I said pet, its just me and ‘er, let it go!”

“What does she expect us to do, wheel ourselves down four floors to the sanctuary garden,” says Amy. “I ask you?”

“What was this, again?” asks Lillian. She touches her face.

“A super hydrating, oxygen mask, to aide the swelling,” says Amy with pursed lips. Not that Lillian could see Amy’s lips at all, but she could imagine.

“How do I let you talk me into these things.”

“You can only spend your money, once, sweetie,” says Amy. “You can’t take it with you.”

“I’m having that looked into,” says Lillian. “The ungrateful bunch I have around me.”

“We could liquidate all of our assets upon our deaths,” says Amy. “We could have country burials, after which there could be a huge bonfire…”

“And all the money could be burned in front of those blood suckers,” says Lillian. She moans, and grimaces. “Oh don’t make me smile, it hurts under all of this.”

“I’m leaving mine to my children…”

“Oh how passé,” says Lillian.

“Oh Lillian, don’t be a bitch.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, I’m leaving what is left to my kids,” says Lillian. “I just don’t plan for any of it to be left, by the time that day comes.”

“Lillian Burlington-Smythe, do you think that is fair.”

“I do.”

“Could you live with yourself if you did that?”

“With no regret,” says Lillian. “But I’d be dead and home free.”



5 days later…

The room is spotlessly clean and white, the bed linen is white and clean, the floors and the walls were white.

Two women sit up in the beds. Both their face bandages have jut been removed.

The curtain between them is drawn back.

They slowly look at each other.

“You look five years younger already,” says Amy. “A fifty year old… with black eyes.”

“I was hoping for forty,” says Lillian.

“You’ll have to wait for the swelling to go down.”

“Ten years worth of swelling, darling?”

“It is possible, sweetie.”



6 days later…

They lie on cream chaises on the wide cream veranda of the facility. Big green leaf trees shaded them from the glare of the sun. They have minimal bandaging on now, just some light pressure bandages, due to be removed.

“My face hurts,” says Amy.

“Get the nurse,” says Lillian. “I need more drugs.”

A bell rang some where in the distance.

Cooper, the blonde fan boy, fans them.

“You took their money.”

“It was my money.”

“You’re living this high life of frivolous indulgence on the great wealth you inherited, and only you inherited, from your mother’s estate,” says Amy. “Then you blow the lot, their entire expected inheritance.”

“Yes, darling,” says Lillian. “Speaking of which, I have been meaning to mention…”

“What have you been meaning to mention?” The subject of their wills makes Amy cross.

“Your car.”

“My car?”

“Its time to get rid of it, update, buy something new,” says Lillian. “Spend some money, honey.”

“Oh Lillian…”

“You can still leave it to your damn children,” says Lillian. “Pretend you are buying one of them a new car, it’ll aid your recovery…”

“Oh Lillian, I don’t think that…”

“Oh rubbish, you love to drive, spoil yourself,” says Lillian. “You can afford it now.”

“It is true, the Humber takes a lot of work to keep in show room condition.”

“Oh Amy, OCD Carl is not making the decisions any more,” says Lillian, “You are.”

“Oh my lovely Carl…” Amy looked as though she was about to cry, Lillian decides it is just post anaesthetic come down, and proceeded. The truth was that Lillian didn’t feel safe in the old Humber any more. It has old heating and no air conditioning and lap-sash seatbelts that Lillian hated.

“It is old, get rid of it,” says Lillian. “It is dragging you down, you’ll feel like a new girl.... inside matching the outside.”

“It is at the mechanic as we speak,” says Amy.

“There you go,” says Lillian. “I have my eye on this mid range Mercedes.”

“A Mer…ce..des,” says Amy.” Lillian could tell Amy likes the idea, even if she wasn’t about to admit it just yet.

“Well.” Amy sighs, as though she is bored. “As soon as I have these bandages off.”

“As soon as I’ve weaned myself off morphine, yet again…” Lillian washes down some pills with water from a white plastic cup.

“Do you fancy a month at the Green Fern?”

“I do darling, what a simply splendid idea.”

“My treat,” says Lillian.



7 days later…

They catch a limousine to the airport, attended by a nurse each. They catch a plane to the Gold Coast. They catch a helicopter from the airport directly to the retreat. They are wheeled into the building in wheelchairs. They are heavily shaded by sunshade cloth, like crippled bee keepers, or incapacitated astronauts.

“Landing capacity for 2 helicopters,” says Lillian. “Good to know.”

“Why, darling?”

“We may need to take separate choppers one day,” says Lillian. “You never know.”

“Oh Lillian,” says Amy. “You wouldn’t dare.”

The rural Queensland retreat is 5 star, Amy and Lillian don’t have to do a thing, every single thing is done for them.

Kanga was their chef, Melissa their concierge, Bradley was their cabana boy.

Amy and Lillian did nothing but indulge themselves for six weeks. No more was heard of them during this time.

“We’re off grid,” says Lillian. “And isn’t it divine.”

“I miss my kids.”

There is lush green lawns spreading out in front of them. They are bot sitting in chaises gazing down a lush valley. “Oh nonsense! Life is just splendid, darling, come on,” says Lillian. “Precisely because none of them care.”

“My children care.”

“Don’t you find it remotely rewarding that your children are fully self supporting functioning adults and they we’ve all come out the other side, job done.”



The day before they come home…

The laptop was set up on the cream wicker table on the cream veranda over looking the verdant forest. “Look here, darling.” Lillian was showing Amy a car on the internet. “A Mercedes CLA250.”

“That looks nice.”

“Oh here,” says Lillian. “A 45 AMG, get this one.”

“How much?”

“100K.”

“I just spend fifteen thousand on my face.”

“All must haves, darling. All must haves.”



Time to go home…

The black helicopter is sitting on the verdant green fake lawn…

“Darling, is this real?” asks Amy as she steps an unsteady plantformed shoe onto the grass.

“As fake as you face now is, darling,” Lillian says through gritted teeth. “Constantly being renewed.”

“Forward, like a galleon,” says Amy.

“Bradley had strong hands,” says Lillian. “He gave great massages.”

“But twice a day, darling,” says Amy. “Really, you wore that young boy out.”

“They never tire at that age,” says Lillian. She hands her bags to IceMan, the helicopter pilot. “Grrrrr.”

The girls step up into the back seats of the sleek, black machine. Their strapping helicopter pilot checks the doors, smiles at them through the glass, Lillian pulls her silent lion roar face as their eyes meet. IceMan gets into the front of the helicopter. The blades star to spin.

Amy And Lillian Go To The Drag Show

Amy and Lillian have not sat idly back in the intervening year since Carl and Denis’ internment in the Ashburton Twilight Home for the Bewildered. They have sold their two family homes in Camberwell, now that the kids have grown and left the nests. Many years earlier, they had bought adjoining terrace houses in Richmond as investment properties, long before the burden of capital gains tax could hang over them. In fact, Carl and Denis invested in six terrace houses in Richmond, three each. The girls sold their million dollar Camberwell homes, and moved into the two adjoining Richmond properties, still with two more investment properties to give them an income.

The girls have been on a mission to spend the millions each of them have tucked away in the bank. “That’s what we’re going to do, live it up.”

“Disgracefully,” purrs Lillian at the mention.

The doorbell rings.

“Are you determined to go in that mini skirt, darling,” coos Lillian.

Amy goes to the door. Nephew Simon and Blake come back down the hallway with Amy. They are both dressed head to toe in black. “Your very first drag show,” announces Simon.

They are going to some place called the Greyhound.

“Is this a drag show,” says Lillian bemused. “Or the trots?”

“I don’t think any of them would be wanting the trots,” says Amy. She brakes up laughing.

“Amy!” Lillian gasps.

“In St Kilda,” says Amy, as if it is an exotic locale. Nephew Simon promised it is, practically, in the next suburb. “Have you home by midnight.” Truthfully, Amy and Lillian are just new to Richmond and their “home zone” isn’t quite locked in as yet.

“It’ll be fab!” Simon gushes.

They are packed into the back of Simon’s Alfa Romeo, the car with no headroom. “Jesus, I thought we were going to die coming over Bridge Road,” says Lillian.

“It was a little hairy,” Amy says, as she straightens her dress after alighting from the said Alfa Romeo. “A bit like the women we are going to see tonight.” Amy elbows Lillian in the ribs and brakes up laughing.

“I don’t think you are allowed to say that,” hisses Lillian.

“So what am I allowed to say?”

“Not that.”

“So are… these… transsexuals, or transvestites, or…”

“They are drag queens, sweetie, how fucken old are you trying to be?”

“What’s the difference between a drag queen and a transvestite,” says Amy.

“A drag queen only tucks, darling,” says Lillian. “When she is getting ready for the show lights to come on.”

“What do transvestites do then?”

“They usually lurk in their wives wardrobes after dark, when everybody else has gone to bed, luv.”

“This way,” says Simon ushering the chatting women along.

“A drag queen is a show girl,” says Lillian. “A transvestite is usually a pervert.”

“Oh, I’m sure that is not the case,” says Amy. “I’m sure they are just misunderstood.”



Simon and Blake lead Simon’s aunts into the Club. Amy and Lillian’s mouths are agog. “What is this, bring ya grandma day,” hisses a voice in the crowd.

“Friendly, aren’t they,” says Amy.

It is busy, but the boys manage to get Amy and Lillian seats. The music is playing too loudly to speak.

“Drink?” asks Simon.

“G&T, darling,” says Lillian.

“Oh yes, a G&T I think too,” says Amy.

Simon dashes off somewhere with Blake.

Amy and Lillian sit on their stools.

Simon appears back with drinks in his hands. Blake has drinks in his hands too. The two boys stand behind the two women.

There is suddenly a shriek next to them. “Amy!” Amy’s brother, Oliver, is standing there in tiny shorts, clearly off his face, saying, “I feel faaaaabulous.”

“Ollie,” says Amy, the years of whispers, and suspicion manifesting as confirmed in her whining tone.

Oliver dances into the crowd.

Lillian looks over at the mouth-gaping Amy, “I told you so.”

“Jesus, Lil, the whole interpretation of my family just did a spin.”



Scotty is there on a first date. Dinner and a show. “This is Chelsea. Chelsea this is Simon. And Blake.”

Lillian “Grrrrs” at Scotty.

“My mad aunt Lillian,” says Simon. “Don’t mind her.”

“Scotty, you look lovely,” says Lillian. She winks and makes kissing lip.

“Lillian,” says Scotty nervously.



The house lights go down. Scotty jumps. The stage lights come up.

There is a pin spot on a drag queens face, looking as though she may be wearing a big frock off in the shadows.

“Oh, with a beard,” says Lillian. “I can’t watch them with a beard…”

“Oh Lillian… says Amy.

“It spoils the mystique,” says Lillian.

“There’s mystique?” says Scotty.

ReJenoLust sings, “I Will Survive.” She gets a rousing applause at the end.

“Was she… er… he, she actually singing?”

“No, darl,” says Lillian. “She was lip-syncing.”

“You mean drag queens can’t sing.”

“Oh, some can, darling,” says Lillian. “The better ones.”

“1985. Paris. The Old Quarter.”

“I think her name was The Divine Latrine?” says Lillian. “And a rendition of It’s Raining Men that involved it, actually, raining urine.”

“I remember too much Pinot Grigio and a regrettable incident with a boy named Pascal.”

“Oh darling,” purrs Lillian. “Pascal was anything but regrettable.”

Amy And Lillian Go To A Wedding

The lawn is manicured to within an inch of its life.

“I hope they don’t think that a paedophile in a dress splashing water on your kids head has any significance today,” says Lillian.

The waiter holds the silver tray in front of Lillian, she does her silent lion’s roar face, to the waiter as she takes a canopy. It is meant to be a smile, that she never quite mastered.

“Oh Lillian, old father Bob wouldn’t touch anyone.”

Amy takes a pastry and a serviette.

“You get them young boys around them in dresses and they go mad for it. Apparently,” Lillian takes a bite of her canopy. “,” says “The closest thing recorded to a fox attack in living history.”

“Father Bob is happily married.” Amy sips her flute of champagne.

“They bite off the boy’s genitals,” says Lillian. “Drug crazed.”

“That’s awful.”

“Like baby franks coming out of their skins.”

“Oh!”

“Worst case scenario.” Lillian shrugs. She couldn’t remember what fag-hag convention she went to with nephew Simon.

“I can’t see Father Bob.” She laughs. “The equivalent to bobbing for apples,” says Amy. “In a barrel full of prepubescent cocks.”

“Well maybe not Father Bob,” says Lillian. “What about Monsignor Ivan Roesdale up your mick joint? Is he married?”

“What is this Northern Ireland circa 1980?” says Amy. “You mean the Catholic Cathedral, Monsignor Rosedale, and, of course, he is not married.”

“His alter boys,” bellows Lillian. “Do they look miserable?”

“Oh Lillian.”

A waiter walks passed Lillian. “Pst!” The waiter stops and wheels around with his silver tray. Lillian takes a vola-u-vent, with her white, manicured fingernails. She does her same silent lion’s roar face as a thank you.

“I don’t mind if I do,” says Amy forcefully as the waiter starts to walk way.

“If they look miserable, I swear they are secreting body parts on their… um… person… which are not, um, er, their body parts to secret,” says Lillian.

The waiter offers his tray to Amy. She selects her canopy carefully.

“Yes, alright already,” says Amy. “The boys up the mick joint are getting…um…er… rodgered!”

“Apparently,” says Lillian.

The waiter looks shocked, he backs away with his tray in front of him like a shield.

“Thank goodness we’re not going to the Mick joint?”

“No.”

“Thank God!” says Lillian. “I wasn’t at all sure I was up for all that suffering.”

Lillian whistles another drink waiter who is standing a fair distance away with his flutes of alcohol sparkling in the sun. She then fully mimes her desire for 2 champagnes. The waiter wanders over confused seeking out an explanation from Lillian. When he gets close enough, Lillian takes 2 flutes with her manicured fingers. Same silent lion’s roar face as thank you.

“And that is only the alter boys,” says Lillian.

“Boom, boom,” they both say together.

The waiter offers a drink to Amy. “Scott,” she says. “Aren’t you Scott from the bar the other night?”

“Yes, I moon light as a waiter.”

“Grrrrrr,” says Lillian to Scott.

“Oh… I remember.” Scott backs away with his drinks tray.



“So which one of these temples of indoctrination did Penny and Stephen decide on?” asks Lillian. She is looking at her order of service trying to make sense of it.

“Oh Lillian, they are your relatives,” says Amy. “I’m only your plus one.”

“That is not something I always admit to in polite company,” says Lillian. “The Barington-Smythes.”

“Said just barely cloaking your loathing and contempt.”

“Was I cloaking my contempt,” says Lillian. “I wasn’t meaning to.”

“It’s his mother’s church,” says Amy. “Stephen’s” Amy shrugs. “Apparently.” Amy always knows how everything fits together, she always knows the detail.

“Stupid girl that Penny,” says Lillian. “Try to tell me how things are going to be run.”

“Stephen is her husband now.”

“Not yet.”

“Lillian what are you up to?”

“Oh nothing. I’m not up to anything,” says Lillian.

“Lillian Smythe, boy and man, how long have I known you, what are you up to?”

“Oh, don’t be so stupid,” says Lillian. “The sooner this travesty is over, the better.



It is indicated the people should take their seats, the service is about to begin.

Amy and Lillian make their way to the front door. They are at the door, being greeted by the priest. Lillian turns back into the sun, just as her head passes under the doorway arch and says, “Did this dump have a name?”

“St Barnabus Church.”

“So, one of the lesser saints,” says Lillian. “Doesn’t bode well.”

“I’m sure he was just as popular as all the other saints…”

“I’m sure we should have a MRI of your head,” says Lillian. “All made up. There has been marketing departments since the year 100BCE.”



Stephen is standing nervously up the front with his 2 grooms men.

“He’s going to have a long wait, if he is starting this early,” says Lillian.

“Don’t want to let her get away.”

“Nice looking boy,” says Lillian. “He looks sturdy enough to produce healthy babies.”

“That’s what it’s all really about, isn’t it?” says Amy.

“Baby making.”

120 year old Grandma Tito is in the central position in the church. Everybody is going up to her and kissing her rings, which she holds out flat in front of her.

Lillian passes by Grand Ma Tito. Lillian does the silent lion’s roar face at grandma, after which grandma says, “You. You.” Grandma points in Lillian’s direction.

“Good to see you up and about grandma,” says Lillian.

Lillian turns to Amy. “Oh, just die, already, you old, old bitch.”

Simon is in the second row, with another handsome young man.

“I hear that Simon has been down the fire station getting… um… er… serviced by… the… um…er…”

“Fireman?” asks Lillian. “I’m told it is a secret hose fetish.”

“So you’ve already heard and I don’t have to feel bad breaking a confidence.”

“I’ve wondered if he’d consider double dating,” says Lillian.

Lillian’s brother, Reggie is there with Big Birtha. “Reggie.”

“Faylene.”

Amy looks at Lillian. “Don’t ask,” says Lillian.

Macko had an early bail hearing and he just made it in time. Lillian made the silent lion’s roar face to him too. Macko visibly shakes at seeing Lillian.

Charlie’s brother, Harry, is there, sitting with their parent’s Olive and Selby in the second row on the other side of the church.

Josie Jahooverwatsit is there with her personal trainer husband Mike. He is a friend of Stephen’s, they are sitting next to Selby, Olive and Harry.

Lillian sits behind Simon. “Darling,” says Lillian.

“Auntie Lillian this is Blake, Blake this is Auntie Lillian…”

“You can just call me Lillian, darling,” says Lillian in a husky tone.

“And Amy.”

“Lillian. Amy,” Blake says with all the confidence of two people.

“How do you do,” gushes Lillian, croaky and low.

“Pleased to meet you both, I am sure,” says Blake.

“So are you two… you know…”

Simon tilts his head sideways in question

“Is he your current…”

“Current?” quizzes Simon.

“Squeeze, darling,” says Lillian. “The one that is making sure your cherry doesn’t grow back?”

“Aunt Lillian!” Most of the congregation looks around.

“Is all I am asking,” simpers Lillian. “He’s rather handsome.”

“He is,” gushes Simon with all the attitude of a young girl in love.

Some more relatives enter the church, Simon’s attention is distracted else where it is just about to begin.

Lillian looks at Amy then she points to Simon with her chin. “He’d take it like a chook, babe,” says Lillian. “Total pillow biter, he reminds me of your brother.”

“My brother?” exclaims Amy. “My brother is married with a wife and children.”

“Oh damn,” says Lillian. “I’ve nearly done that on so many occasions, who’d have figured today would be the, actual, day…”

“What are you saying about my brother?”

“Nothing, darling,” says Lillian. “I misspoke.”



“Thank you ladies and gentlemen, if you could take your seats.”

The church has filled up. “Not bad,” says Lillian to Amy. “You’d hate to die tragically young and then have nobody being bothered to turn up at your show to say goodbye.”

“It’s your fault he is in the mess he is in today.”

“Darling.” Lillian had to subdue a throaty laugh. “It is just natural selection working at its very finest.



“So if any man…”

Lillian first coughs with the tickle in her throat.

“Knows of a reason…”

Lillian coughs some more as if the tickle just isn’t going away.

“Why this man…”

Lillian coughs as though she may really be struggling with what ails her.

“Or this… woman…”

Lillian is coughing like the cough isn’t going away.

“Should not be joined in marriage.

Lillian now sounds like she is coughing up a lung, struggling for breath. She has turned scarlet and people are suddenly rushing to her aid.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I think we may need to stop the service at this point to attend to Mrs Lillian Barrington-Smythe.” The service was stopped and people came to Lillian’s aid.



Standing out the front of the church. A string quartet plays. “Ruined, but not quite,” says Lillian. She clicks at Scotty to bring champagne to them.

“Four years at RADA,” says Amy. “People forget.”

“That was the I-didn’t-know-what-to-do-with-myself phase,” says Lillian. “I still got my degree, though.”

Scotty offers a flute to Amy.

“Not ruined completely, but left to hang as a bloody rag in the memory of the special day,” says Lillian. “Penny is a witch. She led that rabble against mother’s will. You can’t blame me, I am only thinking of my children.”

Scotty offers Lillian a flute of champagne.

“I was imagining your cock caught in my throat the whole time, Scotty.”

“Oh, Jesus!” Scotty makes retching sounds. “Can you please just stop talking to me?” He backs away.

Amy And Lillian Hunt Down The Gossip

Lillian takes two Panadol out of the packet and proceeds to look for a glass to get water to wash them down.

“Don’t think I don’t know who’s been spreading gossip about me. After all the nice things I’ve said about…” Lillian looks at Amy. “When I get hold of her, I’ll tear out every hair of her… moustache!”

Lillian looks in the cupboard but there aren’t any clean glasses.

“I hope you don’t mean me?” says Amy.

Lillian finally picks up half a glass of wine left over from the night before.

“Depends,” says Lillian. “What have you been saying?”

“Saying? I don’t know what you mean?”

Lillian lifts the wine glass to her mouth and washes the Panadol down.

“Someone has being saying that I took the money, again.”

“Who’s been saying that?”

“That is what I am asking?”

“Me? I hope you aren’t saying it was me?”

“I’m just trying to get to the bottom of it.”

“But, you did take the money.”

“Yes, yes,” says Lillian exasperated. “I’m just trying to find out who knows about it?”

“Oh, who knows about it?” says Amy. “Nephew Charlie knows about it.”

“Nephew Charlie?”

“Yes, Nephew Charlie.”

“Who says Nephew Charlie knows about it?”

“Nephew Charlie.”

“Nephew Charlie?”

“That’s who says he knows about it.”

“Nephew Charlie says he knows about it?”

“Yes, Grandma Tito confided in him, that she knows what you were up to,” says Amy. “But it is now up to everyone else to fight you, as she is to old and tired, or some nonsense.”

“Nephew Charlie, why that little rat!” says Lillian.

“Does Tito have a current competency test?”

“How she passes competency tests is anyone’s guess,” says Lillian.

“Well, she must answer the majority of the questions correctly…”

“She still goes to old Doc Burns…”

“He must be 100…”

“102,” says Lillian. “That’s how she does it, they had a thing when they were teenagers, Doc Burns still sees the 18 year old he once knew.”



Lillian picks up her phone. She dials. “Reggie?... It’s…err…. um Faylene.”

“Faylene?” Amy questions out loud.

“You still in contact with Rupert?... He still in the same line of business?... excellent… Yes… Two on the nose?... Yes, I’ll pass the information on that way… Lovely, Reggie, yes, we must catch up soon… yes, it’s been too long… Denis… no… no… nothing anyone can do.”

Lillian pushes end on her phone.

“Faylene?” questions Amy.

Lillian pulls what looks like a hand rolled cigarette from her handbag, she puts it in her mouth. She flicks the lighter. The cigarette doesn’t light. She stops momentarily. “Don’t questioned me.” She flicks the lighter again, the cigarette lights. She inhales and then exhales a cloud of cigarette smoke.



Lillian and Amy are seated in the front pews of a church.

Lillian has Adele hair. “Yes, I said just make me look like that fat singer,” says Lillian. “And this is what I got.” Lillian has over-sized black sunglasses and a fascinator in her voluminous blonde hair.

Amy had on oversized tortoise shell sunglasses, he hair is in her usual all-one-length-bob.

They each have a cigarette in their hands.

“How was I to know that the brat had a heart condition?” says Lillian.

“Wasn’t he the delicate one?” says Amy. “Wasn’t he the one to whom they always referred to as delicate?”

“Oh yes, but what is delicate, Amy? What does delicate mean?” says Lillian. “It says malingerer, in my book, that’s what it says.”

“Fragile, I would have thought.”

“It’s not my fault…”

“I heard you on the phone, dear,” said Amy. “Two on the nose, you said, two on the nose.”

“Oh, yes, that… err… that was my tips for the Melbourne Cup.”

“In July?”



“Ladies and gentlemen, we are gathered here today to celebrate the short life of Charlie Hunter Ziegfried Starman Barrington-Smythe, after his unfortunate accident with a … err… combine harvester.”

Amy looks over the top of her glasses at Lillian.

“After they said boo, he fainted and fell into a… err… combine harvester… um… ah… allegedly,” Lillian says. She grimaces, she can feel the creases in her face.

There is one sermon, by Father Bob, and seemingly, never ending testimonials. The service goes well over an hour and well over time. The next funeral’s hearse is doing laps of the drive in drive out driveway, it appears passed the large side windows at regular intervals.

“Have you got your solid silver nip flask strapped to your inner thigh still?”

“Lillian, I never,” says Amy.



Amy and Lillian are finally standing on the front porch of the church in the morning sun. The “other side” of the family aren’t happy with what has gone down, and they are just firing a warning shot not to come looking for them.

Three masked men in hoodies. I guess this would be a good juncture to give you a few facts.

“Watch ya back, Missy,” says Grandma Tito, watch your back.”

“What was that all about?” asks Amy.

“Just my family’s insanity bubbling to the fore,” says Lillian.

As young girls there wasn’t so much to do around the Burlington-Smythe, Regis-Porter mansions, as their husbands took up CEO postings of large corporations, not a lot for two high spirited young ladies to do, so they took up martial arts. They are, in fact, grand champions of the ancient art of Tong Do.

“That was a breeze,” said Lillian when they got their first belt.

“Shall we continue,” asked Amy.

“Let’s shall,” says Lillian. “I’d miss it anyway.”

So they studied and progresses to the most qualified female Tong Do Grand Masters. Stay at home mums, they needed something to fill their days.

“Ah! Ah! take that every bastard man that ripped me off,” says Amy. She throws a fast right and a hook left.

“Steady on, Mohammad,” says Lillian.

It has been a while since either of them “shook a leg” but, it was another one of those things like bike riding.

The three thugs came at the two, say we say mature aged, ladies in the car park of the church, down the back by the big oak tree, the place bad kids would go to smoke, if in fact, St Aloysius had any bad kids. Our two gals hitch up their skirts and take up the praying mantis position, from there, apparently, it was pure poetry. Amy spun, upward leg kick. Lillian let out a guttural growl and then let fly with the lethal back hander, she was known for, then the point of a stiletto,

“Right in his “bung hole,” says Lillian.

“He’ll be lucky to be walking in a week,” says Amy.

Kick, punch, the last guy standing is flattened by both of our gals, with two deftly landed helicopters. The three thugs are flat on their backs within seconds, never really quite knowing what hit them. They were still out cold when the cops arrive.

“They are all yours, boys,” says Lillian.

“What?” The copper rubs his head. “What happened here?”

“I have no idea,” says Lillian graciously. “Just your regular mugging, I should suspect.”

“In a church car park,” says the big burly copper. “What happened to them?”

“A girl’s go to know how to defend herself in these difficult times, officer,” says Lillian. She batted her eyes. “I’m sure you could defend a girl.”

The second, younger, more muscular, but red-haired, copper and one of the thugs, approach. The thug seems to have a bad limp, the second copper is holding him by his wrists, secured behind his back.

“Macko we need to take a statement.”

“I just, I just,” says Macko. The second police officer walks him too close to Lillian, and he recoils and puts his hands over his arse.”

“Grrrrrr!” says Lillian.

“Keep her away from me.”



Lillian’s phone rings. “Heelllooo,” says Lillian in a deep, low voice. “Reggie … Reggie … Reggie … Reggie …” her voice sharpens off to a grunt. “Family… Reggie… What is done, is done… Double cross? …family, Reggie, does for family?… It’s all been a big misunderstanding… And if you do, next time, I will kill you… me… oh Reggie.” Lillian laughs. “Vendetta is such a ugly word.”

“I need a drink,” says Lillian. “He was saying very ugly things about me, darling.”

“That you got your mother to leave her entire 100 million dollar fortune just to you?”

“Yes, precisely,” says Lillian and quite frankly the less people who know about that, the better.”

“But, that is true, darling. Isn’t it?”

“So, I got mama to leave everything to me, I was, am her only daughter, after all.”

“But she was going to leave it to you and your brothers and their families,” says Amy. “She said there was more than enough for you all to share equally.”

“So, I remind mum’ont, that I was her, wery, wery favourite,” says Lillian. “I was the only girl,” Lillian’s voice became shrill. “I was mummies favourite.”

“What about all her grandchildren?”

“The boys worked in the family business,” says Lillian. “That made them all rich, what do they want?”

“They want their family inheritance, for their children.”

“Let them eat cake,” says Lillian in a breathy voice. “It’s mine and I am not giving it up.”

“There was enough for everyone.”


“I had to be sure,” says Lillian. “What would I do if I ran out? I’d have no one. I had to be sure I’d be okay.”

“And are you?”

“Oh, yes, very much sweetie.”