The Blood on the Floor is Real

As Anne Rouen, I take no interest, whatsoever, in modern politics. Now, if it were historical … However, as an Australian citizen, I find the current penchant for trashing the character of political rivals truly appalling. As an observer of history, I am impartial. Offenders are equally guilty, no matter which standard they rally behind.

Do we pay these people immense salaries to comport themselves like spiteful children when there are, literally, world shattering issues to consider? Quite frankly, it is a spectacle that nauseates me.

A person’s character is his/her most precious commodity; their very essence; all that they are, or have the potential to be – the whole man or woman. Therefore, to assassinate the character …

Should we look on without protest while others systematically and determinedly destroy that person with no other desire than to remove a rival from the political scene? Is that not our job at the ballot box? I, for one, find it a despicable method of reducing the field.

Our pollies talk a lot about blood on the floor. Metaphorically, thank goodness, but it is the same intent to destroy. Back in my time, the blood on the floor was real, pumping from a dying body. If, as we believe, my ancestors were Huguenots – French Protestants – then they knew all about it. The trouble with history is that, now and again, it has a tendency to repeat.

We need to be sure that parliamentary debate is healthy, about pertinent topics that enhance the lives of the citizens of this country; that question time is not a metaphorical Coliseum with the loser thrown to ravening lions; or a mud-slinging contest with the victim drowning in slime.

Wasting our time and abusing our intellects with this type of smear campaign is unconscionable when our economy needs the greatest bi-partisan care and attention to survive.

Wake up, Pollies! The masses are more intelligent than you give us credit for.

 

Breast Cancer Month

Well, it’s Pink Ribbon month, again. Notice I say month and not week? Here in Manilla, we celebrate it with gusto, the whole month of October, every business decorating its premises, all the assistants, including men, wearing pink. Today, we had our annual Pink Ribbon Afternoon Tea held at Harry and Robyn Fletcher’s ‘Tandarrra’. Guests arrived with one intention, to spend as much as they could to raise money for cancer research, while having a rocking good time to the music of country artists such as our own John Brand and Max Ellis.

Of course, this is a time that I reflect on my own lucky escape, and the wonderful gift that came with it – precious time to write. From the fabulous surgeon specialist who saved my life, to the kindly, anonymous person who sewed a soft, first prosthesis, and a dear little purple cushion for my arm (which I still have), I was overwhelmed by love and kindness – truly a positive in a devastating situation.

Through it all, all the fellow sufferers I met in clinics, hospital and surgeries, I found it amazing that, though from different walks of life, age groups etc., we all had one thing in common. Yes, you say, breast cancer. But, no, it was our attitude we all had in common. It did not matter how we approached the reality of our diagnosis – stoic, panic-stricken, silent, go-it-alone misery, or sharing and seeking support, we all said the same thing. Do you know what it was? Of course, you do! Don’t you?

I did not think it would happen to me!