Acoustic storyteller Dan Schaumann returns with his latest musical release, I Wish I Lived In Canada, available on all major streaming platforms. Having cut his musical teeth on the sidewalks and bars of Townsville and Brisbane, Dan followed his heart to the UK and later to Canada where he’s resided since 2013. From lost love to found feet, toppled dreams to open doors, Dan’s attitude to life is as infectious as the songs he draws from it. His artistic creations speak of an extraordinary journey into the experiences of a contemporary traveler.

“Would you like to go for a walk?” he dotingly asks on her return home from her late summer afternoon shift at work.

“Not tonight,” she replies. “I’ve got too much to do.”

He sets off without her. Perhaps tomorrow she will join him.

Through the field he wanders, graciously using this time without her by his side to set out a potential path for their future afternoon rendezvous.

He runs his hand through the dry, brown wheat as he progresses down the farmyard track. Ever so slightly sharp, he snaps up a scattering of stalks, pulling at the furry spikelets one by one and watching them blow off into the breeze. He dreams of the upcoming day where he lovingly offers a head of wheat to her, its beautiful homegrown authenticity possessing much more meaning than that of a manufactured gift purchased from a florist.

Nearing the end of the field, he opts for a southerly venture along the fen, stopping briefly to admire the family of swans wading through the wetlands. He is all too aware of the bond between the mother, father and three cygnets trailing closely behind, and one day wishes for a similar scene to grace his own human life. He sends his love to the swans and telepathically requests that they meet him there again tomorrow, in the hope that both he and his girl can spend time together treasuring their beauty.

He cautiously makes his way over the rickety wooden bridge, picking wild blackberries on his descent to the eastern side of the waterway. The sweetness fills the entirety of his mouth as the glory of tomorrow’s blackberry kiss permeates his imagination, now working in a similar vagabond fashion to his roving legs.

Keeping with him a handful of those dark, delightful delicacies, he returns back the way he came, across the rickety bridge, past the family of swans and through the endless wheat fields before arriving back home again, content with today’s discovery and yearning for her to follow in his shadow tomorrow.

“Would you like to go for a walk?” he dotingly asked on her return home from her late summer afternoon shift at work.

“Not tonight,” she replied. “I’m too tired.”

“But honey, I found an incredible path yesterday that I would really like to show you!”

“Sorry. I’m really not in a walking mood.”

Slightly taken aback, he sets off without her. Perhaps tomorrow she will join him.

This time his intuition leads him on an alternate adventure. He ventures down the village street, turning left at the small residential intersection and continuing on until just past the bridge over the moor. Here he finds an intriguing southbound country footpath, leading through a grassy paddock and on into the bushland.

Following the path, he again gauges the suitability of the walk as potential for a lover’s promenade. He notices the dotterels dancing and singing in the trees lining the canal. Inspired by their migration from such a faraway land and their ability to settle into an unfamiliar habitat, he is reminded of his own journey, and he can feel in his bones that she will soon agree to join him on one of his local adventures where he will proudly display this same sense of ease to her.

His shoes leave imprints in the dampness of the ground below, and he realises by the sudden appearance of hoof marks that a small herd of cows have recently paraded along this country trail. He spots them ahead in the distance and slowly creeps toward the three chocolate brown bovines so as not to frighten them, picking a bunch of fresh green grass from the ground along his way. He is aware that she feels unsettled around such animals, and clenches her tightly in his imagination as they draw nearer, comforting her anxiety and promising that they really are gentle creatures. He envisages passing her the grass while she nervously extends her hand towards the three hungry mouths, excitedly giggling as the first of the three curious cows cajoles the fodder from her grasp. She lets out a shriek and pulls back as the scratchy tongue makes contact with her tightly clenched fist, but he is there to catch her and lend a supportive embrace at the conquering of her fear.

Keeping with him the natural scent of the grass-fed heifer, he returns back the way he came, along the hoof-marked trail, past the dancing dotterels and across the moor bridge before arriving back home again, content with today’s discovery and yearning for her to follow in his shadow tomorrow.

“Would you like to go for a walk?” he dotingly asked on her return home from her late summer afternoon shift at work.

“Not tonight,” she replied. “I’m going out with friends.”

“Surely you can find some time before you go out to enjoy some fresh air with me? I’ve found two gorgeous countryside paths that I would really like to show you!”

“Will you please stop pressuring me to walk with you? I just don’t want to, ok? Honestly, I can’t stand this town. I can’t wait to get the hell out of here, I’m sick of seeing the same thing every day, I have no interest in exploring the neighbourhood with you, and if you don’t mind, I’m going to get ready to spend the night with people who I actually want to be with.”

Wide-eyed and distressed, he withdraws and sets off without her.

This time he doesn’t know where he is going. He walks aimlessly and randomly. For miles he continues along a monochrome corridor, only seeing in tunnel-vision, no longer noticing the lush green of the season’s freshly grown leaves, the dominant blue sky making a change from its normally overcast state, the radiant hues of the slowly flowing fen and the intricately crafted crimson archways dotting the canal at regular intervals.

Eventually he stops and sits at the shores of the waterway, resting underneath an apple tree.

How can she not appreciate the beauty of this place? he ponders. What must I do to allow her to see the countryside through my eyes? Why does she not wish to spend time with me in the great outdoors – the one place where you easily feel more free, open and energized than anywhere else? Why does she not wish to spend time with me in general? Does she understand how much it hurts to not have her by my side? Where could she be going tonight that is more enjoyable and serene than this beautiful location by the side of the fen? Why does she not love me anymore?

Amid a thousand thoughts, an apple drops into the water, joining a large number of apples that have already fallen from the tree into the canal.

He studies the rippling effect created by the apple’s sudden penetration of the water. He imagines what it would feel like for the apple to become separated from its mother stalk, breaking away from its source of love, growth and inspiration. He wonders if there is any point to its now-meaningless existence, bobbing lifelessly along with its meaningless siblings. Without its grounding stalk it can no longer walk the journey of life. It has no further purpose to serve.

He realises that without his grounding stalk, he can no longer walk the journey of life either. He has no further purpose to serve.

He rises from his position and ventures into the chilly waters of the fen. Resting alongside the fallen apple, he lowers his head beneath the surface. Under the judgemental eye of the nearby swan, and in one final reflection of his lover’s failure to walk with him, he breathes in deeply.

He will never walk again

No, before you ask, I’m not talking about the movie, TV series or the Human League song.  (and what a cheesy but great song it is, I must add!)

I’m instead talking about actual electric dreams.  Let me explain:

A few weeks ago at approximately 3:30am whilst deep in slumber, I witnessed within my own head a very memorable and vivid scene.  I dreamt that I was walking through a setting in the bush with lush, green trees all around me and the bright blue sky above – when I noticed that a swing set mysteriously appeared ahead of me.  It was similar to one you might see in a children’s playground, except its chain was unusually long and the whole unit was made of metal that shone a radiant, almost overpowering silver colour.  As you would only expect in such a situation, I walked on up to that swing set, sat myself down and started pushing myself to and fro, slowly at first but gradually gaining momentum, swaying like a heavy pendulum in the open air.

And how fresh that air was.  You know when you have those breathtaking dreams where you’re flying?  Where every molecule of breeze massages your cool skin, you take in the astonishing scenery surrounding you and generally feel like you’re the king of the world?  This was one of those dreams.  Higher and higher I kept swinging, feeling like I was ten years old again, trying to get so high in the hope that I could defy the laws of gravity and keep the swing revolving around the bar in a constant centifugal motion (that didn’t happen unfortunately, but it was worth a shot!)

I felt so free and refreshed on this swing; it was almost lucid in a way, like I knew that I was in a suspended reality and I could keep this incredible sensation up for as long as I wanted.  However as I soon found out, this wasn’t to be…

All of a sudden, seemingly out of nowhere, a set of electrical power lines materialised right in front of me, before my two hallucinatory eyes, suspended between two massive power poles.  And I’m not talking about urban-like telegraph poles you might see around the city, I’m talking about those humongous eyesores sticking out of the countryside that carry electricity for hundreds of miles – not unlike this:

The swing kept on swinging.  It just wouldn’t stop.  The higher I swung, the more uncomfortably close I was getting to those blasted power lines.  No matter how hard I tried to slow down my oscillations, I just kept swinging and swinging, higher and higher, I was screaming for the damn thing to STOP! STOP! STOP! but it just wasn’t abiding by my wishes.  Almost within reach now I felt my muscles locking up and my throat clenching, getting ready for my impending doom, before finally the cold steel chain of the swing made contact with the power line and thousands of volts of sharp, scalding electricity sent shockwaves through every last vein of my body, burning me to a crisp upon my now-charcoaled mid-air platform.

I woke up in an instant.  Not only did I remember every little detail from the horror I just experienced within my own mind, but I felt all the effects of it as well.  My whole body was numb from tingling, my hands were shaking, my heart was actually paliptating and I’d broken out into a sweat.  For a while there I wasn’t quite sure if what I’d just been through was actually real or if it was merely a dream, but I managed to calm down after about half an hour and eventually got myself back to sleep.

I was fine again by the morning; as a matter of fact I was quite impressed with the novelty of having a dream where I was actually able to physically feel its effects!  I recalled the experience to a few friends over the following days but didn’t think much more of it.  That is… until last night…

It was about the same time, around 3am, give or take an hour, and once again I found myself in a dream-like state.  This time I was situated in my room in the middle of the day, I remember my blinds being half open and the bright, hot sun bursting through the windows, filling the room up with a warm glow.  My room looked exactly the same in my dream as it does in real life – my bed taking up most of the floor space, with my pedastal fan, office chair, laptop, keyboard and guitar all lining the floor opposite the bed.  The dream started off very ordinarily, I don’t even remember exactly what I was doing, but something suddenly struck my attention out of the corner of my eye.  It was a little black spider, sitting atop my keyboard.  I took a closer look and found out that it wasn’t just any old little black spider; it was actually an ugly, hairy, hell of a funnel-web, one of the deadliest eight-legged creatures known to man – not unlike this:

Quite frankly, I shit myself!

I went searching for the only thing I could think of to remove the spider from its threatening perch on my piano keys, and came back into my room armed with the vacuum cleaner.  No, I didn’t switch it on and suck him up, instead I removed the vacuum head, unplugged the hose that sticks into the other end, and moved towards the spider with the big metal inhalant pipe pointed right at him.  (Now remember the key word here – metal!)

I was hoping to somehow coerce him onto the pipe so I could throw him out the window with more than an arms length between us, but he didn’t co-operate at all.  Instead he aggressively lifted up the front half of his body, directed his fangs straight towards me and bit square into that pipe, piercing the metal with his venemous talons.  I saw a bright flash of white from the contact point, sparking up like fireworks, jolting down that metal pipe, and in an instant, charging my body once again with thousands of volts of sharp, scalding electricity.

I woke up, shaken by my ghastly encounter with the funnel-web, but thankful that it all took place merely within my subconscious.  And strangely enough, my right arm (which had been holding the metal pipe in my dream) was tingling badly, as if it had been electrocuted in real life.

So, what a crazy couple of dreams they were!  They were definitely amongst the most lifelike dreams I’ve ever had in terms of vividness and after-effects.  Normally I would go forth and look up a dream interpretations website to discover what on earth this could all signify, but I think I might leave it for a while and see if I can figure out my own meaning to it, seeing as these dreamlike physical electric shocks have been a recurring theme.  I’ll post an update if I ever come to a conclusion!

But for now, I’d love to hear what you think this could signify?  And have you ever had a dream like this where you actually feel a similar physical after-effect?

Goodnight, my dears – and with all due respect, I sincerely hope we don’t meet together in electric dreams!

x


Follow-up: Huda (who commented below) has posted an interesting response blog regarding one of her own dreams she had in the past – you can read it here!

Hello my friends,

Well I do hope you’ve all had an exceptional 2009! As I reflect on the past year, I realise that it has been the most incredible one so far, and I look forward to an even better 2010. One of my resolutions for next year is simply to be more creative and to put a further emphasis on writing songs, poems and stories. I do seem to have lacked quite a lot of motivation since I got back to Australia, which is disappointing considering creative expression is something that makes me feel complete.

Only last week, however, I was fortunate enough to stumble across a blog entitled “Hearts unbroken & Words untold.” It’s written by a Belgian girl who goes by the name of Froebby, and I was left incredibly inspired by her enchanting prose and her open, honest heart. Please do yourself a favour and give her blog posts a read; I’m sure you will see what I mean! Her heartfelt writing style encouraged me to write this little story (mostly in between phone calls at work, I might add) about the joy of what we think to be true love, followed by the insane amount of confusion that awaits when we realise that it’s not. Admittedly it does have a sombre ending, but it is based ever so slightly on the truth, and I see it as a lesson that we should always strive to remain true to ourselves and those around us in order to achieve happiness.

So thanks Froe, for motivating me to achieve my resolution before the new year even begins, and I wish everyone a very happy 2010 🙂

Dan


She Must Have Been Sleeptalking

A busy day exploring a faraway city draws near an end, and the two touring sweethearts make their way through the havoc of the inner-northern suburbs to the location where they will retire for the evening. Putting the general chaos of their day behind them, the couple display an ambience of nervous anticipation for the hours ahead, as this coming night is due to be their first spent together. Alone. At one. At last.

Entering the room they reflect on the day’s precedings before making preparations for their inaugural twilit companionship. Nearby, the dull roar of the subterranean carriages shake the walls ever so slightly, in precise harmony with the rumbling of their hungry hearts. She rests her head gently upon his shoulder as he grasps her slightly trembling hands in his, providing a much-needed quietude prior to the forecast storm. A sense of peace washes over as they take in the space before them which they will shortly occupy, their inhibitions gradually fading as the late summer sun merges with the darkening urban horizon. Their surrounding air becomes lighter than light itself; an aura of magnificence emanating from these two perfectly entwined souls.

Sublime to the eye, sweet to the smell and pure to the touch, she remained every inch the beauty he recalled from his yearnful, endless memory. This was a memory that delved back a multitude of epochs, beyond the fruit, beyond the flower, beyond even the fateful event seemingly millennia ago where the seed was first sowed, paving the way for their impending and everlasting reunion. To her, he was the brick, the support, the solid rock she had grasped onto so tightly in the dawning months leading up to and including this moment.

It was a journey of unimaginable proportions and enigmatic synchronicities that finally culminated in this extraordinary state of communion. From every corner of the universe, all entities involved throughout the duration of this amorous journey wept ethereal tears of togetherness, filling the small but intimate room with their unconditional love. Finally, here they were. Alone. At one. At last.

The overhead iridescence dims, yet the radiance within the room increases infinitely. The silken sheets glide effortlessly over their joy, her arms linking onto his, skin to skin, breast to breast. Their lips draw near, held apart briefly by the warmth of their devoted respiration, before plummeting into divine union, the richness of their embrace sending waves of violet flame shimmering unanimously down their spines. His electric hands saturate her surface, the exponential spark of a thousand strokes permeating deeply into her psyche. Her hair shimmers a vibrant shade of gold as his kiss intensifies, both parties joyously giving, receiving, and eventually succumbing to all that is and all that ever will be.

Time ceases. Love abounds.

She gazes into his closing eyes, savouring every breath he draws and inhaling the luminous energy of which he expels. Whispering softer than that of her velvet skin, she opens a direct line to the centre of his being. Scarcely a moment before he drifts into his most heavenly of slumbers, he becomes engulfed by those
three ………… I
ambrosial ….. LOVE
words …..…….YOU

She must have been sleeptalking.

She awakens at the crack of dawn, and with delicate hesitation, establishes her day by means of a lukewarm shower. Her situation puzzles her whilst the falling water indifferently washes away the thrill of the foregoing evening. Tightening the hot water valve with marginal force, a complication becomes apparent, understandable only to her, as the now-icy stream infiltrates her heart. Unbeknownst to him, her tears of sorrow painfully seep into the drain on that sombre morning.

Tolerating the kiss welcoming her to his glorious day, she is eager to leave the room and get on with exploring the sights of the metropolis. With last night’s adoration far from mind, a hardening bubble appears between his confused advances and her aloof responses. He appreciates her change of gesture, yet his mind cannot cease its stirring, constantly wondering what it was that he has done wrong.

As their second day nears an end, he offers comfort lying closely beside her, gently stroking her cheek with the back of his fingers. He questions her as to why she has appeared so detached. Returning to a similar state of quietude experienced the previous night, albeit a more solemn ambience this time around, she remains unwilling to ignite his confusion any further. She rolls to her side and assumes an artificial state of sleep, careful not to reveal her struggling, silent sobs.

For what seems like countless hours, he lies on his back and stares at the ceiling, his eyes running repeatedly along every nail, contour, crack and defect that he can make out on the dimly lit timber boards above him. Even the spider is aware of his intent glance, his eyes like laser beams, slowing the arachnid to a painful crawl. Wary of making contact but yearning more than ever to lie within her tender hold, he rests his arm by hers and attempts to calm his shattered identity.

On the brink of his drifting off, he becomes subconsciously aware of her shifting arm, and involuntarily adjusts his own to keep his source of chaotic comfort nearby. In an instant and unprovoked fit of rage she snaps her arm away from his touch, and straight down that direct line to the centre of his being she furiously yells
three …….. DON’T
acerbic ….. TOUCH
words ……. ME

He snaps awake. He studies her over. Her eyes: closed. Her muscles: relaxed. Her breathing: heavy and defined. He recoils to the far side of the mattress, feeling every inch the predator that she falsely made him out to be. Despite burning into his endless memory, he will never again mention the horror caused by her sudden nightmarish outburst.

She must have been sleeptalking.

If you’re Australian, chances are you’ve heard the song Breakfast At Sweethearts by legendary Aussie band, Cold Chisel. Written by Don Walker, sung by Jimmy Barnes, and backed by the rest of his Cold Chisel bandmates, Breakfast At Sweethearts was the title track of their 1979 album that epitomized life at the time in the inner Sydney suburb of Kings Cross. Infamous for being Sydney’s red light district, a walk down the main street of Kings Cross today still takes you past countless adult shops, strip clubs, bars and nightclubs, albeit a much more tourist-influenced scene today that what it would have been back in its heyday.

I have always been fascinated by Kings Cross. As a matter of fact, my all time favourite book, Sex ‘n’ Thugs ‘n’ Rock ‘n’ Roll by musician Billy Thorpe, was set in the Cross, which details a year of his life living in the area from 1963-64. I felt so captured by the vibe of Billy’s and Don Walker’s narratives, that for one of my English assignments in year 12, I wrote a spin-off story called “Escape from Sweethearts,” where I tried to put myself in the shoes of Anne-Maria, the Sweethearts waitress mentioned in the song. I would like to share this story with you, but before I do that I must go on a pilgrimage.

Incidentally, I am writing this from a hostel in Orwell Street, just a couple of blocks away from the main drag of Kings Cross. I’ve been based here for the past ten days since my return from the UK, and I’ve often wondered to myself whilst meandering through the streets, where did Billy Thorpe live? Where did Don Walker live? Where was Surf City, the venue where Billy played his legendary first gigs with his band the Aztecs? What kind of antics did the Cold Chisel boys get up to in the early hours of their Saturday nights, “walking into Sunday?” What was Kings Cross really like back in those days? Where exactly was the Sweethearts Cafe?!?

I jumped on the internet earlier this morning to see if I could find it. Firstly I searched for Campbell Lane, as mentioned in the song, where “through the window, curtain rain…” It seemed there was no Campbell Lane in Kings Cross, the nearest being in the inner western suburb of Glebe, about 5km away. Where to look next…? A quick internet search told me that there definitely weren’t any cafes in Sydney any more called Sweethearts, so that was no use to me. Searching for the name of the song didn’t bring up much except for the lyrics, however eventually after a bit more sleuthing I stumbled across an interview that the Sydney Morning Herald had with Don Walker:

“Khe Sanh was written on some scraps of paper at the old Sweethearts” he recalls.

Wow! The most renowned and celebrated of all Australian rock songs, Khe Sanh, was written within the walls of the Sweethearts cafe! I really needed to find this place, wherever it was, and whatever building it is today, just so I could sit there in the same spot and bask in this incredible piece of Australian music history. Then I read on:

“The original Sweethearts Cafe is where McDonald’s is now.”

You have got to be fucking kidding me.

McDonalds.

I nearly cried.

I ordered a chocolate sundae just a few hours ago. It wasn’t the first time I’d eaten at this particular outlet either. I sat at a table, wondering how on earth such an historical cafe could have been allowed to turn into the walls of a junk-promoting, monopolising, profiteering, greedy multinational corporation such as McDonalds. Do the kids of today who sit at these tables, guzzling down their Big Macs and extra large Coke’s realise that some of Australia’s most prized lyrics and melodies stemmed from this exact spot?

I think not.

Here is my story – my year 12 English assignment written in 2001, as spun off from that famous song Breakfast At Sweethearts, and dedicated to all who knew the ups and downs of life in Kings Cross in the 70s:


Escape From Sweethearts

Anne-Maria Smith
Hampton Court Hot
el
Bayswater Road
Kings Cross, NSW 2011

Sweethearts Café
Campbell Lane
Kings Cross, NSW 2011

Dear Sir,

I am writing you this letter to advise you of my resignation as waitress at Sweethearts Café. As of the 15th of August 1984, I will no longer be available for work as I am permanently moving away…

_______________________________________________________

It was never supposed to be like this.

I first came to Sweethearts four years ago as a naïve, innocent and excited young girl that had just moved away from home. Working here as a waitress was to be the starting point to the fulfilment of my childhood dream: I wanted to be well known. I wanted to stand out and be recognised by the community. Unfortunately though, I was too inexperienced and ignorant of what I would be in for. Although I enjoyed it to start off with, waitressing did not turn out to be the opportunistic and prosperous career that I thought it was – and I never imagined I would ever have anything to do with a murder.

Sweethearts is a popular, yet notorious coffee shop situated in the heart of Kings Cross, a suburb of Sydney reputed for its often unpleasant street-lore. Set amidst brothels, strip clubs and sex shops, Sweethearts attracts the majority of its customers during the long, drunken hours of the late night and early morning. Many people come in purely for a coffee and a chat with friends. Others see Sweethearts as a refuge to the busy Kings Cross lifestyle – as if it were somewhere to sit, sober up and think about life for a while.

On the other hand, there are the various assortments of hookers, pimps and drug dealers that come either to sort out a ‘deal’ with a potential customer or for a quiet drink during their late-night break. Many of these customers are actually sincere, caring people who work simply because they need money and cannot manage to find a more conventional form of employment. However, others are criminal and immoral scumbags who profit from ruining the lives of the innocent and uneducated by means of drug dealing and body selling.

One particular customer who I regularly served and got to know quite well was called ‘Mugger.’ Despite the unnerving name, Mugger was actually an outgoing and friendly guy who always gave me a compliment and a large tip whenever I served him. He was considerably older than me, maybe in his mid to late forties, and always looked a little scruffy with his tattooed arms and unshaven face. To the unfamiliar eye, he would have easily been seen as someone who you wouldn’t want on your bad side, but to me he was a good friend.

“Gidday, Anne darling, how’s it going?” he’d ask in his profound Australian accent. “Can you get us the usual please, love?”

The ‘usual’ was a ham sandwich, a strong, black espresso with three sugars and a large chocolate bar. After tipping me the change, he would sit at the bar and swiftly devour his meal.

“You’re gonna go far, love,” he’d tell me when he finished. “Just look at you – young and beautiful. Somebody like you shouldn’t be workin’ in a stingy old coffee shop like this.”

I liked the attention from Mugger. He was definitely a regular at Sweethearts; he usually visited after midnight around three or four times per week. I did notice that Mugger was not one who liked to talk about his personal life. He seemed to ignore questions about what he does for a living, instead changing the subject of conversation to myself. That didn’t worry me, though; whenever Mugger talked about me I actually felt as if I was being noticed. His caring and friendly attitude outweighed any bad qualities he may have had.

How little I knew.

It’s been about five months now since I last saw Mugger. I never want to see him again. Ironically enough, I never will…

My favourite shift at Sweethearts has always been the breakfast shift. It is around breakfast time that the nighttime community go home to recuperate and the daytime community get ready to go to work. The freshness of the morning air puts an end to the stale smell of alcohol that seems to emerge just after sundown. Most morning customers are drunks who stagger in to order a head-clearing coffee, but the general atmosphere is a lot more calm and laid-back than what it is during the night shift.

It was on one particular breakfast shift not long ago that I was settling into a quiet morning of work. I noticed a number of familiar faces eating breakfast after a long night, as well as a few businessmen having a meal before heading off to work. I had not seen Mugger for about two weeks, which was strange, so I was expecting to see him within the next few days.

I had just finished pouring a coffee when I heard a voice behind me. Turning around, I found two high-ranking police officers walking towards the side of the bar.

“Anne-Maria Smith, we believe you have information about the murder of Hank Powers,” one of the officers said. “You are required to come down to the station for questioning.”

I had overheard quite a few people talking about Hank before; apparently he was a notorious pimp who managed the careers of many young prostitutes. I didn’t know anything about a murder! I had tried to stay as far away as possible from sick, depraved people like Hank. Nevertheless, I couldn’t argue with the police.

When I got to the station, I was in shock. One of the officers told me that Hank Powers’ street name was ‘Mugger.’ He had been killed by a hitman who had been hired by one of the women that he managed. The hairs on the back of my neck stood stiff as I was advised of Mugger’s plan to manage and sell myself. I could not believe how such a man could gain my trust and friendship, only to be told the truth about his real life.

On my return to work, I felt sick. I could see the people around me living in their monochrome, fantasy world of drugs and alcohol. I then realised that people saw me as the typical female waitress: young, good looking and ready to be taken advantage of. That was not the situation I wanted to be in.

From that moment on, I lost all trust in the customers I served. Until now, I’ve only been working for the money. Next week I’m moving away – far away – and I’ll be starting a new life. I count myself lucky that I’ve managed to get a second chance, and this time I’m not going to waste it.

_______________________________________________________

When I first applied to work at Sweethearts, I thought I would be making the first move to becoming a well-known, respectable member of the community. Working here has not only ruined my reputation, it has also made me feel as if I was being used for sexual exploitation.


Whilst I was fortunate enough to actually obtain the position, I do not want to be working under these uncomfortable situations any longer.

Yours sincerely,
Anne-Maria Smith.



Breakfast At Sweethearts
– Don Walker

Campbell Lane, and through the window curtain rain
Long night gone, yellow day, the speed shivers melt away

Six o’clock, I’m going down
The coffee’s hot and the toast is brown
Hey, Streetsweeper, clear my way
Sweethearts breakfast the best in town
Oh, o-o-oh, breakfast at Sweethearts
Oh, o-o-oh, breakfast at Sweethearts

Hey, Anne Maria – it’s always good to see her
She don’t smile or flirt, she just wears that mini skirt

Drunks come in. Paper bag, brandivino
Dreams fly away as she pours another cappucino


Here today stands McDonalds, where once there was Sweethearts…

* if you love Aussie music and the way we tell stories about our landmarks, then check out Australia By Song for a massive list of songs written about locations all around this great country of ours.

THINGS I WILL MISS ABOUT THE UK:
* Coleman’s mustard
* Lincolnshire sausage
* The slow food market by the Embankment… mmm spit roast hog, garlic hummus and pigeon!
* Eating organically
* Rachel’s organic Greek style yoghurt with honey, and the Coconut yoghurt as well
* Puccino’s hot chocolate
* Jaffa cakes
* Chocolate that tastes ever so slightly different to Australian chocolate
* Digestives
* (The innocence of originally thinking that Digestives were tablets to help relieve indigestion)
* Yorkshire puddings
* Toad in the hole
* Fish & chips on the Brighton pier on cold winter days
* Mushy peas
* Proper steak & ale pies
* Authentic cave-matured Cheddar cheese
* Breakfast fry-ups
* Ploughman’s lunch
* Walkers Builders Breakfast crisps
* The word “crisps”
* Proper cups of tea (without sugar)
* Tea cosies
* Going out to folk music nights
* Countless amounts of gigs by well-known acts every night in London
* Australian acts who tour Britain and who are greeted with the rapturous support and applause of us expats
* The incredible assortment of theatre, comedy and musicals on nightly display throughout the city
* Locally-owned pubs built on atmosphere
* Historic and unique pubs
* The Tooting Tram & Social
* The Selkirk
* The fact that hardly any pubs have pokies
* Supermarkets that sell alcohol
* Off licences
* Guinness that actually tastes like Guinness should
* Real ale
* PINTS of beer as opposed to those pathetic little “pots” that us Aussies drink!
* Being able to fly to Europe for 20 quid
* Collecting stamps in my passport
* The red circle with the blue line
* Tube station advertisements
* Studying the tube map trying to work out which route will get me home the quickest
* Choosing random stops to get off at and explore, ie. Maida Vale and Ealing Broadway
* Oyster cards
* Night buses home from Brixton
* Cycling through Thornton Heath, Norbury, Streatham, Tooting & Colliers Wood on the way to work
* The massively long escalators at Angel
* Northern Line train carriages
* Coal miners with erections (you had to be there to understand!)
* Double decker buses
* Tube station buskers
* People slagging off Gordon Brown and Boris Johnson in the newspapers
* The Metro, The London Paper and The Evening Standard
* (but not the London Lite, that’s just shite!)
* Page Three girls
* Inquisitive dogs on trains
* Squirrels
* Urban foxes
* Mole hills
* Friendly Wandle Path street cats
* Wild blackberries
* Playing pool, table tennis and guitar on lunch breaks
* Hanging out with Team Six Nations and the rest of the A&C folk every day
* Staff bags
* Team snacks
* Cold, drizzly, overcast weather
* Snow
* Conservatories
* Regional accents
* People telling me that I’m losing my Australian accent
* People mistaking me for a Kiwi or South African
* Making fun of the Welsh just like we make fun of the Kiwi’s 🙂
* The M25
* The fact that motorways are referred to by number rather than name
* Rows of terraced houses
* Independently owned boutique high street stores
* Robbie Williams
* Take That
* Top Gear
* QI
* Cash In The Attic
* The Apprentice
* Jeremy Kyle
* Simon Amstell
* Dara O’Briain
* Susan Boyle
* Dave
* The BBC
* Castles
* Cathedrals
* Actually wanting to walk into a church to marvel at its history and architecture
* Church cemeteries
* Being nine hours behind
* Dyson air blades in airport bathrooms
* Heated towel racks
* The lady who reads the O2 voicemail message
* The lushness of the Wimbledon Common
* The deer within Richmond Park
* Microchipped bank cards
* Not having to select Cheque, Savings or Credit every time I make a transaction with my bank card
* Not being charged for every transaction you make at a cashpoint that is not owned by your specific bank
* The word “cashpoint”
* The word “innit”
* “You alright?”
* The museum quarters at South Kensington
* Hearing about people’s suggestions for places to visit
* Heading out to random towns and villages on the weekend
* The hilarity of Brighton “beach” that doesn’t actually possess any sand
* Boston & Stickney
* Edinburgh… my favourite place in the entire world
* Hanging out with Jess 🙂
* The British postcode system
* Toilets with levers instead of buttons
* The homeless girl in Thornton Heath who keeps asking me for 36p
* The fact that the school year begins in September
* Electric showers
* The bulky but cute three-pronged electrical plugs/sockets
* Camden and Portobello Markets
* Rough Trade Records on Talbot St nearby Portobello Market… the best record store ever
* The music shops on Denmark St
* Incredible, historical architecture
* Red telephone boxes and post boxes
* Bobbies
* Big Ben
* Leicester Square
* The Thames
* The endless fascination with the Royal Family
* British people in general
* The Union Jack
* God Save The Queen

THINGS I WILL NOT MISS ABOUT THE UK:
* 1p and 2p coins
* Living in Thornton Heath

The end!

 The other day I stopped by the cashpoint at Thornton Heath, to withdraw a bit of spending money to see through the weekend. I put my card in, keyed in my PIN, pressed the button that said “£30”, took my card out of the machine… and walked off without the bloody cash! I didn’t even realise until about half an hour later when I went to pay for something and my wallet was empty. I felt like such an idiot!

Skip forward to today. I decided to go for a walk to Croydon to get out of the house, and before too long my thoughts progressed to my absent-mindedness at the cashpoint the other day. 30 quid was a fair amount of money to let go of, but hey, it did teach me a lesson, and I did find comfort in knowing I would have made the day of the next person to use the cashpoint.

Whilst deliberating the hidden meaning behind my lost money experience, as one does when one is alone and has nothing better to do or think about, I noticed two girls walking towards me. As they drew near, I saw what looked like a folded brochure slip out of one of the girls hands, unnoticed, and onto the ground. We walked past each other without acknowledgement, and I inquisitively approached the dropped article to see what it was. It was £15.

Yes, I did give it back, and the girl was very thankful and surprised that she ever saw the money again, given that we were in an area like Croydon! But what are the chances of that? To have lost money, then to be thinking about the experience a few days later, and at exactly the same time to witness someone else lose money?

I feel I’m becoming Synchronicity Central. Stay tuned for more as they happen. And go put an entry into the lotto too 😉

Last Wednesday night I went out to IndigO2 (a venue inside the Millennium dome at Greenwich, London) because O2 had kindly put on a free gig headlined by Australia’s very own singer/songwriter extraordinaire, Ben Lee. Who can’t say no to a free gig?

I’ve always been a fan of Ben, not a die-hard fan or anything, but enough to appreciate his sentiment and follow his career over the years. I’d seen him perform once before in Brisbane back in 2005, not long after he released Awake Is The New Sleep, and I left the gig quite impressed with his showmanship and his ability to work the crowd. He was most definitely a born entertainer.

His gig the other night was no exception to this – from the moment he walked on stage he had the audience in the palm of his hand. He quipped about the set list he’d scribbled on the back of a packet of Sainsbury’s hummous, before taking us on a philosophical journey of his beloved pop music. He brought us back to his breakthrough song of 1998 where he wished we were all wrong, then he regrouped by inviting us all to take part in this together. By the end of his performance the crowd had clearly caught his disease, and we all walked off into the dark with a sense of coming so close to a ripe, numbing sensation of no guilt and all pleasure.

Song-lyric puns aside, there was one tune in particular that Ben sang which really, really intrigued me. I’d never heard it before, and at the time I was under the impression that he had written it himself. I found out later that it was written by a guy called Kristopher Roe and originally recorded by the band he fronts, the Ataris, who I remembered from a few years ago when they did that version of Don Henley’s Boys Of Summer. The song by the Ataris that I’m referring to here, though, is aptly entitled Ben Lee, and the lyrics are as follows:

I never met someone so jaded
Your music’s really over rated
Nothing but a lot of pretentious noise
I know that Claire Danes was your chick
To me you’re just some ugly prick
Who got lucky cause he knew the Beastie Boys
And I can’t stand it

A lot goes on but nothing happens
But this time that’s not true
I wrote this song for you
To tell you that your 15 minutes of fame are almost up
Yeah one more thing, Ben Lee you suck

Bob Dylan must be kinda pissed
Cause you’ve been writing all his hits
Packaged and reprocessed for the world
I’d love to kick you in the face
Break your legs and throw you from a train
Cause you’re such a fucking girl
And I can’t stand it

I guess this song’s come to an end
I’ll say good bye until we meet again
You better stay out of my town
Cause if I had my way
I’d call up Snoop, Ice Cube and Dr. Dre
We’d come and beat you down

You can hear it here:

As you can tell, it’s a hate song – a feeble, pathetic pot-shot. Now when it comes to art and artists, I’m all one for constructive criticism, and I completely understand that everybody is entitled to an opinion, but there comes a point, doesn’t there? Do you really need to go all out and write this kind of blatant negative rubbish about somebody who couldn’t be less deserving of it? Apparently this Kristopher Roe bloke was simply jealous of Ben because he was with Claire Danes at the time, but come on, “I’d love to kick you in the face, break your legs and throw you from a train” is going a bit to extremes isn’t it?

Anyway, the point I want to make here is that at the end of the day, I think Ben himself is the righteous victor of the situation. He had the courage to get up there and sing the words of his very own hate song in front of 1,500 people, and I believe that really says something about his character. His ability to confront his own musical taunts face-to-face and essentially turn a negative around into a positive has ended up being one of the most inspirational three minutes I’ve ever been lucky enough to witness.

He even recorded the song as a bonus track for his latest album, The Rebirth Of Venus. You can hear it here:

Much respect to you, Ben Lee. Much respect to you.

So I’ve just this afternoon come back from my road trip around Scotland and I thought I’d share one of the more interesting experiences I encountered along the way.

I flew into Edinburgh on the 3rd of March, and was completely blown away by its sheer beauty. I didn’t know much at all about the place before my visit, so after checking into the backpackers hostel (directly opposite the magnificent Edinburgh Castle) I hopped onto a tourist bus and took the hour-long journey around the city, listening into the highly entertaining and interesting commentary provided along the way as we passed the local sights. I was especially intrigued to hear about Edinburgh’s bleak past, in particular the townspeoples fascination with public executions over centuries gone by, and also the crime, disease and harsh environment associated with the industrial revolution.

As the bus drove past South Bridge we were given a glimpse into the history behind the 19 archways built back in 1785. Apparently there were hidden, haunted vaults built deep inside the bridge, a few rooms of which were actually accessible to the public on one of the many ghost tours conducted throughout the city. So naturally curiosity got the better of me and I went on one of these tours to see the vaults for myself.

It was 10pm and a group of about 20 brave souls met outside the Tron Kirk, the meeting point for the Auld Reekie Terror Tour, described as follows:

Join us if you dare! This is a no holds barred, adult only tour. We will take you on a journey through the streets of old Edinburgh. It will be dark and dingy and you can imagine for yourselves how the characters of old stalked these very alleys, doing unspeakable deeds and leaving a grisly legacy behind. Hear in every gory detail about the persecution of the witches during the 1600’s and how the plague caused a slow and agonising death. Then, only if you’re ready, enter our underground vaults, home of the South Bridge poltergeist!

Our guide Luke arrived wearing a trenchcoat and carrying a walking stick, and he took us on the initial walk around the cold, dark alleyways. He explained along the way how the booming population of ye olde Edinburgh, mixed with the burden of a man-made wall around its outskirts, meant that the only way people could be housed was to build the city upwards. Of course, structural engineering was not at the standard that it is today, so it came to happen that the timber floors built above the one-story stone buildings eventually collapsed, killing a great many people and rendering the survivors homeless. In time to come, the governing body of the city conveniently declared that all homelessness be illegal, punishable by execution. Those who didn’t want to face a beheading had no other choice but to live underground in the dirty, decrepit South Bridge vaults.

Into the vaults we headed. We were situated within a long, wide corridor, with three rooms built into the left hand side. The first room was a room that is actually still in use today by a group of local Wiccans who perform magick rituals on a regular basis. It was closed to public use, but you could see its full Wiccan setup in the dim light with its pentagram and wands hanging on the wall, and a stone circle in the centre. The second room, we were told, was the most haunted of the three rooms according to the many spiritualists who have studied the vaults. This is where the famed poltergeist was supposed to have resided; a single entity consisting of the souls of those who passed away from the trecherous, disease-ridden conditions of years gone by. However it was the third room towards the end of the corridor that interested me the most.

The Wiccans had actually chosen this particular room as their original venue for performing their rituals. They had it set up in a style much similar to that of the first room we encountered, with the pentagram and stone circle, however all that remained today were the stones, encircling a few cold puddles of water that had dripped down from the ceiling above. We were told that not long after the Wiccans commenced using this room, some very strange things started to happen. For example, objects within the room would move. The temperature would suddenly drop, then rise back up again. The water dripping from the ceiling would only drip within the circle itself, and never form puddles on the outside. People started feeling strange sensations, as if they were being held back or choked. It was clear that the room was possessed by a highly negative energy.

Eventually the leader of the Wiccan group decided to camp overnight within the circle, intending to perform some healing rituals in an attempt to ward away this unaccommodating, disturbing spirit. The night began without trouble, however it wasn’t long before the entity made itself apparent, and the Wiccan leader soon realised that he was fighting against something way beyond his own capabilities. After experiencing an agonizing discomfort and noticing scratches appear over his body, he fled the room and vowed never to set foot in it again.

Among other horrendous occurrences, it was in this room over two centuries ago, that a notorious criminal murdered at least sixteen prostitutes. It is said that the entity haunting this room is made up of the demonic remnants of these poor women.

At the conclusion of the story, Luke invited us to take a step inside the stone circle and experience the energy for ourselves, if we so dared. We were all gathered around the outside of the stones, and it was plain to see the effects of the storytelling had caused quite a lot of unease within the group. Luke confessed that on many occasions he has witnessed members of his tour groups either faint or begin losing their breath upon entering the circle, but that didn’t stop two girls from our group bravely taking a step inside. I followed. I have no fear. We had a quick hug in the middle, before stepping back out and confirming that we were all in fact ok. Nothing out of the ordinary happened, and neither of us felt any form of discomfort. We continued on with our tour, which concluded soon after in a pub where we all had a drink and eventually parted ways.

Now it’s completely understandable at this stage if you think the whole experience of being in a so-called “haunted” environment is a good example of human psychology accentuated by the theatrics of a few hair-raising tales about ghosts. But I haven’t finished my story yet!

It was well past midnight by the time I got back to my hostel room after the tour, so I got changed, went to bed, and had a nice peaceful sleep after a long day. I woke up fairly early in the morning, around 7:30-ish, and did the usual stretch and yawn thing that you do to encourage yourself to get out of bed. I scratched my head, wiped my eyes, and rubbed my hands down my face. It was then that I noticed blood on my hands.

I had a bleeding nose.

I’ve not had a bleeding nose since I was about nine years old.

You can draw your own conclusions on this one my friends, but in my mind this was no coincidence. This was the work of a troubled soul, giving me a warning for wrongly and selfishly entering its territory.

———————————————————————————————

Thrice around the circle bound, evil sink into the ground
Thrice around the circle bound, evil sink into the ground
Thrice around the circle bound, evil sink into the ground

———————————————————————————————

Here is an interesting link regarding a study into paranormal activity within the vaults: http://www.ghostfinders.co.uk/edinburghvaults.html

This is the one and only photo I managed to take within the vaults. Unfortunately it was pitch black, but you can just make out an artefact and a few crosses on the rear wall.


If you enjoyed reading this, then perhaps you’ll also enjoy reading about my other ghostly experience at the Toowong Cemetery, Brisbane, in October 2010: A Strange Thing Happened At Toowong Cemetery

1. I don’t think there’s place in the world any more for Roman numerals.

2. For many years now I’ve been trying to write a song containing the word “meniscus,” but I can never seem to fit it in anywhere.

3. The best thing I’ve done since being in the UK was spend the day in Hathersage, in the Peak District. I’d gladly live that day again.

4. I think it’s wrong to ever blatantly criticise any form of artwork – whether it be music, photography, painting, fashion, theatre, poetry or whatever. Opinions are understandable, constructive critisism is great, but to put down someone’s creation by needlessly slamming them is an act of the devil as far as I’m concerned.

5. It took me four months to realise my paper train ticket could get me onto the tube as well. If I’d have known that earlier, I could have saved £160 on my Oyster card. Dammit!

6. If I chose to study again one day, I would do so in a field such as natural or vibrational medicine.

7. Sarah is going to think I stole this one off her list, but I too am fascinated by the English language, especially its eccentricities. Palindromes, spoonerisms, anagrams, pangrams, oxymorons, sesquipedalians… broufing it oufon!

8. My life seems to be one massive synchronicity, and I’m constantly amazed and intrigued by the coincidences I experience. Following them has led me to where I am today.

9. One of the few immediate things I miss about Australia is the music. We have so much genric diversity and I feel Aussie songs tell an overall more sincere story and have a more appealing sentiment to those written elsewhere.

10. I think much of what we’re led to believe in the world is conspiratory. There’s so much suppressed information out there that the governments are purposefully holding back so as to retain power over the people.

11. My favourite chord is Fmaj7sus2.

12. I think Northern line tube trains are the best designed of all the lines.

13. If there was one place in the world I would choose to travel to, it would be Egypt. I will get there one day, when the time is right.

14. I think one of the best songs ever written is The Last Resort, by The Eagles. You should listen to it.

15. I purchased my first mobile phone in 2001, and on all phones owned since then, I have NEVER changed the ringtone from the Nokia tune.

16. I would do anything to be able to relive the last seven months of my life, knowing what I know now.

17. I wish I could play the piano.

18. I have been lucky enough to meet my musical idol backstage at a theatre, where he showed me how to play one of his songs on guitar.

19. Whilst I still appreciate optimism, lately I have been finding a strange inspiration in hearing other people’s stories of heartbreak and tragedy.

20. I think death is a positive experience for the person going through it.

21. I fear that the music of yesteryear will one day be forgotten. I don’t think we should ever write music off as being “old,” but instead appreciate it for the place it once had in society. It saddens me to think that the youth of today would never have heard of musicians such as Arlo Guthrie, whom I incidentally saw perform tonight, and was extremely impressed with. That kinda stuff should never be lost.

22. Although I do not agree with the consumption of hallucinogenic drugs, I believe everybody should try them at least once in their lifetime.

23. My earliest memory is being on the street in a pram in 1986, watching Halley’s comet and wondering what the big fuss was all about!

24. I think squirrels are cuter than kangaroos.

25. I love London, I love my job, and I love the people I’m surrounded by. You’re all bloody awesome 🙂

Back in the days playing gigs in pubs around south-east Queensland we’d always meet characters. Some people were hilarious, some were drowning their sorrows, some were agressive, some were flirty, some were complete nutters, and some had really amazing stories to tell.

We had a residency on Tuesday nights at the Parkwood Tavern on the Gold Coast, and there was this one girl in particular who was a regular at the pub. I gradually got to know her as weeks went by, and one night during breaks between sets she completely opened up to me about her past. Her story really, really moved me, and later on that night I sat and wrote down everything I could remember about our conversation, with the intention of one day turning her life story into a song. I’m yet to do that, and to be honest I’d completely forgotten about her until the other day when I happened to read over my old notes. A flood of memories came rushing back, and I’m going to share her story here, both because I wonder how she’s doing today, and also because it makes me realise how fucking lucky I am to be living the life I’m living.

Just a warning: it’s a bit explicit.

It was the 20th of March, 2007. I didn’t get her name. Well I’m sure I did at some stage, but I didn’t make note of it, and I definitely can’t remember it. She was in her early 20’s, quite attractive, fairly thin and around 170cm tall with light brown/blondish hair. She exuberated a very honest, friendly personality, and she also had quite a “simple” feel to her, suggesting she wasn’t the academic type and didn’t really have any major ambitions in life. Despite this, however, I got a clear impression from early on that she was vulnerable, and there was something underneath her confident disposition that suggested all was not well.

You wouldn’t have known it at a first glance, but she was a junkie. She used to be on ice, speed and ecstacy, although she was adamant she’d been off all that for quite some time and had ceased contact with her suppliers. She still wasn’t off the drugs completely though, and admitted she still smoked a lot of pot and often needed five cones just to get to sleep at night. She smoked cigarettes too, but doesn’t hold her alcohol very well. She had been working on cutting down her overall consumption… it’s been difficult though, and she assured me she’d been trying her best.

She worked part time at a car detailing workshop, but it was hard work, the hours had been very thin lately, and she only ever worked on weekends. In a good week she’d make $180, in addition to the minimal Centrelink benefits she was entitled to. It wasn’t very much to live on at all, but she’d made a deal with her landlord (he was actually the estate manager, not the owner itself), who had agreed to give her a $50 discount off her weekly rent if she gives him a massage.

The landlord was a complete and utter creep. She hated him. Initially he only forced her to hug him, an act of which she bitterly obliged, but gradually his advances became more and more thorough. His hugs were painful, and he would squeeze and grind into her body to the point where it physically hurt. One day he noticed a pimple on one of her breasts, and he used that as an excuse to cross the line. She had no choice but to just let it happen. She lived with him, he was the boss, and she had nowhere else to go aside from the streets. The weekly “massages” weren’t just a back & shoulders, they were the whole deal. Front and down below as well. All the way. But if it meant $50 off her rent, it was worth doing.

It wasn’t abuse, she claimed, just harrassment. She could live with it.

Understandably though, she had a disrespect and mistrust in men like you would never believe, which more than explained why she was a lesbian.

The problem being that her current girlfriend had been very distant lately, and showing signs of schitzophrenia. They’d been getting along amazingly in the inital few weeks of their relationship, but they’d only recently started taking the next step together, and for some reason her girlfriend wasn’t being receptive at all. She was afraid she’d been putting too much pressure on her, because only recently after thinking her girlfriend had finally gotten over her inhibitions, she stopped mid-act, couldn’t take any more and burst into an emotional mess. All this had put a massive strain on their relationship, until just the other day when she found out the real reason why her girlfriend had been showing such a lack of intimacy. She’d admitted that she was HIV positive.

They broke up.

She was devastated. She really liked this girl. But she was determined to keep looking for the girl of her dreams, and despite her lack of confidence in ever finding a suitable partner, she was adamant that aside from the situation with her manipulative landlord, she would NEVER go back to men. Lately she’d been flirting with a few of the female customers who come into her workplace, hoping that one day she’ll see sparks fly with one of them.

She’d had an abusive childhood. Her father left before she was even born, and she was brought up by an uncaring mother, who regularly received (and still does receive) an income by means of prostitution. When she was six years old, she remembers her mother taking her to a bikers bar, where the bikers would make her undress and perform unmentionable acts in return for bags of lollies. Later on in life, she recalled this information to her mother, who flew into a fit of rage and accused her of being a “lying slut.” She will never see eye-to-eye with her again.

She’d been with many, many guys in the past, all of whom had simply taken advantage of her. She never felt loved or wanted by any of them, but at the same time she would do whatever it took to gain their illegitimate trust, or to simply stop them from being violent or abusive, an act of which she experienced many times. Most of these guys provided her with drugs, money or somewhere to sleep for the night, and it was due to this that she claimed at one stage, she slept with a different guy almost every week for the period of about nine months.

She cares so much for her brother. He’s young, and she’s worried, because he’s constantly getting into trouble with the law. She was a little taken aback recently because he asked if he could film some of her lesbian antics and put them up on the internet, as he apparently had contacts who would pay top cash for that kind of material. She’s doesn’t want to say yes, but she hadn’t yet said no. Anything to help her little brother…

* * *

As you can imagine, by this stage I was sitting with my mouth gaping open, listening intently, feeling all her sorrow and pain as she recollected her past traumas. There was a forlorn authenticity to her tone and body language that assured me she wasn’t bullshitting. She was the real deal.

All I could do was apologise to her. I apologised on behalf of the male gender for turning her life in the hellhole that it clearly was. I apologised for the fact that she’d had the misfortune of meeting so many scheming, scathing, downright fucking pigs who have the audacity to call themselves human beings. I felt embarrassed to be a man, embarrassed that she’d not been given the chance to experience the love and affection a real man could offer, and embarrassed by the fact that I’ve complained about my life, which was in effect, a complete breeze compared to hers. And on top of all this, I didn’t understand why she’d chosen to tell me her story. After all, was I not a man? Was I not one of those same materialistic fuckers who’d ruined her every hope of a normal, happy life? Indeed, she said, I was a man, but I wasn’t like any of the men she’d talked about. She told me she trusted me. We’d met a few times in weeks gone by, and she said she simply felt comfortable and at ease around me. Maybe that was an example of her downside coming through – how she had too much trust in people – but at the same time, I felt honoured for such a tortured soul to admit to such a hopeful statement.

The great shock came towards the end of our conversation, when she told me that she was happy. She was actually happy to have lived an agonizing youth, because she felt it’s moulded her into a strong person, and anything she embarks upon in life from now onwards can only be bigger and better than that of the past.

Why, only the other day she was watching TV and saw a documentary on a six month old girl having to work for a living. Her job was simply to dig through junk, resulting in the cutting and bleeding of her tiny hands, in order to find items of value to sell. Her family earned the equivalent of 20 cents per day, and they owned a traffic island in the middle of a street, where they lived.

“Life isn’t that bad after all,” she told me. “My soul will keep me going.”

* * *

She never came back to another gig after that night, and I never saw her again.

I hope you’re doing well, wherever you are. May your soul keep you going.