Easy money: Come and get some
A remarkable thing happened yesterday . . . No, not the bombs in London or the greater catastrophe of England’s disintegration against the bowling of Glenn McGrath. I received a letter that, for the first time in my 65-year history, could genuinely have been headed: I AM FROM THE GOVERNMENT AND I AM HERE TO HELP YOU.
It came from the NSW Office of State Revenue and explained that it was responsible for administering the Unclaimed Money Act of 1995. Now that is the kind of Act I like to see on the statute book it should, perhaps, lie in gilded print alongside such other long overdue measures such as the Free Beer Act, the Lock Up Bank Executives Act and the No More Mention of Delta, Kylie and Nicole on the Front Page of the Sydney Morning Herald Act.
Anyway, it appears that under this Act I am due $1,453.37 in unclaimed superannuation being held for me by the kind and attentive public servants who are responsible for operating this admirable legislation. They have tracked me down to Springwood and are now waiting for me to prove that I am indeed the Ron Knowles who worked for IDG publications in the early 1990s – which I did, but had forgotten about on account of the brief nature of my spell there and the unrelenting tedium of the work there.
From Springwood to Cesseras is, of course, a long way, involving some delay. There will inevitably be further delay before I am able to claim and gather into my arms my errant cash, since the documents I need to prove my case are in storage in Springwood.
Of course, if only we had proper anti-terrorism laws which require each of us, before we are allowed to be at large, to have an ID card, complete with its biometric bag of tricks to track our every step and bowel movement, it would the matter of only moments before the money was in my account and earning interest.
“What price liberty?” I hear you cry. “One thousand, four hundred and fifty-three dollars and thirty-seven cents,” I reply.
We have of late been entertaining friends from around the world – well, from Canberra and Cambridge. Bill Powell, my best man of 42 years ago, finally fulfilled his threat to visit us in France and stayed with us for three nights in Douzillac. Now only a crumbling ruin of the man who has bedded the willing beauties (not to mention some of the sceptical ones), Bill ruminates fondly and amusingly on his memories these days – but what memories! They are more colourful and gratifying than most men’s realities.
We have also had a visit in Cesseras from Peter Downs, of the Australian Institute of Sport, and his wife, Dorrie, a teacher, a witty and energetic couple who demolished the commonly-held belief that Canberra was the exclusive haven of bores. Peter heads a department at the AIS that deals with handicapped people of all sporting levels – from the elite Para Olympians to the sub-Knowlesian types. He is also a great fund of Tommy Cooper and Morecambe and Wise jokes.
Dorrie is a delight, full of laughter and sparkle, who teaches children with special needs. She was not, however, prepared to treat Bill’s special needs.
In a moment of insane misadventure I committed us all to a three-hour canoe trip down the Vezere last weekend. The others took twin canoes, but Bill, Marina and I commandeered a three-seater, with Marina at the helm, Bill in the middle, and me astern, bearing responsibility for steering the demonstrably unstable craft through the many rapids, when I am unnerved even by the slows.
It was pre-destined for disaster, which duly descended upon us when we grated to a halt in the unseasonally, drought-blighted river at a point when the bed of the Vezere is strewn with pebbles that are particularly painful on bare feet, such as we had at the time. The only things sharper than the pebbles were the recriminations. Of course, they all fell on me as the steerer, since I had unreasonably responded to calls from the other two to “go right” by taking the canoe precisely on that course against all my instincts to go left, where the boats earlier behind us were nonchalantly leaping through like salmon eager to spawn.
Then Bill “developed” a pain in the arse, literally, and sullenly refused to paddle for long periods, for which only my Paul Robeson Sanders of the River performance could compensate to get us back to base and the salvation of a cooling beer at a riverside pub.
It got better then, though. A posse of young women riding bareback on fine horses splashed into the river, whooping with the excitement of being young and lovely on a bright summer’s day of 35C. Dorrie took photos, Peter rolled his eyes and Bill’s arse improved no end.
I have to say that my mood improved as reports came in about yesterday’s bomb outrages in London. I was visiting a friend, Barrie, who has satellite TV. Amid the usual panted statements of the bleeding obvious, gushes of received wisdom and maunderings of speculation a “reporter” shamelessly wielding a microphone bearing the Sun logo shoved it into the face of an Arab, previously identified as a hate-filled cleric on the dole, and asked him for a comment. The tall, white-robed, bearded Osama lookalike cast a glance of stern disdain at his interlocutor and responded: “I do not talk to representatives of pornography.”
Among the panic and paranoia censorship continues. The Guardian has declined to publish the following letter I submitted an hour ago:
Sir: It is surely beyond coincidence that during the attacks on the US, and more recently on London, the attention of our national leaders, Bush and Blair, has been diverted by the same man – a foreigner. On both occasions the so-called Prime Minister of Australia, John Howard, was visiting when the terrorists struck.
Is it not time for the patriotic journalists of the Daily Mail to publish a front-page alert to the government, warning in large type above a photograph of this sinister interloper: KEEP THIS MAN
OUT OF BRITAIN!
Your mother says I will get us all locked up. However, I have pointed out to her that the law making it a capital offence to mock Mr Blair or think ill of any of his cronies, sycophants and satraps has yet to get through its Second Reading.
It came from the NSW Office of State Revenue and explained that it was responsible for administering the Unclaimed Money Act of 1995. Now that is the kind of Act I like to see on the statute book it should, perhaps, lie in gilded print alongside such other long overdue measures such as the Free Beer Act, the Lock Up Bank Executives Act and the No More Mention of Delta, Kylie and Nicole on the Front Page of the Sydney Morning Herald Act.
Anyway, it appears that under this Act I am due $1,453.37 in unclaimed superannuation being held for me by the kind and attentive public servants who are responsible for operating this admirable legislation. They have tracked me down to Springwood and are now waiting for me to prove that I am indeed the Ron Knowles who worked for IDG publications in the early 1990s – which I did, but had forgotten about on account of the brief nature of my spell there and the unrelenting tedium of the work there.
From Springwood to Cesseras is, of course, a long way, involving some delay. There will inevitably be further delay before I am able to claim and gather into my arms my errant cash, since the documents I need to prove my case are in storage in Springwood.
Of course, if only we had proper anti-terrorism laws which require each of us, before we are allowed to be at large, to have an ID card, complete with its biometric bag of tricks to track our every step and bowel movement, it would the matter of only moments before the money was in my account and earning interest.
“What price liberty?” I hear you cry. “One thousand, four hundred and fifty-three dollars and thirty-seven cents,” I reply.
We have of late been entertaining friends from around the world – well, from Canberra and Cambridge. Bill Powell, my best man of 42 years ago, finally fulfilled his threat to visit us in France and stayed with us for three nights in Douzillac. Now only a crumbling ruin of the man who has bedded the willing beauties (not to mention some of the sceptical ones), Bill ruminates fondly and amusingly on his memories these days – but what memories! They are more colourful and gratifying than most men’s realities.
We have also had a visit in Cesseras from Peter Downs, of the Australian Institute of Sport, and his wife, Dorrie, a teacher, a witty and energetic couple who demolished the commonly-held belief that Canberra was the exclusive haven of bores. Peter heads a department at the AIS that deals with handicapped people of all sporting levels – from the elite Para Olympians to the sub-Knowlesian types. He is also a great fund of Tommy Cooper and Morecambe and Wise jokes.
Dorrie is a delight, full of laughter and sparkle, who teaches children with special needs. She was not, however, prepared to treat Bill’s special needs.
In a moment of insane misadventure I committed us all to a three-hour canoe trip down the Vezere last weekend. The others took twin canoes, but Bill, Marina and I commandeered a three-seater, with Marina at the helm, Bill in the middle, and me astern, bearing responsibility for steering the demonstrably unstable craft through the many rapids, when I am unnerved even by the slows.
It was pre-destined for disaster, which duly descended upon us when we grated to a halt in the unseasonally, drought-blighted river at a point when the bed of the Vezere is strewn with pebbles that are particularly painful on bare feet, such as we had at the time. The only things sharper than the pebbles were the recriminations. Of course, they all fell on me as the steerer, since I had unreasonably responded to calls from the other two to “go right” by taking the canoe precisely on that course against all my instincts to go left, where the boats earlier behind us were nonchalantly leaping through like salmon eager to spawn.
Then Bill “developed” a pain in the arse, literally, and sullenly refused to paddle for long periods, for which only my Paul Robeson Sanders of the River performance could compensate to get us back to base and the salvation of a cooling beer at a riverside pub.
It got better then, though. A posse of young women riding bareback on fine horses splashed into the river, whooping with the excitement of being young and lovely on a bright summer’s day of 35C. Dorrie took photos, Peter rolled his eyes and Bill’s arse improved no end.
I have to say that my mood improved as reports came in about yesterday’s bomb outrages in London. I was visiting a friend, Barrie, who has satellite TV. Amid the usual panted statements of the bleeding obvious, gushes of received wisdom and maunderings of speculation a “reporter” shamelessly wielding a microphone bearing the Sun logo shoved it into the face of an Arab, previously identified as a hate-filled cleric on the dole, and asked him for a comment. The tall, white-robed, bearded Osama lookalike cast a glance of stern disdain at his interlocutor and responded: “I do not talk to representatives of pornography.”
Among the panic and paranoia censorship continues. The Guardian has declined to publish the following letter I submitted an hour ago:
Sir: It is surely beyond coincidence that during the attacks on the US, and more recently on London, the attention of our national leaders, Bush and Blair, has been diverted by the same man – a foreigner. On both occasions the so-called Prime Minister of Australia, John Howard, was visiting when the terrorists struck.
Is it not time for the patriotic journalists of the Daily Mail to publish a front-page alert to the government, warning in large type above a photograph of this sinister interloper: KEEP THIS MAN
OUT OF BRITAIN!
Your mother says I will get us all locked up. However, I have pointed out to her that the law making it a capital offence to mock Mr Blair or think ill of any of his cronies, sycophants and satraps has yet to get through its Second Reading.
posted by knowles at 5:27 AM
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