Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer 

(This piece was written in July 2012)

 I met my husband late in life.

Not ‘late’ like ‘I’m-cashing-pension-cheques’ late. But late as in my reproductive clock has ticked over into Struggle Street.

I met him when I was 36. We married when I was 37. We got pregnant when I was 38 and then I actually started to feel old. Up to this point in my life getting older had never bothered me. No, I embraced it! I was happy to be done with my teenage angst, delighted to take life’s lessons in my 20s and ready to apply those lessons in my 30s.

Now I’m 40 and I’ve had four miscarriages in two years for no other reason aside from my age and bad luck.

When I was in my 30s and looking for love a girlfriend of mine said (over many a glass of red wine while we were seated at the singles table of the wedding of another friend), “Kimmy it’s just a numbers game”. Which roughly equates to “You’ve got to kiss a lot of frogs to find your prince.”

She was right. In the last few years I had struggled through 20 or so online dates before I finally met James. And I was only using the site for dating practice. I wasn’t even remotely committed to actual commitment with someone I met online. Not remotely.

But life’s funny like that. All that practice led me to the perfect fit. I played the numbers game and won a husband.

I mention this because that’s how I see this baby-making caper. It’s a numbers game. I’m a text-book mature-age want-to-be mother. I’m a statistic. A number. A percentage. Now that I’m ticking the next box in the age bracket my odds have gotten even longer.

And yet I’m hopeful. I simply believe. My husband and I are awesome people, with an awesome life that we love and into this life of awesomeness we will bring a baby or two (at this point I’ll settle for one, but he’s even more hopeful than me!).

I just need to manage my patience until the numbers swing my way.

Patience has never been a strong suit of mine. I was smoking behind the shelter shed the day they taught that in school. But, sometimes life makes you wait.

I waited the obligatory 12 weeks before having the obligatory 12-week scan at which point we discovered we had an eight-week-old dead foetus instead of a first trimester baby. Bugger.

Even though I was vaguely prepared for this (I knew the numbers were stacked) it still didn’t register when the nurse asked me to be specific about my dates because it seemed ‘a bit small’ for 12 weeks. So I had to have an internal scan (a delightful experience where you get a wand up your lady bits) to be sure the ‘a bit small’ was in fact, a bit dead. When we confirmed this fact the nurse said she’d leave us alone to ‘process’. I asked “Why?” because all I really wanted to know was what to do next. I had this lifeless thing not growing inside me. What does one do with that?

I had to go to my GP (I didn’t have one); I had to visit my obstetrician (I had one booked but we were yet to meet); I had to call work (I decided I needed two weeks to recover when I actually just wanted a free holiday).

So while I was in project commando mode, my gorgeous soft-in-the-middle husband had to process through this reality. He wasn’t quite as prepared for it as I was. We’d started calling this baby by it’s name. We’d talked about how we’d rearrange the house to accommodate and he’d been annoyingly vigilant about my alcohol intake (bastard).

But he put his feelings to one side and supported me 100% through my pragmatic approach to this wee conundrum. Bless him.

Two days after the scan we were up at 4am to be at the hospital for 5am. I had the added joy of having to have a suppository three hours prior to the procedure to soften my cervix (can’t remember the name of it, just that my cervix was clearly being as stoic as I was about the situation). Nil by mouth meant I was parched and hungry by 8am. I wasn’t allowed to move once the suppository had been inserted. So I was feeling pretty sorry for myself by this point and just wanted the whole thing over. What a palaver.

My darling husband sat patiently beside me the whole morning while we waited for me to go into surgery. He was the epitome of supportive. He didn’t talk unless I wanted to. He didn’t expect me to behave or act in any way in particular. He just was. Which was the opposite of how he behaved some years before when I was recovering from root canal, but that’s another story.

No, he was terrific. In fact, we’d been married for less than six months at this point and I fell in love with him all over again during this, our first miscarriage, together.

At 9am they finally summoned me to the operating theatre where all I remember is how fucking cold it was. That and that it was 9.10 when I lost consciousness and 9.45 when I woke up. Short and sweet. Actually, not so sweet really. The anaesthetic wore off pretty quickly and suddenly I was in a world of pain. “It’ll feel just like a bad period” my arse. I had so much pain I couldn’t lie still. The cramping was horrendous. Hearing my complaints the nurse tried to give me panadol. “Are you serious?!”, I screeched. “Get me the good stuff. Now!” Suddenly this whole miscarriage thing was making me angry. I did not expect the pain. Thankfully, now that I’ve been around the block more than once, I know that this level of pain is not normal. It was just not well-managed during this first procedure.

After some more screeching from me, and some signing of serious paperwork by my husband, I was allowed some of the good drugs and I drifted off into a lovely hazy slumber. I woke to Ellen on the TV and my husband sitting in the chair beside me – still. And then we were allowed to go home. Yay. Let the holiday begin.

In between pregnancy one and pregnancy two I was offered a fab new job in another state, so getting pregnant again meant getting acquainted with a whole new medical team.

I discovered we were pregnant again in the first week of the new job. Great. I hadn’t particularly bonded with any of my new office buddies so this was going to have to stay under wraps. Oh, that and I was suddenly a non-drinker. Try that one on when you work in PR!

Rather than wait it out and wonder we opted to have our first scan at the eight-week mark this time. The scan showed a 7-week foetus instead of an 8-week foetus but it was seemingly viable so we were advised to have another scan in a week. Not quite the ‘high five’ I was looking for, but we took it positively, none-the-less.

Within the week it was clear that pregnancy two, or P2 (I’ll start abbreviating for ease of reading shall I?), was going the same way as P1. Damn. I had some planning to do. Thank you baby Jesus for Christmas. To the surprise of my obstetrician I put off the procedure (technically a dilation and curettage) until I could break for a two-week holiday and have none of my new colleagues any the wiser. Happy days.

Ironically, for an atheist, I also have baby Jesus to thank for P3. We conceived in Tassie in a gorgeous stow-away apartment during our Easter holiday and while we were well-pleased with ourselves, twice shy by now, we were also naturally cautious.

Six weeks later we visited our lovely obstetrician again and the three of us held our breath and crossed our fingers as she did the scan.

Strike three. No heartbeat.

Off we go again for an early morning hospital admittance and form signing. By this stage I’m an old pro and just coast through it all, chatting to others in recovery as we come to. I even ask the nurses what’s in the sandwiches today because I want to avoid the weird tasting fish paste option this time.

I take another couple of completely unnecessary weeks off work and strike up another missed miscarriage. That’s what they call it, when you have no symptoms – a missed miscarriage. Like, ‘Oops, I missed my miscarriage. How did I do that? I’m sure I wrote it in my diary. I just missed it.’ Do they have a belated greeting card for that?

By now my quietly caring husband is getting a bit frustrated. Neither of us really expected that it would be this hard. It had taken all the joy out of planning for a baby. It’s true, if planned baby-making sex doesn’t dial down the romance then consecutive failed pregnancies will.

On the bright side, having three meant we were elevated to ‘recurrent miscarriage’ status which means that the medicos will investigate. Hurrah, thought I. We’ll get some answers. We’ll stop the leaky tap. We’ll replace the flat tyre. We’ll add more salt to the recipe. Alas, the investigations showed nothing more than a Vitamin D deficiency for me and that my husband’s batting average was pretty good (ask him to explain).

I now have two specialists in my medical ensemble – which is quite a lot for someone who’s never had a regular GP. I have a fabulous fertility doctor (which is queer because we don’t have trouble getting pregnant) who instantly bonded with my husband the minute he pulled out the Star Wars reference of ‘stay on target’. We loved him immediately.

I find out we’re pregnant with number four (P4) the same week my job (you know, the one we moved states for) is made redundant. This actually pleases me because I realise I’ll have all the time in the world to be either pregnant or recover from not being pregnant. Seriously. That’s how my brain works.

Because I’ve told you the ending at the beginning of this story you already know that P4 ends the same way that the first three did.

Me and Kim’s baby Eddie Rose concieved just after coming to GunnasI’d be lying if I said I wasn’t looking forward to it this time though. I mean, sure, it’s a shit thing to go through, but the legal drugs are fabulous.

Last week we actually had a counselling appointment with an IVF clinic, which I’d put off until after a US holiday and my 40^th birthday dinner – do you see where my head is at? Mr Star Wars doesn’t necessarily recommend IVF for us but pre-genetic testing will increase our odds of a viable embryo. It’s still no guarantee. Neither of us has particularly embraced the whole IVF thing. Don’t get me wrong. Science is a grand thing and I’m fully aware that I have limited years left to roll this dice – I’m just not ready to roll them down that route yet.

I’m not prepared to tie myself up in knots with fear and anxiety and financial investment every month to make that work. That’s just not how I operate. And to be honest I really don’t think that’s in our best interests either. I’m not religious. Some might call me an atheist (or if they’re generous, a heathen). But I do have faith. I believe our family will happen exactly when it’s meant to. And while I wait, patiently I’m going to be getting on with my life.

I hope the next time you read something from me on this topic it’ll be all sunshine and light about how P5 has turned out into a – you know – actual baby. But you know what? It might not be. I might have a few more numbers left in this game yet.

You can connect with Kim’s cheeky side at https://twitter.com/kim_cowen or her rent-paying professional side at http://www.linkedin.com/in/kimcowen . One day soon she’ll roll all this sparkling wit into a blog with real stories and stuff.

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer

My smallest person said to me yesterday, “If my life is a dream, then this is a really long night.”

I keep waiting to wake up from my really long night.  Or to wake up and not feel that my heart has been ripped from my chest.  Grief is an inconvenient emotion.  No one really wants to hear about someone else’s pain – not real, raw, just-make-it-stop pain.  It’s unsociable, doesn’t want to be tamed.  I once watched my sister, the bravest person I know, cry for two hours while she waited for pain medication.  For two hours, I held her hand and said relief was coming soon.  But I do not know how far away soon is for me.

Every day my heart is a little more tattered.  One of my queeny friends used to tell me, “Honey, you don’t just wear your heart on your sleeve; you wear ALL your internal organs on your sleeve.”  So sometimes now I think of my large intestine dripping its disgusting contents down my arm.  I wish I were otherwise, but I am not.  I have always been thus.

I blame my parents.  They love me so much and have for so long that I find it incomprehensible he could not.  I come from a long line of people who love fierce and forever.  When I said, “with my body I thee worship”, I meant it.  I am sorry he didn’t know some of that worship would be the times when my body was taken up with little people.  How did he not know I loved him, underneath the daily stupidity?

Nearly every night now feels like the first night of the rest of a really long life I never imagined, a dream without a waking: the first night he told me about her, the first night after I asked him to move out, the first night that the children were not with me.  I am still waiting for the first night I do not miss him.

Already I miss the security of being with him.   And not in some plain vanilla (though vanilla is the most complex of flavours) sort of way.  Always, I was so open.  Again, I think my parents warped me.  The childhood lesson I took from my mother’s extensive lingerie collection and the naughty things I found in the back of my parents’ closet was, once married, you were free to get your kink on.  Even in a good Lutheran home.  I have been with him in ways that still amaze me.  To be that vulnerable ever again terrifies me.  But I still want to be turned inside out by sex. I have loved being so totally inside my body, feeling so totally myself yet not.  I want that again.

He has pushed me out of his heart ad given his body to someone else.  They tell me it happens all the time.  But my heart is still beating outside its bony cage, and my internal organs are an unsightly mess here on my sleeve.  I want nothing more than not to want him. To unlove him, as I have loved him, fierce and forever.

My twitter is @StedgeTanya.

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer

Once upon a time there was a very unusual family led by a giant. This giant had an uncle of average height and a nephew (from his sister) who was tiny. These three lived a life of strange misadventure – break ups, meltdowns and backlash followed.

They lived in a time when life was difficult.

Everyday they would rise early to work hard at jobs that were physically exhausting and extremely low paid. They dreamed of a better life as most did in London in the 1900s. One day, Charles Wendt, known by all who knew him as Charles the Great, decided he had had enough of the back breaking jobs and wanted a life filled with colour and joy.  He decided that his only chance was to follow his boy hood dream of joining the circus. He convinced his uncle, Archibald Wendt and his nephew Harry to join him.

Because of that decision the trio set off on an adventure that could never have been for seen. They would remain together until the day they died. Until finally this story could be told – so sit back, relax and get yourself ready to listen to a story of great love and loss.

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer

My husband is really pissed off with my parents…like REALLY pissed off. He is so pissed off that he can’t stop talking to people about how pissed off he is. He talked to his boss about what they did that has so pissed him off. She validated his feelings.  He told his Mum. He rang her over in Adelaide to tell her. She tried to avoid validating his feelings, instead she tried to rationalise the behaviour of my parents.  He was so pissed off he disallowed her rationalisation.  He brought her around to empathising with his position, even though she has her own problems.

He was so pissed off with my parents that I could not comfort him.  I’ve been there so many times and my anger has shifted to resignation and a motivation to change things to prevent the behaviour from occurring again, or at least from having an adverse impact on me and my family. This is routine for me, he knows that, so he knows is validated by me, besides which, my actions in response to this most recent episode showed him.  It doesn’t always work, sometimes I get really pissed off too, but it’s no use.

But what hurts me now is to see how affected he is and how it has produced such a negative response in him that affects everything and everyone around him.

“That’s what happens to me”, I thought.

“He has watched me go through the exact same process so many times”, I thought.

“How painful this is to watch and feel”, I thought.

He screamed at the kids, made each girl cry. He said they had driven him to it.  I had to tell him, “My parents are pissing you off, not the kids”.  Because I know. And he didn’t disagree.

“He has told me that before himself”, I thought.

“He must be feeling terrible at that realisation”, I thought. “I did too”.

He cuddled and apologised to each of the girls and told them it wasn’t their fault and that he loved them.

“I’ve done that many times too”, I thought.

“He must feel awful”, I thought.

But the girls embraced him and accepted his apology and showed him the unconditional love they have for him and I know it will melt his pain.

“He must feel wonderful now”, I thought.

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer

Let me tell you a joke.

It’s 1973 and the world’s a different place. As no one had air-conditioning, summers seemed hotter and longer. Late at night, groans could be heard echoing around the suburbs, as the test pattern signalled the end of television for the evening. We’d now have to wait until morning to watch shows, which somehow were even more crap than what had been shown the previous day. Blokes were called Bazza and seatbelts were still perceived to be for wimps only.

In comparison to now, it seemed simple, or even a strange time. I bet you something though. There were a lot stranger things going on and unfortunately for me, they were happening under my roof.

Mum and dad were splitting up and had decided to sell the house. No big deal, right? Well, it was back then, as divorces were rare amongst my friends. Most parents I knew had been together for years. Mind you, they probably detested each other, but they certainly kept their misery private and carried on.

Okay, so the splitting up may have been a bit hard, but something more stressful was going on. Mum had officially become strange. I don’t know if there’s an exact moment when someone has lost their rocker, but the giveaway for me is when she started talking to herself. This may not seem too odd, but I can assure you it was, as she answered in a different voice, whilst being alone in a room.

As young child, I thought she was just going through a phase. A little odd, but was going to be okay the following morning. The next day of normality never arrived though and she would frequently become, what my siblings used to call, ‘mad’. How else would one explain your mother screaming at people in the street, accusing them of having followed her for over 40 years from another country? How else would you explain her talking in different voices, before launching into a screaming tirade? This solo scream-fest would always conclude with her opening and slamming shut the thick, wooden rear door, over and over again, causing the house to shudder.

Even through all of this repetitive behaviour, I still thought she would one day be okay, but until then, I learned to hide when she was ‘mad’. It was still what I’d call an internal family drama, as no one, including friends, knew what was going on.

During the lazy summer of 1973, this hidden drama began to seep out of our bland, suburban walls. It’s pretty easy to pinpoint the exact moment as well.

Our house sat on a busy highway and I could see the premises as I walked home from school. The ‘For Sale’ sign was easily visible from some distance. No problem, right? Well, yes, no problem, except one day the word ‘JOKE’ had been written in massive, black letters on the sign.

Huh? Who would do that? I had some suspects. My brother was living a last man standing, rough and tumble teenage lifestyle, which involved frequent fights with local kids and generally just upsetting everyone. He certainly may have disturbed one local too many.

Dad though, was just plain old confused and I guess he wasn’t the only one. Hell, it confused my world of friends, as kids would approach me at school saying, “Why is ‘joke’ written on the sign outside your house?” The best answer I could give was a very vigorous shoulder shrug.

Life continued on and the sign stood with the thick, black paint scrawled across it for a few weeks. I felt uneasy and ashamed to enter the driveway, as I imagined people looking at our house, which was suddenly the centre of attention. This was the exact opposite of how I wanted to live.

Things never seemed normal, but eventually when the sign was changed for another, I believed things were looking a little brighter.

It’s said you only remember moments from the past, which are significant. If that’s the case, what happened next must have been important, as I clearly recall it, even though it occurred 40 years ago. I could also say another thing. Be careful about what you view, as the sight can’t be removed from your memory and can linger for a lifetime.

Late afternoon, I was standing in the lounge-room, aimlessly staring out into the front yard. In my languid state, I really didn’t take notice as mum walked up the driveway towards the highway. She was out of view for a moment, before suddenly heading back into my sight. Now I was intrigued.

Returning down the wide, gravel path, she was bolt upright with a stern face staring straight ahead and purposeful stride in her step. Down by her side, something was held in her hand. What could it be? Quickly switching to another window, I only had a glimpse of what she was holding, but a momentary view is all I needed. It was an open tin of black paint with a brush protruding.

Damn I wished I hadn’t looked out the window that day. What I’d wished for mum was gone in a handful of seconds. I wanted her to be normal, as all the other mothers of my friends I’d met, but it wasn’t to be. From that moment it struck me she was gone and was never going to return from the alternative world she lived in her mind.

Remember the start? What was the joke? I’ve no idea, but I didn’t have to look far, as once again the new sign had that familiar word scrawled on it as before. ‘JOKE’.

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer

The smell was as always, that aroma of sunscreen and fly repellent.  The sounds were the same, tea trees bending and creaking in the sea breeze and the sharp snapping sound they made as they broke under foot.  Slow trekking along a narrow, shady and sandy trail, hearing the sound of fellow trekkers wearing their thongs and the smack as they hit the soles of their feet.

I can hear the occasional gull and the odd crashing sound of a wave in the distance and can sense the anticipation of fun as I see a boy getting closer to the clearing.  He does not know that he is being watched and I am enjoying my moment of quiet study, wondering what might be going through his mind, as he gets closer to the beach.

We find ourselves on an outcrop of reeds and sand and are presented with the majesty of a beach, late in the morning.  The sun’s warmth is perfect and the sand is so white and soft and tickles between the toes.

We stop and gather together to select our spot from our small cliffy outlook and the tide is out.  Gulls are swooping through the surf, desperately trying to catch a fish in the shallows while there are not many people in the water.  The darkened sand has only a few strands of seaweed and we decide on our place.

Slowly and carefully treading down the small descent we pace heavily through the dry, soft white sand as our feet sink deeply.  That beautiful calming rhythm of the waves becomes all too clear and soothing to hear, feeling like a gentle massage for the mind and the soul.

We find our place in the sand that thankfully is not too hot and we lie down on our towels and sink toes further into the sand in the hope of drifting away.

There is a plead and a hand out stretched and a calling for company at the shore.  No one’s steps are in line and the footprints are ramshackle as I look along the wet sand.  Small prints from feet accompanied with large.  Large footprints of those well travelled, guiding and taking control and showing the way, while the small footprints are mismatched and a mess.  Twisted steps that show excitement, wonder and uncertainty as they get closer to the water.  You can sense how tightly the hand grip must be of that precious young child, clutching to their elder as they get closer to the roar of the sea.

The crashing of the waves and the sea becomes more and more demanding, beckoning all new comers with impatience and rumbling, toppling on top of itself to gain attention.

It was not so much a fear that held the little boy back, but more an inquisitiveness.  He stood as tall as he could on his tip toes to see out further, stretching his neck in an attempt to see over the crashing waves and spotted a small group of men on surf boards, lying on their stomachs, drifting up and down with the swell of the sea.  He wished he could be there.  He dreamt of the courage to fight the anger of the white foam and to be there with them, they looked to be at peace.

Out in that isolated place, it was a time to be at peace.  As much as the squeals of the children on the shore could be heard, it was a world away and a place that was not a concern for them.  Here, there were no rules, there were no responsibilities, there were no requirements, the only requirement that they had to follow, was watch the swell and obey the sea.

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer

My fear of flying has come on with a vengeance and I am scared that I will never be able to get on a plane again. It consumes my thoughts almost daily.

I am trying to have a goal of flying somewhere this year.  Last year I went to see Mr Professional who deals in fear of flying and even though I found it to be extremely useful, I still couldn’t get up in the freakin air.

Looking back on my last session now, I can find some humour in it, though at the time it was terrifying and nerve racking. Maybe I could turn my last experience into a funny story to share with people and be able to laugh at myself but I would still prefer to be able to tell people that I was successful in getting on that plane……Oh wait, I DID get on that plane.  Mr Professional and I decided that the shortest flight I could do would be 45 minutes to Launceston and given the fact that it was over water, I would have to get back as well.

It was a stormy and windy day and the wind gusts blew us into the plane, feeling panic stricken I made my way to my seat, sat down and started plotting my escape! Mr Professional said I can do this, but I decided no I can’t do this, got out of my seat and went up to the cabin manager just before the doors were closing.

She tried everything to get me to stay on board but I had to bail. Probably one of the more humiliating moments of my life and once off the plane, my panic is turning into anger, sadness and just being down right pissed off with myself thinking what a bloody loser I am.

Not only had I let myself down, I feel I  let my family down who were all waiting for a phone call to see how I went, and there was  Mr Professional who was probably thinking, well this is a hard nut to crack. I had also just blown 2 plane tickets and a extended session for Mr Professional.

Where to from here, keep on trying and keep on trying until I succeed, have faith  that I WILL get to the South Island of New Zealand.  Remember that the brain can change the way it thinks with some hard work and dedication.

I can go through the black door, the longer the journey the sweeter the reward.  STAY TUNED

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer

Once upon a time, in the great Land of Oz, where the kangaroos and sometimes the people roam wild in the high paddocks, there was a benevolent and noble Queen. She was admired throughout the land; or at least throughout most of the ALP.

It was 2010. All the blokes and sheilas in the kingdom were free and prosperous. They were the lucky country, in part due to a treasure trove of rocks and minerals; a ravenous and increasingly wealthy neighbour; and the economic savvy to be the only country in the developed world that avoided a recession in the global financial crisis. Indeed, World Leaders had recognised the small kingdom as perhaps having “cracked globalisation’s secret code for prosperity.” *

Despite this prosperity, there was a palpable malaise that permeated the land. Some called it Affluenza. Others called it mere greed. Others called it a dislike for gingers. Or women.

Crisis was the word on everyone’s lips: Asian Financial Crisis, Subprime Mortgage Crisis, Global Financial Crisis. And soon the happy Australians became jealous of their friends around the world. Those places get all the attention from the important people, from the World Bank and the IMF to the Twitterati and Media. A latent angst began to develop amongst the population.

There was another group in the land who called themselves the Coalition. They had a voracious appetite for power, as is the won’t of political parties. They were not content to wait at least eight years for their turn in office, as had been the recent political convention in the kingdom.

Soon enough a clever group of political rabble-rousers from the Coalition began to scheme for power, led by the great Father Abbott. One day they met together and Father Abbott, supported by Sir Hockey, the Feminist, told their team “we haven’t had much to offer the Australian people for quite some time. They will not provide us with their vote (the great arbitrator of power) unless we can give offer up something that they desire. Let us consider what may be the subconscious desire within the people: what can we offer beyond unprecedented prosperity and social harmony?”

Not long after, Father Abbott and Sir Hockey were cheering along Frances Abbott the belle of the netball tournament, when the Eureka-moment hit: the people need a crisis! We all know crises bring people together. We unite against common foes. ‘Tis easier to speak to next-door neighbours once the dividing fence have been torn down by a tornado or the tides of the tsunami carry one’s kitchen table into their yard. Subjects will at least have something to speak of at the water cooler beyond the Footy and Miley Cyrus’s latest self-made scandal.

Abbott is a stellar sociologist.

He went back to the Coalition. “We must present the Citizens of Oz with a special Made-in-Australia crisis. We shall call it Fiscal Crisis” announced Abbott. “Hear, hear, wise leader” cried the team. “If the people remain unhappy in prosperity we shall serve them fear.”

From that day forward Father Abbott travelled throughout the land, visiting their town halls and teleporting into their living rooms, proclaiming his vision of Fiscal Crisis.

“But our great kingdom is perhaps the most prosperous in all the world!” the Ginger-Haired Queen cried. “Fiscal crisis means high debt! Our net debt-to-GDP ratio is less than 12%: dramatically lower than Canada’s 34%, Germany’s 57% and pennies compared to almost 88% in the United States. We have a triple-A credit rating and foreigners are flocking to our country to bring us their tribute of FDI!”

Father Abbot and Sir Hockey continued their incantation “We have a Fiscal Crisis! We have a Fiscal Crisis!”

Abbot is not a stellar economist.

The power of their cries, echoed by News Corp., proved too strong for Sir Swan, the Apparatchik, with only his numbers and statistics.

Indeed, the people loved the Coalition’s idea. “Finally we too have our very own crisis! ‘Tis an excellent excuse, among many, to oust the Red-Headed Wench who shames us for her womb that has never known a child and an honorific that has never known the enchanted letter R. We all know that among the Great Global Leaders, if one is not a Mr then one most certainly must be a Mrs.”

Anyway, she is often too busy charming the Chinese or battling Father Abbott in Parliament, that one imagines she has forgotten her loyal subjects.”

And so, on 7 Sept 2013 — with the prodding of the Great King of Doublethink Mr Rupert Murdoch, the Shock Jock media and the Flunkies of News Corp. — the people cast their votes of trust for Father Abbott and his cronies.

For many weeks there was great rejoicing in the land. As the people watched the great Liberal and National parties ride off together into the sunset they “thought, yes we now have our very own crisis. We are finally rid of the ones who would spoil our fun with talk of Climate Change, mining taxes and people with disabilities. We will trust these new leaders to address the great Fiscal Crisis that is proclaimed throughout the land. They will undo the bad policies of the previous leaders, and we will live happily ever after.”

Now, happily in the Lodge, all Father Abbott would need to do is maintain the illusion of Fiscal Crisis. For if anyone were to pull away the curtain and reveal the empty threat, he would face the wrath of the people.

*George Megalogenis, The Australian Moment

Stay tuned for

A FISCAL CRISIS FAIRY TALE PART 2: BEHIND THE CURTAIN

Twitter @notrocketscience