Everyone Does Something in Kiama

His judge faced him from a distance, close enough to clearly hear pronouncements, but far enough away so he couldn’t touch the living representative of justice.

In the Code Civil des Français, known outside France as the Napoleonic Code, there was a de facto presumption of guilt. The position of judge was combined with prosecutor; ergo his judge and accuser wore two hats.

He imagined his judge wearing a sideways bicorne with a giant ‘N’ on it for ‘Napoleon’ or ‘Nuts’, for someone imagining themselves Napoleon Bonaparte was one of the two traditional cartoon representations of a lunatic. The other was a long-haired bearded fat man in a caftan holding up a sign reading THE END IS NIGH, but now they were Climate Change Believers.

In his quest to find out where the Insane Napoleon trope began, he discovered it was the 1904 film The Escaped Lunatic, pirated in the same year as The Maniac Chase. The image appeared again in the 1906 film, Dr. Dippy’s Sanitarium, perhaps the first motion picture to feature a psychiatrist. In the 1922 film Mixed Nuts, Stan Laurel played a book salesman whose only volume was a biography of Napoleon. When it hit him in the head, he believed himself Napoleon and was committed.

Once his French aunt severely punished him when he asked if French lunatics imagined themselves to be the Duke of Wellington.

His judge/prosecutor/warden/parole officer grew angrier,

‘Are you listening to me???’

‘Yes, Cara Mia’, Phil Danté responded to his wife.

Francesca Danté glowered; her husband was off on one of his mental tangents again. He had enough frequent flying points from his flights of fancy for a trip around the world…

She sat with her tea facing Phil. Sitting in chairs next to her were their freshly groomed white poodles Franco and Ciccia. Their white pompadours and furry ears resembled judge’s wigs. They gave haughty looks as they took Mummy’s side to look at Daddy-in-the-Doghouse.

C’est "Madame et Monsieur le président” à VOUS!

‘What was I saying, Mon Cher?’

‘That “Everyone does something in Kiama.”’

She was right.

Everyone in their small coastal town did do something. The locals watched sunrises as they walked, jogged, cycled or rolled on skateboards or wheelchairs. Artists displayed their works, thespians acted in local productions, choirs sang, musicians played and there was plenty of surfing, swimming, sport and chess-on-the-beach for both men and women. There were churches, gyms and clubs to attend.

Inquisitor Fran continued,

‘Everyone does something in Kiama…’,

She did weekdaily Pilates, yoga, aquarobics, groomed dogs and was in the Country Women’s Association.

‘…except you.’

He quoted Terence Hill in They Call Me Trinity,

‘”I’m too busy doing nothing.”’

He always excelled in doing nothing when there wasn’t anything he wanted to do; in school to escape sport, in the army after the war when he waited for release, and after a life of poorly paid adventure, a fairly well-paid career of doing nothing in the Australian Public Service. Because Australia had too many people doing nothing, Phil gallantly took a lucrative redundancy to give some youngster an opportunity to learn the art of doing bugger all.

‘It’s not about nothing, it’s all about putting something back into the community!’

Phil thought somebody had two bowls of Wife Flakes for brekkies…,

‘Like the sportspeople supporting the local physiotherapists?’

The poodles panted in laughter. Fran grimaced, they widened their eyes and turned their heads.

‘I write short stories…’, Phil explained.

‘Your writing doesn’t count…’

It was Phil’s turn to grimace; he was obviously still angry about the local newspaper editor asking him to send a short story in as a filler. Not only didn’t the editor reply when he didn’t print it, but he used the same subject of Phil’s story for a non-fiction article he wrote.

‘…because you’re not doing anything if you can’t tell anyone about it.’

Female logic. I speak, therefore I am. Was she transforming into a Werewife at the full moon?

‘You’ll meet people.’

Phil agreed with Jean-Paul Sartre’s 1944 play No Exit,

‘”Hell is other people”. The more I know people, the more I love poodles.’

Fran glared as Franco and Ciccia wagged their tails.

‘I went to the Let’s Talk About Death Café and they threw me out.’

When asked to be first to say how death affected him, he recounted killing several terrorists in Rhodesia with a Claymore mine then laughed describing a leopard biting the wounded survivor’s face off. Phil had no idea the club met to discuss their grief in losing loved ones. He was asked to leave and please never return…

‘The less said about that, the better! You can join the Men’s Shed; they’re one of the best ones in the state!’

He groaned like Lurch in The Addams Family.

‘It’s about time you learn some handyman skills!’

‘I don’t want to steal your thunder, Cara Mia.’

HandyFran had a wonderful childhood helping her father in his workshop. She looked forward to a trip to Bunning’s Hardware as if it was Aladdin’s Cave of Treasure.

Conversely, Phil’s handyman projects resembled works done by a brain-damaged chimpanzee. He believed shop classes were prison rehabilitation.

‘There’s lots of things you can volunteer for.’

Phil semi-shouted the army’s battle cry,

‘Never Volunteer!’

His friend who retired before he did initially looked forward to volunteering. She later told him that the same egomaniacs who made their staff’s lives miserable used their same skills to make volunteer’s lives miserable. David Cameron’s UK Big Society program used unpaid volunteers to replace paid workers; like Steve McQueen in The Sand Pebbles, he didn’t want to ‘break anyone’s rice bowl’.

‘Maybe we can go on some more tours together…’

Franco and Ciccia raised their ears.

Fran stopped when Phil’s eyes blazed in anger, she and the poodles widened their eyes in fear,

Don’t set him off again...

After they had taken a group tour, Phil went on a tirade after they returned claiming their companions merely went on the tour as an excuse to retell stories of their offspring, aches and pains and complaints they had told their friends a dozen times, and their spouse a hundred, to a new captive audience…‘Yes, that’s an interesting historical building, but let me tell you about my operation…’

‘Or maybe not…’

The poodles wagged their tails.

‘You should have stayed in the Retired Professionals Club!’

Phil joined the club at Fran’s urging. At first he enjoyed them, calling it ‘intellectual prostitution’, but he resigned when-

‘All the monthly speakers talked about were funerals, making wills, dealing with death, “Cremation and YOU”’, he imitated Yul Brynner in The King and I, “etcetera etcetera etcetera”’.

‘Death is important, Mon Cher.’

‘Death is for others; “them before me” is my life’s motto, Cara Mia.’

He lasted less in the town’s military veteran’s club. A Lieutenant Colonel in Public Affairs and Public Relations too young to serve in Vietnam, had his name emblazoned on the town’s war memorial four times for his Club Dread peacekeeping operation deployments. When memories of his paper cuts came back to him, he called it PTSD.

‘Curmudgeon!’

‘Coeur méchant? Moi? You’re not one of those controlling women, are you Cara Mia?’

‘Organising women, Mon Cher…You can study something at the University of the Third Age…like Doc!’

He imitated Maynard G. Krebbs’s fearful spasm when hearing the words ‘Work!’ or ‘Marriage!’

‘School!’

‘You can do some more acting.’

Tory had Phil and the poodles play the shepherd and sheep in the Anglican Christmas Play she directed.

‘They applauded for them, not for me…’,

They wagged their tails, the poodle equivalent of standing on their hind legs and clasping their front paws over their heads.

‘I even said their lines for them, “Bahhh”.’

‘Well, other than the beaches, what do you like about Kiama?’

‘Nobody here ever complains…except lower class whine-o whinging poms…and that’s instinctual…’

‘You never have regards for other people’s feelings…’

‘Constant complaints are mental constipation and verbal dysentery...they’re human dung beetles.’

As always, Fran shouted,

‘What will people think?’

As always, Phil replied with a Louis De Funes facial expression and his motto,

‘Nobody cares, everybody dies.’

‘Do something!’

‘Poodle patrol!’

They leapt off their chairs to where their leads were kept, excitedly yapping like Fran. Phil suffered separation anxiety when he wasn’t with them; he was poodlewhipped,

‘See you later, alligator.’

Fran rolled her eyes but returned Phil’s hug and kiss from her chair.

‘Gaan, gaan bobbejaan.’

Renown locally as The Poodle Man, he daily walked Franco and Ciccia alongside the attractive coast, promenaded in the lovely old town, sauntered through the bird sanctuary, the wetlands and atop the green hills facing the farmlands. They remained at his side as he read old books and watched old films on DVD. Life didn’t get any better…

He sang to them,

‘White is the colourrrrr of my true love’s furrrrr…’

After the trio walked to a green grassy area, the poodles began sniffing in preparation for their bowel movements. Phil vocalised Huckleberry Duck as he readied the plastic bag and quoted Fran,

‘”Everyone does something in Kiama.”’

Ciccia gave a similar look to his auntie Tatie when she was angry with his actions,

Do you mind? Do you…mind? DO…YOU…MIND???

He turned away from them, waiting for their scratching on the grass to announce they had finished.

Franco looked at Ciccia,

He’s getting older, they forget their training sometimes…be nice…

He policed their waste then deposited the tied up black plastic bag in the nearest bin.

The poodles showed their gratitude with a love-up.

‘Mes enfants! Want to learn a new trick?’

Non.

Phil went down on all fours, then imitated the stance of a hunting dog finding prey as the poodles gave him incredulous looks.

‘Regarder! Chiens de chasse! Indiquér! Danger! Indiquér! This is what hunting dogs, do! Pointing! Point! Danger! Point! This is what you do when you want to alert someone!’

Franco wagged his tail,

Papa est très drôle…

Ciccia wore Tatie’s unimpressed facial expression,

Étrange, pas drôle…

‘Indiquér! Danger! Point! Danger!’

The townspeople stopped to gaze at The Poodle Man, embarrassing the poodles,

We are NOT to blame…

Seeing he hadn’t got through to them, Phil rose,

‘Well, maybe we’ll work on it later at home…

Ce n'est pas nécessaire…

As Phil turned to drink at a water bubbler, Ciccia did the pose for an instant,

Oh! C'est ridicule!

Ciccia returned to her usual stance before Phil turned back towards her.

‘…with some treats…’

Tails wagged,

‘”Treats” est le mot magique!’

* * *

Phil sang as they pranced,

‘Poodlelot! POODLELOT!!! I know it sounds a bit bizarrrrrre…’

The poodles stopped dead in their tracks as an elderly woman approached them, went into pointing stance and whined. Phil dashed towards her. The woman reeled; he caught her before she hit the pavement.

‘Come into my arms, you bundle of charms.’

He lowered her to the ground,

‘Don’t worry, they’re unregistered nurses and Rangerettes. They don’t bite, but my Missus does.’

Phil followed the FAST approach to see if she had a stroke. He studied her Face to see if her mouth drooped, asked her to raise both Arms and squeeze his hands, that she did. She recited her name and address when he asked her to prove her Speech and brain were OK.

He pointed at a woman who came out of nowhere in Time,

‘Please ring 000 or 112.’

* * *

Doreen was sitting up comfortably petting the poodles.

‘You’re very smart doggies!’

‘Poodle knowhow is devious’, Phil clarified.

Two female paramedics arrived.

‘Here’s the Country Women’s Association!’

As one of them checked Doreen, Phil related the chain of events to the other and asked,

‘Need us?’

‘No, thank you, but Doreen did emotionally. She had a drop in blood pressure. You’ve a first aid certificate?’

‘Everyone does something in Kiama.’

FIN

Author Notes: Happy Valentines Day!

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