A yacht was moored in a gated marina in a wealthy waterside suburb.

Each day a girl appeared on deck and looked out to sea, briefly, then ducked back inside the cabin. She reappeared later with a mug. Then she surfaced with sopping handwashed clothes which she hung out along the shrouds. Then later again she could be seen with an open book that she was not reading.

No one visited the yacht, nor did she leave the marina. The winter sky produced rain and occasionally soft flurries of snow. A week passed.

One day a woman arrived, unloaded her car into one of the handcarts provided and trundled a load of food to the marina gate. She unlocked it with a pass code and closed it carefully behind her. She looked out to sea, briefly, then stopped in front of the yacht.

The girl looked up from the book she was pretending to read, then looked down again.

The woman boarded the yacht and grasped the girl’s chin with finger and thumb, forcing her to look up.   Their eyes met. The woman dropped her gaze, let go and retreated into the cabin. She restocked the food. The woman walked away past the neat rows of moored yachts, closing the gate carefully behind her and drove away.

The girl emerged from the cabin in her bikini, with a sealed dry bag over her arm. She walked to the gate over the marina entrance and slipped her fingers through the bars. She looked out to sea, briefly, then dove into the water. She reached the seawall with strong even strokes and pulled herself and the bag up onto the coping stones.

She rested and dried herself. And dressed, shivering, in a little dress and low heels, and a slender black coat. She walked away up the stairs leading to the park. She skirted the edge of the park and made for the fringe of the city in the distance.

The next day, the girl could be seen walking back through the park. She changed into her bikini under a low arched tree. She swam back to the marina and boarded the yacht.

There’s a number of enduring stereotypes about what a woman is or what a woman should be. Sweet, submissive, nurturing, self-sacrificing…small. While these stereotypes are gradually losing their power (hurrah!) they are still alive and well and living near you, particularly in the minds of anyone born before 1980. There are lots of ways that women everywhere challenge, or otherwise don’t fit into, these stereotype, but I’m going to talk about one. When you’re not smaller or weaker than your male counterparts.

I’m big. Not in the euphemistic sense that I’m carrying an extra 10 or 20 kilos, but really, really big. Like being 183cm (6 feet tall in the old money) and weighing in at over 90 kilos that consists mostly of muscle.

It’s an odd thing going through life as an unusually tall woman. Well, that is to say, I don’t really know that it’s that much stranger than going through life as any other sort of woman. I’ve been an unusually tall woman since I was about 14, when I finished a mammoth growth spurt that saw me grow 12 cm in two years. Suddenly people stared at me when I walked down the street and when I saw myself in photos I was no longer part of the crowd but standing head and shoulders above it.

So what happens when you challenge a gender stereotype in a way that is impossible to hide? After all it’s not like I can, say, smile sweetly and pretend not to have an opinion. Here are a few experiences that have happened to me purely as a result of my stature.

Some of these experiences are very funny. There was the office Christmas party when my boy pirate costume was just a little bit too convincing in the atmosphere of low lighting and freely flowing drinks. I’ve never before received so many glowing smiles from 20 something women just because I was making my way across the room. Sadly I don’t think I’ve received so many glowing smiles from eligible men (my drug of choice) while crossing a room before either. On the upside, apparently I make a pretty hot young bloke. I’m convinced that this will come in handy one day, I’m just waiting for the opportunity to unleash my secret weapon.

Also, people are fascinated by my footwear. Often it’s the “six foot scan”, which is where strangers look first at your face, then scan right down your body to check your shoes, then quickly look back at your face. The expression when they get back to my face can be anything from “oh right” to “holy shit”. Sometimes, it’s hard not to say “Boo!” when they get their eyes back up to my face, but I restrain myself. All I can say is, if you are a woman who is more than 175 cm tall make sure you’re always wearing fabulous shoes.

The other thing is that people feel quite within their rights to comment on my footwear. “You’re too tall to be wearing high heels” is a favourite. I’d love to know any short people who have been told they are too short to be wearing flat shoes. I once bent down and said sotto voce in the ear of some douche in a bar who thought he had a right to comment “that’s your problem not mine”.

And then, of course, there is the reaction of men to challenging the gender stereotype of the little woman. Men fall into three categories that are fairly equally represented.

The first category immediately want to conquer me, either sexually or otherwise. The sexual conquest route (no pun intended) is pretty obvious. The “otherwise” takes a number of forms, but usually involves the man in question taking instant and very heated exception to my very existence and then using every available opportunity to take me down a peg. These men are often of the school of thought that women are meant to be the weaker sex and therefore smaller. These guys usually have issues about their own height and like to be taller than other people because they think it’s some kind of manly achievement (don’t ask me why, it doesn’t make any sense to me either). It makes them positively incandescent with rage to find a woman is substantially taller than them. Call me shallow and mean, but on a good day I really enjoy watching these guys and their antics. It’s like watching a tiny dog jumping up and barking at a Great Dane. On a bad day I just want to disappear into myself so they will leave me alone.

The second category just can’t believe how tall I am and make constant references to it. Thankfully these ones can usually be discouraged by politely (or not so politely) asking them to stop banging on about it. It’s a genetic accident, buddy, not a lifestyle choice. I’m not getting shorter any time soon so can we move on please? How about those Rabbitohs, eh?

The third category either don’t even notice my height or don’t give a shit, god bless them. I love those guys.

How about you? Have you challenged a gender stereotype? Maybe you are an “aggressive” or “opinionated” woman or a man who is prepared to take time off work to raise his own offspring. There are multiple variations on the theme. If so, I bet you have had similar experienced to those I have listed above (OK, maybe not having young secretaries throw themselves at your feet, but you know what I mean). What those experiences do is to question whether you are “right” and whether you should change to make yourself acceptable to society. It’s easy for me. I can’t get any shorter even if I wanted to, so I have to just brush it off. You should too. Life would be very dull if we were all the same and no one should be able to tell you off simply for standing up for what you believe in or nurturing your own children, or whatever it does that has the wowsers in a lather. Challengers, I salute you! Keep up the good work! Wanna meet up for a coffee later? I promise to wear heels.

I never considered myself capable of running further than 200 metres, which was always my best effort at the school athletics carnival.

One day not so long ago, read early 50’s, I said to my partner “I can’t run because I get out of breath. I don’t know how anyone runs for a kilometre or more.” He said to me “why don’t you slow down?” What the fuck, the guy is a genius, it had never ever occurred to me. So I tried it, the “Cliff Young shuffle”. I must have looked hilarious, my kids came up with the name for my style. The weird thing is it worked and I ran further than I had ever been able to run in my life and even more amazing was that I actually enjoyed it. How bizarre.

And so it began. I started with walk/runs maybe running 50 metres then walking 100 and so on. An old crony from the Manly surf club had once told me that Manly to Queeensie and back was 3ks so I had a benchmark and slowly I built up to running all the way down and walking back, 1 ½ ks. I was so amazed that I could do it and actually used to brag to friends and family. I thought I was GI Jane.

I can’t really explain why I wanted to do it, maybe a “me too” thing because everyone in Manly wears lycra, runs, swims, surfs, cycles …. I was aging, a bit on the plump side (what a fabulous word) and probably suffering from FOMO (Fear of Missing Out) which has pretty much plagued me all my life.

Anyway, so whatever it was, I was somehow very happy to be able to call myself a “runner”. I was wearing running shoes that I’d owned since my feet stopped growing and shorts and T’shirts that went from gardening to lawn mowing to running, but I was a runner.

Just like FOREST I kept going a bit further each run and eventually had 5ks under control.

City to Surf, what an institution and inspiration in Sydney. I asked my 23 year old daughter to do it with me and we ran/walked the 14ks sharing an iPod and having quality ”mummy/daughter time” as she would say.

I can’t remember when I decided to spend some money on new shoes and proper running gear but somehow along the way I made a slight transition to looking less daggy and more like an athlete. Oddly enough this was a really good move because “look like an athlete – behave like an athlete” and I started to get more ambitious.

I took some advice from a work mate when I got a junk email about the SMH Half Marathon and he drew up a program to get me from the 0ks I was doing at the time to the 21 I needed to slog out. I cried when I crossed the finish line, not really believing I had done it. An unbelievable feeling of self-awesomeness and gratitude to have the good health to be able to do it.

From that run, I always call them runs not races, I decided to do a few more and bribed myself by choosing great places. Melbourne Half to visit a sister, Gold Coast Half to visit a friend, Perth Half to visit another friend, Port Douglas HALF because why not?

It was at Port Douglas that I found a stand promoting the New York Marathon. I never knew people outside the US could buy an entry into the race. The event was exactly 12 months away and I deliberated over Christmas and signed up in February, the race, accommodation for me and my partner and a pre-race dinner. I was committed to train and prepare for a 42k run in fucking New York City. I still can’t believe I did it but at 54 I pushed it out and ran with a massive grin into Central Park. My partner provided the flights as a Christmas present and we had an unforgettable time in the city, the race, the after race margaritas and holiday.   It still brings tears to my eyes. I was slow, over 5 hours, and it was freezing and I had 4 toilet stops but I made it and will never forget it.

My kids (all in their 20s) are really proud of me, not that they would tell me that, but they introduce me to all their friends as “this is my mum, she runs Marathons”.

Just the other day I was chatting with my eldest and one and his mates and my running came up and my son’s mate, a champion sprinter in high school and a current first grade player with the Manly Marlins said “run a marathon, I could never do that”.

Once upon a time there was a fisherman, he sat on the same spot on the docks every day with his rusty tackle box and bait bucket, waiting for a bite whilst he gutted the fish already caught. It was a very quiet place, an abandoned factory loomed behind him but on this day, it was less quiet, as he could hear the cries of someone or something nearby.

He looked all around then walked from his spot, picked up sheets of corrugated iron and boxes but he could not find who or what was wailing and crying. Then, above him, he saw the sleeve of a pink jumper and a small, chubby hand of a toddler, seemingly trapped in a large cage about 20 metres above. The baby was rattling the mesh hard and appeared to be sitting on a mattress covered in a beautiful patchwork. Every day he had been there that week, he had been alone, never seeing another soul and now this baby had appeared. The baby had seen him now and wailed even harder.

“Maybe it’s hungry?” he instinctively thought, but he did not know how to get up to the baby. He put down his fishing rod and walked through the door into the dark factory. He picked his way through much rubble, fallen planks and assorted debris, following the cries of the baby. He walked and walked and then he saw the ladder.

“Someone put that there,” he thought. “One day they might come back for that baby,” he started to walk back to his fishing gear and spot on the dock.

“BUT!” spoke his conscience. “What if they DON’T??”

The fisherman sighed, turned back to the ladder. He climbed carefully, all the while making gentle, soothing coos to the baby whose wails had become ever more urgent.

Bright sunlight stung his eyes as he popped up in front of the cage. The baby was turned to him, face filled with rage, her face wet with tears.

“TOLD YOU NOT GOING!!!” she screamed.

Because of that he pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and went to wipe her tears but a giant padlock stood between him and the baby, it was locked, with no key in site.

“Hang on, hang on,” he tried to placate the baby but she screamed once again when he turned to climb the ladder back to his tackle box. “Geez….”

The fisherman felt around in his pockets for some sort of implement with which to pick the lock, nothing, just his own keys.

That’s when he saw it, his heart skipping a beat, a shiny silver key sat amongst his grubby, worn keys, one he had never before seen. He lifted the key up to inspect it then took the padlock into his hand.

“Surely not…” he slipped the key into the padlock, it slid in smoothly and, when he turned it, the lock opened with a small click.

All at once the cage door flew open until finally it was wide enough for the baby to throw herself at him.

“Told you not going,” she sobbed into him.

“It’s ok, it’s ok,” he soothed and patted her back. “I’m here now,”

The envelope sitting on the beautiful patchwork quilt was clean, expensive, the type of note paper that rich people have. He picked it up, opened it and, with the baby clutched to his chest he read the note.

“I cannot keep Penelope,” it read. “I am gutted, please keep her safe.”

He folded the note and wrapped Penelope in the patchwork quilt, carrying her down the ladder to his tackle box and spot on the dock.

If you have never heard of a gay sauna, it is s place where men go to have sex with other men.  Usually they take off all their clothes at the door and walk around in towels.  I like this because sometimes I judge men very quickly by their choice of attire.  I cannot for example talk to anyone in a country road shirt, I also struggle with Armani t-shirts.

Some guys in the sauna, fold their towel in half so that it is shorter and therefore sexier.  I cannot have sex with these men.  It screams of a quiet desperation that I cannot stand to be around.

Some of my straight friends are envious of the sauna culture, they think that it is a utopia of free love and sex but let me tell you this, it is not.  It is micro culture full of judgement and rejection and sometimes it would be fair to say that the sex in these places is just men using each others bodies to masturbate.  The level of connection is so remote that I am probably better off with a cucumber.

But here’s the thing, we are not really going to the sauna for sex, mostly what we are seeking is validation, we want to feel desired and loved, so we enjoy the chase and conquer.  Sometimes, if you go regularly enough and are very patient, you can land the cutest guy and have the hottest sex ever but then you just want it more.  Your appetite is ignited, not satiated and you end up folding your towel in half just to get a root.

Once upon a time there was a woman, with long lashes and high cheekbones not unlike your own, who also possessed your general disregard for convention. She wandered, as she was wont to do, in ankle-high boots, through the streets of St Kilda on a weekday afternoon, meandering to work in no particular rush. For although she liked her job, she loved the walk even more.

Everyday was much like the last for this woman. A late emergence from her futon in a tiny art deco unit, two black coffees in quick succession, a squirt of product through her unruly pixie cut, and out onto the pavement with its mingled scents of sea air and dog, coffee grinds and stale piss. Shifts were predictable in their frequency but never in their timing, so she’d sit and wait, or stroll and wait, for the familiar buzz in hip pocket, heralding the call to duty at her local secondhand music store.

One day, she set off for work in a particularly chirpy mood. This particular afternoon was not unlike any other, mild for autumn, busy but not manic, the late sun arching over the pavements to cast long shadows of tourists, prams, cyclists, trams. It was unremarkable aside from the fact she was running late, and decided to drive the nine hundred metres to Station Records, rather than her routine amble. That is, until she saw the back window of her ’78 Kingswood smashed inwards, no vinyl records where they should have been resting on vinyl upholstery, cracks across the glass like a spider who had spun his web on Carlisle st-grade-smack.

Because of that, she lost her trademark cool. Replacement glass meant at least another couple of weeks’ wages before she could get it fixed, so she could get it sold, so she could finally hand in her notice. She was only days off booking flights for the trip she’d been plotting for 3 years, stashing notes away in an instant coffee tin on a shelf above her fridge. Dreams of Tokyo, city of lights, mecca of records, so close now she could smell it. Only another couple of days of pushing obscure LPs into the hands of bayside suburbanites and she could book the flights. Until now. She kicked the tyres so hard she stubbed three toes.

And because of that, she was still fuming and wallowing with such intensity that when a man walked into the store, casual as fuck, and placed four records on the counter, asking for a sale price, that it took her a few moments to realize they were the very same four plucked so brazenly from her car only hours earlier. Normally, in this instance, she’d give a brother the benefit of the doubt – coincidences do happen, after all, look at Hall and Oates. But the odds of these four disks, in this combination, from a first edition Paul McCartney post-John, to a B-side Bowie… well, that shit just don’t happen. They stared at each other for what felt like a good forty seconds, but was probably ten.

Until finally she broke the silence. “Are you fucking serious, man? Are you actually, like, seriously attempting make a buck off these? These are My. Goddamn. Records. From my car. My car, that you broke into this morning. And now you’re trying to sell them back to me? Ringing any bells? Any TUBULAR BELLS?” She waved the iconic record in front of his face.

I won’t go into too much detail about the scene that unfolded in the following minutes. There may have been shouting. There may have been heated discussions about the various comparative virtues of extensive layered instrumental odysseys versus the merits of progressive yet accessible pop-music. There may or may not have been exchanges of wide-eyed outrage, followed closely by periods of intense kissing. Either way, my darling children, it’s well past your bedtime, so all I’ll say for now is this – that is the true and mostly unadulterated version of how I met your mother. And we all lived happily ever after. The end. Now go to sleep!

2014 was a terrible year for flying. In March, MH370 winged its way towards Antarctica and disappeared into urban myth, and three months later MH17 was shot out of the sky by amateur insurgents in a war that should have remained 40,000 feet below. The name of a script-happy Indian doctor in Collingwood, who’d prescribe valium with a nudge and a wink, did the rounds amongst my friends.

My relationship with planes took a hit that year too. My subconscious chewed over the facts and fiction of flight disasters as I read everything I could find on the topic. I downloaded the flight-tracker app FlightAware and watched my family’s flightpaths on my iPhone just so I could relax once the notification announced that they had ‘Arrived!’ I remained on the ground but my head was always in the clouds. Living in Sydney, home of Australia’s busiest airport, did not help what gradually spiraled into a preoccupation in my daily life.

My first Sydney house was on the North Shore and from my suburb, the aircraft looked like mobiles circling in the sky, gliding in over the sparkling harbor and disappearing beneath the curated treeline. The 40,000 horsepower engine noise obscured by the sounds of the nearer whipper-snippers cranking up from any moment after 7.01am. From this distance, their path across the sky looked as predestined as the sun and the moon.

But then we moved closer to the flightpath and the dreams started. During the day, the noise didn’t bother me. Not that much. It wasn’t like houses directly under the flightpath, where the windows would rattle and conversation paused for thirty-five seconds every seven and a half minutes. On my daily run around Iron Cove Bay, the descending machines would catch in my peripheral vision, like magnificent pelicans coming down to land.

But at night, night after night, I dreamt of destruction and carnage, of chaos and helplessness. From my subconscious vantage point (always outside, watching on) I watched in dread as fate took its course. My toes would curl and I would scream silently in my sleep the plane ploughed into the earth, sending out shockwaves through the ground, exploding in searing white light or triggering tsunamis that compounded its terrifying conclusion.

Recurrent dreams haven’t been a part of my dreamstate DNA, so I did what any self-respecting Gen-Yer would do when faced with new stimuli: googled it. Dreammoods.com touted itself as the definitive dream encyclopedia. We scrolled down to Plane Crash. “To dream that a plane crashes signifies that you have set overly high and unrealistic goals for yourself. You are in danger of having those goals come crashing down. Alternatively, the crashing airplane represents your lack of confidence, self-defeating attitude and self-doubt”

For someone who had just moved to a new city, started a new career and had finally stopped talking about writing and had started doing it, this was the worst verdict I could have received. ‘Just give up now’ would have done the trick in fewer words. My partner, usually calmly upbeat, was at a loss to put a positive spin on it, because frankly there was no room for an interpretation of anything other than a signifier of utter failure. So we wrote it off as the work of a bitter hack or a wannabe astrologer, and resolved to buy an actual hard-copy dream guide, because surely the writing would be better.

But before too long, I got my first real break in the city with a decent job, we graduated from house-sitting to renting, and the dreams stopped. Perhaps the recurrent dreams weren’t about failing, they were about getting my hands on the yoke of my new life and exercising some control over my path.

Now the only time I think of crashing planes is the moment I step onto them, when I take a deep breath and submit myself to the fate of the universe. And order a glass of wine before the turbulence sets in.

Dear Adland,

I believe that you would like me to fuck off and die.
Look, maybe not “die”, per se – but I certainly get the ‘you should fuck off’ message, loud and clear. But, I guess perhaps should have seen it coming. Given that it’s coming from an industry I’ve not just been in, but given my all to, for, well –over 20 years.

You see, I’m in advertising. I’m a Creative Director. Actually, while I’m talking about me – I’ll add this. I’m strategic. I’m multi-disciplinary. I’m award-winning. I have presented to the CEO’s of some of the biggest companies in Australia. And I’ve nailed it.

The thing is, a lot of Creative Directors have. But that’s where the similarities end.

Because the majority of Creative Directors are men.

Blokes.

Males.

Or, “you know – just one of the guys” as I’ve most recently heard.

Not me. I’m a woman. Yes, I am. A woman, one of only 3%, who had the audacity to crawl into a place that is very clearly reserved for a man.

And apparently when you get to that place that you’ve been working towards for 20 years, the industry’s response is to pull a couple of blokes in in your place, and shuffle you out the back door.

Delightful. Clearly it doesn’t matter that I’ve done the hard yards. I’ve worked my way through all the lofty titles of copywriter, senior copywriter, creative group head and creative director. Apparently, I hit the ceiling. I went as far as someone with ladybits could go.

Now – and I am desperately trying to be diplomatic here – this would be fine, if the consequences were just mine. But they’re not. I mentor a lot of young creatives, both male and female – and I encourage them all to continue, because, and I say this to them “the industry is fucking great and it needs them all”. Man, woman, gay, straight, amish, catholic, have-no-idea-but-still-scrabbling-for-a-belief-system. The industry needs to speak to an amazingly diverse society – and can only do so successfully if it is filled with the diverse voices to speak with. I really believe that by the time these young creatives reach the top – things will be better. So I want them to stay in it – and in the meantime, I’ll do whatever I can, and fight as hard as I can, to make it better.

While the laws of, well “lawland”, forbid me to talk about what exactly that entails, or the particular previous employer that I have been fighting – I will say this.

They may well believe that the opinion of a woman is worthless.

They may well believe that a female creative director can never be as good as the men.

They may well have kicked me to the curb and assumed that I’d shut the fuck up and crawl away.

They. Were. Wrong.

I have no idea how, yet.

But I will be heard from again.

Today I sat in a room with positive, inspirational, motivated, creative people.

I walked in and no one gave a shit about who I was or whose arse I had kissed.

I walked in and no one cared if I was man, woman or neither.

I walked in and no one, but no one, had heard defamatory things about me before hand.

I walked in and found a diverse group of people who gave, shared, laughed, cried and wanted everyone else in the room to kick arse – regardless of who they were or what genitals they had.

How fucking refreshing.

Check out more jenspeirs.com.

Once upon a time there was a girl who was very pretty. She was in the air force and all the air force blokes enjoyed playing stacks on with her. One day the air force men went on a special trip to Japan where they dropped a huge bomb that pretty much wiped out the whole city of Hiroshima. Talk about a stacks on!

As homage to what they had done, the men created a lovely little crown for the pretty girl to wear. It was in the shape of the mushroom cloud the bomb made when it exploded. Every day she wore her crown. Every day. It reminded the men of how powerful they were, how they could destroy the lives of millions of people in one quick game of stacks on. The girl didn’t think it was amazing. She thought the crown looked like a cock.

One day she decided not to wear it anymore. It made her uncomfortable. She kept thinking of all the people who had died – all of the dreams and hopes that would never come to fruition. She didn’t like the men who glorified it – that big penis shaped mushroom cloud. The fact that they also wanted her to wear it all the time just felt wrong.

The men didn’t like that she refused to wear the crown. They told her she was being unpatriotic and dismissive of their achievements. Who did she think she was – suddenly developing morals and ethics. Because of that she decided to leave the air force. It no longer held any charms for her. She felt she was being used, that she had no worth. Instead of trying to do something about it – challenging the men and their adulation of the bomb, she quit.

And because of that the men found another girl to use because they thought their behaviour was okay and that there was something wrong with HER, not them. And so they never learned. As for the girl, she lived her days in sadness. Sad because of the bomb. Sad because of the way the men had treated her. Sad because she had done nothing about it. Until finally, one day the sadness overwhelmed her. She descended into a state of bitterness and hatred, mostly against herself. She decided to do something about it.

She killed herself.

When reports of her death came out, young girls everywhere walked out of their jobs or out of their homes. They left behind families, children, lovers. They walked and walked and walked until each of them found a cliff or an ocean or a bridge. They fell over, into, off – to their deaths. Never again would young women be used to celebrate wholesale destruction.

Once upon a time there was a man who lived in a small little hut at the end of a long windy road in a rainforest.  The hut had some very basic amenities: a single bed, a light hanging from the ceiling, small kitchen and a small table.

The man kept to himself mainly.  He grew his own vegetables in a little garden out the back, he was completely self sufficient for food and so rarely needed to leave his property.  The man was generally very happy, although sometimes the sadness would come for his dog that had recently passed away and when that happened he couldn’t remember ever being happy.

One dark and stormy night a strong wind blew through the trees.  The man was sitting inside the hut on his bed listening to the sounds.  It was a little scary being alone in the middle of a rainforest listening to the wind. If Molly was alive she would be in the bed with him whimpering, keeping him company and he would be telling her not to be silly, that it was just a little storm.  Part of nature.

Suddenly the light went out.  The power was gone.  It was pitch black and there was no light from the moon because the clouds were so thick.  It started to rain and the wind started to howl. It was an unnatural sounding noise even if it was part of nature.

The man lay down in his bed and curled up into a ball with tears in his eyes thinking of Molly.  It was a long restless night full of bangs and crashes and once the front door to the hut even opened and smashed against the outside of the house scaring the man terribly.

Eventually the storm passed, the rain stopped and man was able to go to sleep.

Every day when this man woke up he took himself down to the nearest creek for a wash.  And today was no different.  When he opened the door to his hut however he was not prepared for what he was seeing.  The terrible mess left by the storm – it was a much bigger storm than he thought possible.  There were plant pots broken, the fence had been pushed over, the trees were either bent, broken or on their back and his vegetable garden was in complete disarray.  Even the nearby power lines were in twisted and hanging.   The man knew this was going to be a problem because the power lines near his house powered the nearby village.  Without this power the village would be in trouble.
One day a few weeks ago the man had been down to the village to find a coffin for Molly, he wanted to build a nice grave for her at the other side of his vegetable garden so he could visit her and give her flowers. On his way to town he noticed that there was a new hospital wing that had been built for children since the last time he had come – which was a while ago he must admit, perhaps even longer than he originally thought.  The man walked past the hospital on his way to the pet store and he noticed all these new fangled electronics lighting up, beeping and pulsing through one of the open windows.  Technology. He watched the kids wired up to these machines.  Some with shaved heads.  Some asleep.

Because of that visit to town he knew that electricity was important.  Important for the kids, for the parents and probably important for many other reasons too.  He was worried about it and so he was very grateful when a ute from the local power company turned up with two men in it with hard hats on.  They were going to fix the power lines.  He waved good morning to them and sat down to watch what they did from the ratty old armchair that was sitting at the front corner of his tiny porch at the front of his little hut.

The other men waved back and then put on their protective gear and placed a large ladder up against the electricity pole.  They slowly climbed the ladder and then attached themselves to the pole using thick long leather belts that were clipped to their respective harnesses.  These two men were very fit and obviously experienced in power poles because they were able to climb to the top of the pole in no time.

Perhaps they were a little too arrogant.  Perhaps they weren’t used to people watching them do their job.  Perhaps they looked at the man from the hut and wanted to show them how good they were at what they did.  Was he jealous of their fitness?  Maybe. But whatever it was the man sitting at the front of his hut thought they were showing off a bit too much, they were being a bit too cocky.
And because of that, maybe, these men forgot to do something very important. They forgot to check the neighbouring power pole to see if there was any immediate danger – if they were to but look they would have see a dangerous loose cable dangling precariously.

The two men didn’t notice when another strong gust came and blew this dangerous cable towards them where it snapped and bit and cracked and somehow hit one of the men, even though the man at the front of the hut didn’t see exactly what happened, he knew it was serious.  One of the men dropped immediately unconscious hanging loosely in the air – his leather belts and harnesses the only thing holding him up ten metres in the air. The other man stopped with his eyes wide open looking for any danger for himself, he now saw the loose cable but must have decided that he wasn’t in any immediate danger. The unconscious mans head was swinging slowly just above him so he climbed up and steadied him, feeling for a pulse.  There was none.  He immediately grabbed his workmates upside down mouth with his own to give him mouth to mouth resuscitation. The tears were coming.  He yelled at the unconscious man, slapped his face, reached up and banged on his chest with his fists and continued trying to resuscitate him.  It was all from the worst possible angle but he tried anyway for a long time. Nothing changed.  He kept trying and trying.  His eyes were blurry with tears.

Until finally, he gave up.  The electrocuted man lay with his back against the pole and his friend was crumpled against him with his arms around his chest, tears streaming down his face.
By this time the man in the hut was underneath them calling out asking how he could help.  The man on the pole screamed for him to call an ambulance but the man from the hut couldn’t do that.  He didn’t have a phone.  So the man on the pole screamed with frustration and snot and tears and saliva all mixed together spraying the man from the hut underneath him.  The man on the pole awkwardly pulled out a mobile phone from deep in his pocket hoping and praying that there would be reception this far out of town.

One bar of reception showed on the screen – but one bar was enough.  He called an ambulance and spoke to the operator about what he could do to bring the other man back to life.  She told him to try to bring the man down to the ground but it was impossible just by himself. The unconscious man was too heavy. Tears continued to roll down his face.  It was taking too long.  He knew it was too long.
The man from the hut had climbed up the ladder and did his best to help the other man bring his body down from the pole.  Then the ambulance arrived from nowhere and for a few minutes it was very busy. A rush of people to get the dying man into the vehicle. Which was gone as quickly as it came.

And then there was no one but the man from the hut.  Left standing alone out the front of his home.

Sad and alone and still missing his dog Molly.