I'm more than a bit fed up with Firefox at the moment. I am unable to respond to comments on my blog...on my post below!!! I am getting no assistance in fixing this problem. So very frustrating!
My family ties to Gympie had been severed a few years earlier. With my brother Graham married, raising his family, and working in Mackay, a city in North Queensland, Mum and Nana left Gympie to live at Slade Point, a seaside suburb of Mackay, to be closer to my brother and his family. Thoughtfully and generously in gratitude for both women having gone through many hardships and difficulties to ensure he and I each had a secure upbringing, and a happy, as near to normal childhood as possible, Graham purchased a small two-bedroom house for them to begin their new lives. Rarely taking time off from work, I made infrequent, fleeting visits to welcome a new nephew, or niece, whenever whichever applied. Graham had three children. Separately, individually, Mum and Nana came for lengthier stays with me in Brisbane. So much was happening around me in my workplace. I had a lot of responsibilities during those exciting times and, of course, to be honest, paraphrasing the lyrics of a song, “I didn’t want to miss out on a thing”.
In fact, because I had so much time and money owing to me from leave not taken, I innocently became the pawn in a game orchestrated by the union in the Sydney hosiery factory. I had never been a member of a union, and to this day the status quo remains. It is probably why the union mob chose me to be the scapegoat in their silly, time consuming game. I had nothing to do with the workers within Sydney factory, nor them, with me. The reasoning, which was beyond my logical thought and comprehension at the time, continues to baffle me these many years later.
When I was advised by head office in Sydney that the union threatened to close down the Sydney factory; that it was bandying my name around without my permission, setting me up as some example in their socialistic blackmail, I saw red. The stupidity of it all made me feel white-hot anger. To this day, even though my reaction to being held to ransom cost me a lot, I have never regretted what I did.
Sitting quietly, alone in my office, I wrote a concise, precise, succinct note to the company in Sydney asking my letter be passed onto the union. No one advised me how to handle the matter, nor did they know what I had in mind to do. It was something I had to handle personally, I believed. I told no one, not even John, my boss, until after I wrote and posted the letter.
In the letter I wrote: “My not taking holidays has been of my own choosing and free will. I write to inform you that I hereby forfeit and relinquish all time and monies owing to me from accrued holiday leave, and from accumulated sick leave.”
I felt like telling them to “put that in their pipes and smoke it” or more descriptively harshly, to put it where the sun didn’t shine, but, I kept my dignity intact.
The strike action didn’t go ahead. I heard nothing further from the union, not even an acknowledgement to my letter.
Promotional evenings continued. Some were organised to be held “out-of-premises”; in chosen restaurants or major city hotels. John and I appeared together on a local Brisbane morning televisions programme, which was hosted by a gentleman named, John Crook. We discussed Kolotex pantyhose, the benefits etc., and the place the company held within the industry nationally.
One special fun (hilarious) event I organised was held at “The Courtyard Restaurant” in the suburb of Bowen Hills. We had held one or two functions at the restaurant previously. John and I had also often hosted luncheons for business associates. The particular evening was to have a “Hawaiian” theme, for no particular reason other than I thought it would be fun. The evening wasn’t to present a new product, but a goodwill-public relations gesture for the buyers and departmental managers from Brisbane’s Myer stores. More than likely, to be honest, it was just a good excuse to have a party!
During the few weeks leading up to the evening, I spent time with the owner/chef of the restaurant, planning the format and choosing the menu for the evening’s pleasures. We decided upon a luau. Not an authentic Hawaiian Luau, of course, as the party was to be held in-doors in the restaurant’s function room, but it was the theme we chose.
A long, low table made from trestles set on blocks was laid out. It ran down the centre of the room and was to be surrounded by large plump cushions for the guests to sit and lounge upon. The room was transformed from a boring nondescript one of shades of grey and burgundy to a tropical paradise filled with potted ferns, palm fronds, banana leaves, frangipani blooms, hibiscus flowers and vibrant, multi-coloured sprays of bougainvillea blossoms. I begged, borrowed, but didn’t steal fish-nets, shells and Japanese floating buoys.
As an aside, the owner of “The Courtyard Restaurant” represented Australian in the 1972 Summer Olympics in the weight-lifting section.
Generously, a neighbour of one staff member lent me a small, no-longer-sea-going craft that was decoratively placed at one end of the room, with much effort and sweat! I went on a search of suitable Hawaiian music, and in the meanwhile, hired grass skirts and leis for my junior female staff members. Much to their shock-horror, I told them of my plans, and their roles in those plans for the evening. Under instruction, after they finally realised I was serious, I guided them in the art of hula-dancing. Under my strict choreography, they spent their lunch hours leading up to the event, learning how to sway to the music. It was so funny. They did everything possible to try to talk me out of their on-stage debut performance, but I wouldn’t listen to the many excuses they invented. Too much fun was being had, and I knew that eventually, they, too, would enjoy “the moment”.
Melbourne Cup Day was the day before the event. Melbourne Cup Day in our Baxter Street premises was always “party day”. “Sweeps” were organized. Fresh prawns brought in from popular seafood outlet, Burleigh Marr at Breakfast Creek, an area well-known to "Brisbanites", together with other delicious savoury delights were part of the afternoon celebrations. Each year, our boss generously supplied a television set from his home, or hired one for the staff to be able to watch the famous horse race. Equally generously, he went to the Tattersall’s Club for lunch, leaving the rest of us to the fun and games.
Come mid-day someone was nominated to drive to Burleigh Marr to pick up the ordered seafood. Usually the day before Melbourne Cup Day, I was responsible for to picking up the necessary liquor supplies, together with appropriate mixes. From noon onwards, no work was conducted by the Queensland office. The Glo International showroom became the site for the party.
Each year at these parties, I knew there was no point expecting work out of any of us, once the feature race had been run. Grabbing some petty cash, I would commandeer one of the store men to run across to the pub on the corner up the road from our premises to purchase a bottle of Scotch whisky, John’s spirit of choice. As soon as our boss arrived after his lengthy lunch at his Club, he’d be confronted by his high-spirited staff, and me, placing a glass of Scotch in his hand. He had no choice, other than to join in the revelry. He learned very quickly that any protests he made were purposely not heard, or were purposely ignored.
The Melbourne Cup Day party before the Hawaiian party at the restaurant, John walked into the showroom to be confronted by the sight of two of his salesmen, Ken and Charles, with leis around their necks, dressed in hula skirts, swaying non-seductively, out of beat, to the rhythm of Hawaiian music blasting forth. John just shook his head, burst out laughing, and joined in with the fun. He knew he didn’t have a chance in winning the argument. What fun was had and shared that afternoon. A wonderful, crazy example of “staff bonding”.
The following day was busily spent finishing off the final arrangements for the evening ahead. My “girls”, the “stars” of the show were still good-humoured protesting about their coming performance, but I remained adamant. I told them “this could be your defining moment!”
At the restaurant, dressed in their grass skirts, bikini-tops and colourful leis the time arrived for their opening act. Nervously, they clustered together in a room off to the side of the stage that had been set up in the function room.
Being the consummate “agent/manager/choreographer” my main fear was not that they wouldn’t go on, but that they would get the giggles. With a straight face, trying to hold down my own laughter, I glared at them, threatening them with all my might if they dared giggle they would regret it for life. The “Spectre of Lee” would haunt them forever. I instructed them not to look at each other while on stage, but to “get up there and give it your all!”
And that they did…expertly. Not a beat was missed as they did their “dance”. They were brilliant, receiving loud applause and accolades from our guests at the end of their performance. I sighed with relief! As did they, I am sure.
They each told me later that they weren’t game to get the giggles; that I had put the fear of God into them with my before-performance lecture and threat! We laughed many times afterwards when we talked about that night. No harm was done; no one was embarrassed, and a lot of fun was had.
I think my original thought for this particular theme emanated from my childhood. When I was a little girl, I always dressed as an Hawaiian Hula dancer when I attended our local children's fancy dress balls.
A number of years ago one of the lasses who was a member of the “dance troupe’ came to visit me here where I presently live. She was, at that stage, the possessor of a Phd. in Marketing, and was lecturing at Griffith University on the Gold Coast. Recalling the Hawaiian night, we laughed our heads off over it. Again, she told me there was no way they were going to get the giggles. “Lee” had spoken! At least on the night, my conviction and firm words worked, even if I was trying vainly to bury my own laughter. I will always remember the looks of absolute terror on their faces before they went “on stage”. I wish I had a video, or at least photographs of that evening’s performance.
Our guests sipped on colourfully-decorated tropical cocktails served in scooped -out pineapples upon arrival. Some chose to stay with the cocktails throughout the evening, others drank their choice of beverages. Sounds of "ooi-ng and ahh-ing" echoed through the room when dinner was served. The food was laid out down the centre of the table. The menu included, as the centre-piece, a whole suckling pig, its crackling crisp and golden, served on a large platter surrounded by char-grilled pineapple rings and stuffed tomatoes. It was accompanied by chicken dishes, baked fish, coconut prawns, laden fresh fruit platters, confetti rice, vegetables, and a variety of salads. The feast was followed by coconut desserts, macadamia nut tarts, and more.
Those who managed to drag themselves away from the low-set table danced the night, and the calories, away. Others chose to watch on from their large cushions, chatting amongst each other as their meal digested slowly.
The night was a huge success. Everyone had a wonderful time,
including my "hula dancers", who, by the way, never went on to
achieve fame and fortune on the stage circuit!
To be continued...
| Aerial view of Brisbane western suburb, Kenmore |
 |
| Cadell Street, Toowong....nowadays |
During these years, Randall and I continued our contact by
the written word. He was still living and working in New York, but was also doing a lot of travel
wide and far from his base. For a time he and a mate travelled frequently
between New York and London scouring the countryside of England for antiques,
which they brought back to New York City and sold to the budding British
tourist trade! At that time, too, he and his friend had set up a small company
selling cheap airline tickets, similar to what Freddie Laker was doing. Randall’s
life was going full steam ahead, as was mine.
My landlord of the Toowong unit met a young lady. Soon thereafter they married. He moved out of
his town-house apartment, which was situated at the far end of the building. I
relinquished my apartment to move into his vacant town-house. I also took taking on the responsibility of
managing the units on his behalf. Within a short time, he sold the whole
complex to an Australian-Chinese gentleman who, at the time, was based in
Goroka, Papua New Guinea. A meeting was arranged between me and the new owner,
Tennyson Lau. Tennyson was happy to have me continue to manage the complex. The
status quo remained.
The building was tenanted with "twenty-something"
occupants, all of whom were busy working in their various careers. I befriended
one particular tenant, Margaret, who like me, had a keen interest in food, the
preparation thereof, and entertaining dinner guests. Between the two of us, we
threw many dinner parties. It became our habit each Friday evening to prepare
Spaghetti Marinara. I'm not sure how it all began, but soon we had a small,
friendly, high-spirited competition going on to discover who could make the
best, perfect Spaghetti Marinara. Neither of us won...I
think it was a dead-heat, but the feasts were worth it. Alternate Fridays we
would host our "Marinara" soiree, accompanied with red wine, garlic
bread, good music, much laughter and interesting conversation. Sometimes it
would be just the two of us, other times honoured others were invited to be guests
at our festivities.
Margaret and I often met up after work to have a few drinks at a cocktail bar.
Our favourite at the time was the "Hour-Glass Bar" at the Criterion
Hotel in George Street, in the inner city area. Every so often either one of us
threw a small party of up to 12-15 people at our respective apartments. It was
at one of the parties Margaret met Denis, who later became her husband. Denis
was a welcome addition to our Friday night "Marinara" restricted
social circle. There was no one "special" in my life, but I was
living a life fulfilled; a life which included a wide group of friends.
My boss and his wife became close friends. Often on Sunday mornings, I was
invited to their home in the western suburb of Kenmore for "choir
practice", to be followed by a special Sunday lunch. "Choir
Practice" commenced around 10.30-11 am out on their patio. The bar opened
upon my arrival. Between drinks and conversation, I'd play with their young
sons who were “shooting up” rapidly. The two boys and I had formed a strong
bond from when they were babies. I was part of their life, which included being
their "pillow-fight" buddy.
During those Sundays I spent at their home, the boys and I ran riot, with their parents in the background telling me I was worse than the kids! Many times when the “oldies” had to go away, whether for matters of business, such as conferences etc., or sometimes for an "escape" weekend, I'd move into their home to look after the boys. Those times were filled with fun and games. We had football matches down the hallway, exploding into the family room, along with wild pillow-fights each night before the boys went to bed. I took them "lobbying" for freshwater crayfish. A the little creek babbled gently through the trees at the lower end of the street where they lived. Our “fishing” fun lasted until the day I discussed snakes with them. After hearing my tales they weren't too keen on our pastime!
I introduced the boys to Paul Gallico's "The Snow Goose". The eldest boy had commenced school. His brother was three years younger, and hadn't yet done so.
Their father and mother were away in Adelaide at a Kolotex conference. I moved into their home lock, stock and barrel. Sasha, my ginger cat, of course, went with me. It was during this particular stay one chilly night with the fireplace, warming the lounge room, I gathered the boys around me in front of the fire. With the eldest lad to the left of me and the younger to my right, I began reading "The Snow Goose".
I was brought up with the story when I was a child, listening to the dulcet tones of Herbert Marshall as the reclusive crippled artist, Phillip Rhayader and Loretta Young as the young girl named, "Frith". I'd also read the book many times.
To this day, the story has continued to hold a special part of my heart. Engrossed in telling the story, I paused for a moment when I reached a particular moving sad part of the story. I didn't want to break out in tears in front of the two little boys. The three of us were lying on our stomachs facing the fire. I looked to my left to see tears streaming silently down the young boy’s face. To my right, his brother had his little face cupped in his hands, his arms, bent at his elbows, rested on the lush carpet. He, too, had tears falling down his chubby cheeks. Seeing their tears caused the tears I'd been forcing to stop to spill. Quickly wiping them away, I closed the book, telling them we had had enough of the story for that night. I would finish reading the book the following night. For a while, hoping to distract them from their sad emotions, I lay talking with them, before challenging them to a pillow fight before bed. The pillow fight, of course would be after our game of soccer down the hallway.
The night before their parents were to arrive back from their trip, I warned the boys that there would be no more football games “once Mum and Dad came home”. We'd have to behave ourselves when the "grown-ups" were around. We always had such fun together.
There came a time when kitchen floor at the Kenmore home was having its cork tiles re-corked, sealed and whatever else. I invited the family to dinner on the Saturday night, allowing the seal to set properly without the traffic of little feet over it. After they had finished their meal, the boys became drowsy, and wandered upstairs to the bedrooms. Come time for the family to leave at the end of the evening I suggested they leave the boys who were sleeping soundly in one of my upstairs’ bedrooms; for their father come by to collect them up the following morning. This they did.
After clearing away the dinner debris, I climbed the stairs
to go to bed. Both boys stirred as I entered my bedroom. They'd taken over my
double bed, preferring the larger bed to the single bed in the second bedroom.
I ushered a drowsy elder lad into my second bedroom, with the younger boy insisting
sleepily he wanted to stay in my bed. And, then began a night of musical beds.
At one stage I had the two boys and my cat, Sasha with me in my double bed.
Later when I thought they were well away with the Sandman, I crept out and
crawled into the single bed in the other room. Upon waking in the morning, I
discovered both boys, plus Sasha were my bed-mates, all squeezed up next to me
in the single bed! The double bed in my bedroom was empty.
A couple of months after we commenced the joint marketing operation, I gave up
my evening part-time job at the "Pelican Tavern" because my day job
demanded my undivided attention. However, as our premises were within walking
distance of the tavern, once a week I’d walk to the tavern to share lunch and
conversation with Mr. Wypow, the owner/chef. He, like me, looked forward to our
get-togethers during which we would feast on the fare he presented as we
discussed the events of the world. Kyriol
Wypow was sixty-three years old at the time. He was a very interesting man,
intelligent, quite pedantic at times. He enjoyed a good, healthy debate, as did
I. We would sip on lemon tea as we grazed over the many small, but varied
portions of food such as marinated herrings, dill pickles, olives, cheeses of
different varieties, smoked meats. The fare offered was a reminder of his life
in Russia. Mr. Wypow was quite a character; one I've always felt fortunate to
have known. He and his wife lived at St. Lucia,
a Brisbane
suburb. Their next door neighbours, as I mentioned previously, were Sir Rafael and Lady Cilento.
Mr. Wypow was actress Diane Cilento's god-father, or so he told me. I had no reason
to disbelieve him. He also told me it was he, who encouraged Diane to go
overseas to fulfill her dreams of being an actress. Actually, the first night I
attended tables at the "Pelican Tavern", one main table of eight I
had to service was the Cilento family, David Cilento, Diane's brother and other
members of the rather large family. Diane Cilento was one of six children.
Years later, I met Diane briefly, not long after she and her then husband, Tony
Shaffer (who wrote Sleuth" and "The Wicker Man", and whose twin
brother Peter wrote "Equus", "Amadeus" and "Royal Hunt
of the Sun") started "Karnak" outside of Mossman in north
Queensland. This was during my Hinchinbrook
Island days, and
thereafter. Life certainly does move in mysterious cycles. Mine certainly has.
One day, John asked Chris, the young store-man Debbie and I had unintentionally
locked in the men's toilet, to remove the registration sticker from his
Chrysler Valiant. This was before registration stickers became self-adhesive.
So, armed with a carpet knife, water and cloth, Chris did as he was bidden,
only to return upstairs a little while later, again wide of eye, white of face,
standing in front of my desk.
"Where's our boss?" He asked me.
"He's in his office," I replied.
John’s office was next door to mine.
"He can't be," exclaimed a confused Chris. "I removed half of
his rego sticker. Then I had to come back upstairs to get some more water, and
when I went back down, his car's gone!"
"Nope...he's in his office,
Chris. He has not gone anywhere," I repeated. "Have a look for
yourself."
Then the penny dropped. Rushing
downstairs, I burst out laughing. John’s car was parked where he had parked it
upon arrival at the office that morning, registration sticker intact. The
manager of Rogtex Men and Women's Clothing division had a car similar in shape
and colour to John's! The Rogtex manager was a conservative gentleman, with
little or no sense of humour.
Word quickly spread throughout the office and warehouse about Chris's blunder. All
of the staff, including John, our boss, erupted into laughter. Uncontrollable tears
flowed down our cheeks. We were holding our sides as we pictured Mr. “Rogtex”
discovering half of his registration sticker removed. I kept an eye out for his
return, and as soon as I saw his car pull in to the carpark, I told everyone to
be quiet, to stop laughing, put their heads down and look busy working.
Mr. Head, the Rogtex manager, stormed into the reception area, smoke billowing
out of every orifice! Fuming, he stood at my office door.
"Do you know what happened?" He growled at me.
Feigning innocence and ignorance, I asked him, "What do you mean, Mr.
Head?" Somehow I managed to retain a serious appearance.
"That idiot, Chris!" He raged. "He's taken half of my
registration sticker off! I was turning into St. Paul's Terrace and the passenger side
door flew open! There I was with traffic looming down on me from both
directions, when I noticed it!"
"Oh! Dear! I'm so sorry, Mr. Head," I mumbled, in a painful attempt
to put a lid on the laughter within. "He must have mistaken your car for
John’s! It's an innocent mistake. I'll go and point it out to him." John,
in the meantime, leaving it up to me to handle the situation, had remained in
his office, with both doors closed, the coward!
I'd never seen such a work-dedicated staff as I did that morning. While all the
turmoil was going on they had their heads buried in whatever pretense of
"busy-ness" they could conjure.
Later, jokingly, I berated the lot of them for leaving me to
carry the can! I advised them never to mention Chris's misdemeanor to Mr. Head,
who never did see the funny side. It became an unmentionable subject, although
the rest of us laughed about it for ages.
I'd hired another "little princess" at one time. She was young lass
of 16 years. Her pert little nose was permanently held up in the air.
When Robyn started with us, I placed her in the general office, handling the
work from each division. As was my wont to do, I liked to change staff around
so that they became familiar with all aspects of whatever the jobs, and
divisions, entailed. I decided to move Robyn out to the reception desk, and
move the receptionist into the general office, to enable both girls to gain
further experience.
Upon informing Robyn of my decision, she tossed her long hair from her shoulders,
her nose went even higher in the air as she asked me, "What will my
"title" be?"
In total seriousness, burying my inner mirth, I looked at her and replied,
"Well, Robyn, I can give you a "title", but I don't think you're
going to like it!"
That was the end of the discussion!
To be continued...
 |
| Tattersall's Club, Queen Street, Brisbane |
In general, business continued smoothly with the expected
hassles and stressful moments, but overall, no major problems arose.
After a couple of years’ operating in our new format and premises, the Kolotex
Group of Companies faced a take-over. The original owners of Kolotex, the
Lieberman Family of Melbourne who had been ousted a number of years earlier
during a take-over by Paul Kornmehl and John Louwes came back with a vengeance
determined to regain control of the company. This they did after much
in-fighting between the factions.
With permission, I linked in on all telephoned conversations
between my boss the Queensland manager, the head office, and power-players in
Sydney, making verbatim notes of everything that transpired within those conversations.
It was a fairly stressful time, but eventually a conclusion was reached, which
was satisfactory to each party. Pride, also had been a major factor in the
take-over; one Jewish power against another; each as brilliant and upstanding as
the other. The structure and day-to-day operation of our Queensland office didn't change. It
continued forward without a hiccup.
Upon the successful completion of the take-over, the new heads of the company,
led by Chaim Lieberman, visited Brisbane
to meet with all the "top-dogs" of the department stores. A special
luncheon was organised by John at Brisbane’s Tattersall's Club situated in Queen
Street, the city’s main street.
After much discussion and "to and fro-ing" with the committee of the Tattersall's Club, a men's club that is steeped in tradition, I received "special dispensation", and was allowed to attend to the "greeting and meeting" of our company’s special guests. I was the first female, ever, to be permitted to enter Tattersall’s hallowed halls to attend to such a function.
My role was to welcome our guests and usher them into the
main dining room of the club. Once I fulfilled my duties, I left the men to
their exclusive domain and luncheon, and returned to our Baxter Street headquarters.
It was quite a feather in my cap to have been allowed to attend the
commencement of the function, not that anyone other than those involved within the
immediate circle were aware of the "breaking of tradition", and my
small part in the history of Brisbane's Tattersall's Club.
Our offices, showrooms and warehouse in Baxter Street became a "happy
family", with the staff, most of the time, working together in harmony. Baxter Street
bordered on the Brisbane Exhibition grounds. Every year when the exhibition and
its fairground attractions came to town the traffic around the area was
horrendous, but we managed to utilize the disruption. Another young man had
joined our merry band. He was employed as a city sales representative in training,
to assist our boss out in the field.
Rather than attend the Brisbane Exhibition, which lasts for
ten days, I came up with a light-bulb idea. Gathering money from the staff, with
enough left over for the new lad’s entrance fee into the show grounds, he
became the chosen one to go to the Brisbane “Ekka”. where he purchased the
decadent fare on offer, such as creamy waffles, Dagwood Dogs (Corn Dogs to
those in the northern hemisphere), Tasmanian potato chips, and whatever other
disgraceful, but delicious food we could think of! We had a good little plan in
operation. Arriving back laden with food, the rest of the staff eagerly and
hungrily descended upon him. He was the most popular young man within our Queensland
operation!
The Wednesday public holiday for the Brisbane Exhibition became the company's
"Staff Picnic Day". Reflecting back as I write this story, I'm
beginning to think I spent the majority of my time, not attending to the
important clerical matters, but to creating fun events! That's not entirely
true, but perhaps it was I who coined the phrase "multi-tasking" regarding
my day-to-day, week-to-week activities. I enjoyed expanding the horizons of my
position, wanting to make it as interesting as possible. And, as I like
"fun", why not, I ask?
My boss, along with his wife and their two young sons, and I would be the leading
scouts, the “heads of the operation”, arriving at the chosen picnic area a
couple of hours before the others and their families, etc., so that we could
claim the whole area, squeezing any "foreign" infiltrators out. By
the time the rest of the crew arrived, a campfire would be under way, with a steaming
billy bubbling and hot cups of tea at the ready for those interested, or cold
beers for those with a more desperate thirst. The day was filled with games of
cricket and touch football, followed by a barbecue lunch. The day's
celebrations were paid for by the company. The day following our annual
picnics, a battle-scarred, weary staff dragged themselves to work but our
aching bodies with various pieces of missing skin weren't enough to stop us
re-hashing the happy events of the previous day.
One funny incident occurred on a New Year's Eve. From Christmas through mid to
late January most of the staff took their holidays, in particular our sales
representatives, as it was the most appropriate time of the year for them to be
away from their set territories. Business was always slow during those times,
so it was also a good time to let the other staff take their leave. The office
and warehouse operated on a "skeleton" staff. By my own choice, I was always one of those
"skeletons". Holidays meant nothing to me. I preferred being at work.
A lass from the clerical staff and I covered all angles and jobs that needed to
be done. With the New Year weekend beckoning, I decided to close the office
early on the Friday, around mid-day.
Locking everything up, my off-sider, Debbie waited for me outside at the top of the stairs leading out of the building. Before joining her, I had to phone into the security firm to advise them that the building would be unattended until the following Tuesday. Having done that, Deb and I were about to leave the building when in the distance we heard a faint..."Lee...Lee! Are you there, Lee...is anyone there?" Debbie and I looked at each other in surprise. Again, a faint muffled cry sounded in the background. Then the penny dropped. Simultaneously, we broke out into laughter.
Opening the door to the warehouse section, we discovered a young store-man, the only other staff member present that day. He'd been in the men’s toilet when I'd locked up. I thought he had already left the premises. Poor lad...he walked out, his blue eyes, under his sun-bleached blonde hair, as large as saucers, if not dinner plates! He thought he was going to spend his long weekend and New Year locked in the toilet! He didn't receive much sympathy from Deb and me...just gales of laughter! A few minutes elapsed before he saw the funny side and joined in with our merriment.
Early in the New Year another promotional evening to launch a new line of pantyhose
was being organised. The theme of the event was built around Marilyn Monroe. I
spent weeks coercing the city radio stations, offering them gifts of pantyhose
in exchange of any tapes they had of Monroe singing. My bribes succeeded and I
gathered together a lot of recorded material. I then approached an advertising
agency, giving them a black and white photograph of "MM" in her most
famous pose from "The Seven Year Itch"; the one where she stands over
the air vent on the sidewalk with her dress blowing up around her thighs. When
I received the free-standing, over six feet tall cut-outs of Marilyn blown-up
and backed on very thick, heavy cardboard, I could hardly believe my eyes. They
were magnificent. We were ready to go!
Again models suited to our particular theme were chosen. My office always became
their dressing room on the nights of the functions. During the day it was
filled with racks of their clothes. Most of the time, I was hardly in my office.
I was busy in the staff room finalising the evenings' food, or assisting John
set up the displays and sound equipment in the showroom.
Our new national Marketing Manager flew to Brisbane from
Sydney for the opening evening. He'd only been with the company for a couple of
weeks. He arrived full of hot air, arrogance and ego. I disliked him immediately.
He was a person who found it difficult to look another in the eye, and when he
did manage to do so he appeared to look down at you with a half-smart smirk on
his face. It was apparent he thought Brisbane
and Queensland to be "Hicksville".
John, like me, wasn't impressed with this so-called new "whiz-kid",
but we held our tongues and treated him graciously, when our time permitted.
There was little time to waste worrying about the attitude of an upstart from
the "big city". He would be out of our hair the next day. We had more
important issues at hand to be completed before the "curtain" went up
on the evening's presentation.
Our guests arrived, eager for the night's event. By this time, the Kolotex
Queensland office had gained quite a reputation amongst the retailers and its
competitors for its grand staging of such promotional launches. We were the
only ones putting on such lavish openings of new products, and of course, word
spread quickly throughout the trade. Deservedly, John was held in very high
regard amongst his peers in the industry and amongst the retail trade. Not only
did he have years of experience in the fashion industry, he was an intelligent,
knowledgeable gentleman. One of his strongest traits was his sincerity and
integrity. He called a spade a "spade". He had an excellent command
of the English language, when he spoke, everyone listened.
During John's "talk" on the benefits and highlights of the new pantyhose
lines being introduced to the market, I noticed the Sydney upstart scoffing and
smirking. Surreptitiously, I eased myself to his side. Without wanting to draw
the attention of our guests, I nudged him and quietly, but firmly, told him his
behaviour was out of line; for him to "shut up", act according to his
position within the company, and show respect to the speaker and host. He was
acting like an arrogant brat, and I didn't give a damn who or what he was.
Heeding my demand, he held his tongue, and ceased smirking throughout the rest
of John's "sell-in". However, his good behaviour didn't last once the
business part of the evening was over.
As the guests mingled, ate and sipped on their choices of beverages, I noticed our
Head Office representative had had more than his fair share of alcohol and his
behaviour was getting out of hand.
One of our major buyers from a well-known chain of department stores was in his line of fire. She, the buyer, was no shrinking violet, but I could see she was feeling uncomfortable from his unwanted attention. I grabbed her eye and beckoned her over to me. I said I had noticed what was going on and would take care of the situation, thereby not causing her further embarrassment. Diffusing the situation, once again, I took the ignorant sod aside and told him to "wake up to himself...that he was "our" guest...he was representing the company and head office, and that his behaviour was way out of line."
The buyer who had been the centre of his unwanted, uncalled
for attention was an important player in the industry. His drunken advances
certainly weren't the way to conduct business. He slunk off like a mongrel dog,
and for the rest of the evening kept not only out of my way, but that of his
chosen "prey".
At the end of the night, John was my chauffeur home, but on the way we had to
drop our Sydney “guest” off to his hotel. While John was locking up the
premises, going through the necessary security measures, I bailed our visitor
up against the wall in the car park and told him exactly what I thought of him
and his behavior. I told him I didn't give a damn what position he held within
the Kolotex Group of Companies. He was a newcomer within the ranks and I
doubted he would stay employed by the company for much longer, so he'd better
start making enquiries about another job. I also told him that my boss, the Queensland
manager, had more knowledge in his little toe than, he would ever have in his
whole body and mind. By the time John appeared, our idiot visitor was a cowered
little mouse of a man. I was so angry, I didn't care how he felt, or what he thought
of me.
The next morning, with his tail between his legs, he arrived at the office very
meek and mild. John drove him to the airport to put him on his flight back to Sydney. On his arrival
back from the airport, John came into my office and said, "Our visitor was
very quiet this morning. He hardly said a word during the drive to the
airport."
It was then John became aware of what had ensued the
previous evening. I told him all that I had said and done. He laughed, thanking
me...and said the great Aussie term..."Good on you, Lee!"
“The Idiot” lasted about another four to five weeks with the company before he
went on to spread his nonsense and ignorance on some other unsuspecting employer.
He wasn't missed by us. We never heard
of him again.
To Be Continued....
My beloved Sasha, en route to the property at the rear of our new abode in Toowong, Circa 1969/70
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| Annette Allison in her TV Presenter/Weather Girl Hey Day! |
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| The beautiful, now late Maggie Tabberer....from younger days through.... |
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| The late Carla Zampatti on the left. Miranda Kerr modelling one of her designs at the right |
(I finally fixed the problem I was having with trying to blog. I will now also be able to catch up with the blogs of others...thank goodness! I hope everyone is enjoying the Christmas Season...and I wish everyone a safe, and Happy New Year...and that the safety and happiness last throughout 2025)
A few month’s into our first year of the joint marketing, Sasha, my beloved ginger cat and I left the New Farm flat to live in a brand-new apartment in a building of eight apartments, which had been completed within days before I took up occupancy. Other than the young owner/landlord and his mate who occupied the townhouse at the rear of the building, I was the first tenant to move into the new apartment block in the Brisbane inner western suburb of Toowong, Sasha took one look at his new residence, nodded his head in agreement, and then immediately found his cosy spot on my, or should I say “our” bed.
I became “married” to my job. My life revolved around my work and the Kolotex Group of Companies. I didn’t take holidays. Holidays were of no interest to me as there was so much happening within the company, and my role in it all was major. Plus I was far more interested what was unfolding around me than going on a holiday. I’d miss out on all the exciting fun! Sick days were not part of my vocabulary, either.
New lines were being produced regularly, in all three branches of the company, meaning promotional evenings had to be planned to present them to the retailers. For the first year, Queensland Caterers were hired to handle the catering side for such evenings, but soon my interest in food again came to the fore. I presented a plan to my boss, the Queensland manager, who agreed with my idea. He forwarded it on to the Sydney office for their “official” approval, but it was a done deal even before their final agreeable nod.
Our young receptionist, Dale, soon blotted her copybook. Eventually I had no option other than to sack her. Not a month went by without her taking two, three or more days off work “sick”. I had no evidence to prove her deception, being forced to wait until she slipped up. Her attitude became brazen and cocky, tossing her nose in the air at instructions, and then one day she tripped over her own deceitful attitude and careless ways.
Westfield built a new shopping centre with a lot of publicity hullabaloo surrounding the development. The televised grand opening was occurred on a Wednesday. Dale’s mother telephoned me advising that her daughter was sick, and was unable to come into work.
On the television news that evening on the television screen as large as life almost, was Dale, arms laden with shopping bags filled with the day’s grand opening specials! Full of confidence and obvious good health, she bounced into work the following morning. I promptly summonsed her to my office, wherein she proceeded to continue with her lies until I made it clear to her that the television camera told no lies. I fired her on the spot, telling her to pack up her things and head back home as she seemed to prefer it to her workplace. A little while later, her mother telephoned to verbally abuse me on behalf of her daughter. I listened to her rant for a short while.
Before hanging up the phone, I said, “Your daughter is not entirely to blame for her behaviour. You’re the one mostly at fault here as you are aiding and abetting your child in her lies, in her deceitful ways. What chance does she have when she has a mother who lies for her and urges her to do similar?” That was the end of the telephone conversation.
Dale's replacement was Julie.
For the Queensland office’s future promotional evenings my idea was I would take over the catering from the “professionals”. I would plan, order, purchase and prepare the food for our future promotional evenings. Excited that my idea was agreeable to all concerned, I could hardly wait for our next event. I believed I could offer our clients better food than commercially-prepared fare, plus I would get paid for my services. The latter was a further motivating incentive for me! The company was invoiced and payment was received by me accordingly. Everyone benefited from our "expansion" into the catering business because the young staff members were trained in the art of food service...and washing up! The nights were good learning experiences for my staff because the functions gave them opportunities to meet personally with our retail clients on a different playing field. Such evenings gave them a further insight into business enabling them to understand their important roles in it.
To explain the ‘promotional evenings’…during my years with the Kolotex Group of Companies we held many such evenings, and all were hugely successful. We had a few crazy, fun ideas such as a London black cab and London double-decker bus. We almost lost the top deck of the bus, transferring retail buyers up to the Mount Coot-tha one evening for a promotion at the Channel Nine television studios. I exaggerate a teeny bit, but the bus did almost get stuck under the overhead railway bridge at Toowong, much to the delight of our champagne-swilling guests.
The London cab was purchased by the company around the same time, but I can’t really remember the reason why. I know I used to revel in feelings of importance and hysterics the mornings John, my boss, would stop by my apartment in Toowong to drive me to work in the black cab. Purposely, I’d sit in the rear seat. We raised many bemused, interested looks as we drove to the office building. John wore a small cap, similar to those worn by vintage car owners, so he suited the part. I pretended to be regally aloof as I practiced the “royal” wave!
Not only did I handle all the catering and everything involved with the catering side of our promotional evenings, but I also worked closely beside John in the choreography and themes to be used by the models during those evenings. We worked intuitively with the modeling agencies. We had our favourite models, whom we used regularly. We knew what we were looking for.
Actually, the first ever pantyhose commercial produced in Australia was produced by John, as me as his loyal offside, at the Channel Nine studies, in Brisbane. Annette Allison, well-known television newsreader and presenter was the “star” of the “sit-down” commercial/ad. Annette began her career in television when she was only eighteen year old. Some of my Aussie readers may know of Annette. She now lives in Melbourne and has done so for many years. Annette Allison was one of our favourite people to use as she was a “television girl” with a beautifully modulated speaking voice. Annette, also, was a huge fan of Kolotex. She and I remained mates for many years. The last time I saw her was when we ran into each other accidentally in Melbourne one afternoon during my Hinchinbrook Island management days. Preplanned, I was meeting a friend for drinks at the Brunswick Hotel early on that Friday afternoon. Arriving at the designated place and time, who should also be one of his guests, no one other than Annette! It was such a fun coincidence, but that’s another story for another day!
One massive promotion the company sunk their teeth into was when Kolotex flew a photographer, his crew and three models to Easter Island and Machu Picchu in Peru for a hosiery shoot. The launch of a new range of pantyhose was in the wings, with the new exciting product being centred on Erich von Däniken’s “Chariots of the Gods”.
Invitations were extended to the Peruvian Consul and his wife, as well as to the Chilean Consul in Brisbane.
We always held two consecutive evenings; one for the Myer Group, and other major stores and boutiques; and the second night was solely for the David Jones stores. David Jones’ people were a little more conservative than the others. It was best that we held separate events.
On the day of the first evening a grey-haired gentleman, bearing a black Gladstone bag under his arm, arrived at the reception area asking for me. Opening the bag, he produced some bottles of Chilean wine, telling me they were “with compliments from the Chilean Consul”, a Dr. Robert Wright. I asked the dapper gentleman in front of me if he was Dr. Wright, but he said, “No, I run his messages for him.”
With a twinkle in his eye and a smile, he went on his way. Shortly after his visit, a courier arrived from the Peruvian Consul, bearing bottles “Ica Pisco”. Pisco is a brandy distilled from whole white Muscat grapes. Both Chile and Peru claim it to be their national drink, causing a little consternation between the two countries. Peru was the first to produce Pisco back in the 1530s.
As our guests began arriving, amongst them was the “grey-haired gentleman” who, in fact, was Dr. Robert Wright. Athough he was a “true blue, born and bred Aussie”, Dr. Wright was the Chilean Consul, and had been for many, many years.
Robert Wright was a Doctor of Dentistry. He was Queensland’s first Doctor of Dentistry. Robert served in the Second World War, and still carried a bullet from when he was injured when serving in Guadalcanal. Born, raised and educated in Brisbane, the home named “Sunnyside” in which he lived in at the Brisbane riverside suburb or Kangaroo Point, had been constructed in the 1890s. The home had been in his family since 1920 when his father purchased the property from the son of the original owner.
The Peruvian Consul, whose name I’ve forgotten, and his wife attended the function, too. He was very quiet and conservative, a vast contrast to the more gregarious Dr. Wright.
Throughout the country Kolotex ran a competition, offering trips to Easter Island and Machu Picchu to the winner from each state. A woman from Townsville, who worked at James Cook University in that northern city, won the Queensland section of the competition. She attended our office to receive her flight tickets and accommodation details before leaving Australia for her prize destinations. We never heard from her again, perhaps she’s still over there somewhere chasing llamas!
After each of these promotional evenings John and I would be exhausted. A lot of careful organization and planning went into the evenings. Beforehand, John would stress about giving his “sales pitch”, having to stand “bare-faced” in front of a showroom filled with our VIP business guests. He was a “man of words”, very intelligent, well-read and well-traveled, having at one time been the overseas’ buyer for a major South Australian retailer named John Martin & Co. Ltd; colloquially known as “John Martin’s”, or “Johnnies”. It was an Adelaide=based menswear company that operated for more than 130 years. It closed in 1998.
For a number of years, John, my boss, had been based in London, as their menswear representative/agent for easy access to Europe. When the Cold War broke out he returned to Australia.
John’s deep, dulcet tones commanded one’s attention, but he still fell victim to his nerves at such times, and suffered “stage fright” the few minutes before facing the madding crowd of buyers etc. Knowing him well, I would make him empty out his trouser pockets of all loose coins and car keys, as he’d gained a habit of jingling whatever was in his pockets when he was nervous. I would coach him to calm down, telling him just to relax, and then I’d hand him a stiff Scotch. It became the normal thing for me to place myself in the centre of the room amongst the keenly interested buyers, department heads and store-managers within John’s eye line.
We had concocted between us secret signals. A nod or shake of my head, unnoticeable to others; a blink of an eye or a raised eyebrow; each had its own meaning or warning. We certainly became an excellent double act!
In handling the catering side of the evening I made notes and notes during the weeks beforehand, planning the style of food for the evenings, listing ideas and ingredients, desirous that the menu I chose fitted the “theme” of the particular promotion.
After raiding the supermarkets, butchers and delicatessens, soon the kitchen in my apartment was overflowing with groceries, which also spilled over to the staff room at the company’s Baxter Street premises. The staff room had been fitted out full-sized refrigerator, a portable “Roden” oven and cook-top, benches, cupboards, sink, small table and chairs during the original preparation of the building for our occupancy.
For the duration of the functions, I’d hire an upright holding/warming oven or two from a catering equipment supplier. These ovens were about six feet high by two and a half feet wide. Somehow, I’d squeeze them into the rather confined room that had originally been designed to cater for in-house staff only, not fifty or more hungry visitors. The day before the planned event, I’d spend at home preparing the majority of the menu in my own kitchen, leaving the final preparation to be done in the staff room on the day of the function.
Transferring the ingredients, pots, trays and containers of food into the premises at Baxter Street became a major “meals-on-wheels” manoeuvre of expertly timed precision.
For one such occasion I prepared twelve traditional English trifles as part of the desserts. I made egg custards and coconut macaroons for the trifles from scratch using the little Roden oven and cook-top. I must have been insane or stupid…perhaps both! Glassware and cutlery were hired to cover the requirements. A bar was set up at one end of the showroom in question. The staff had a quick lesson in the art of bar-tending as well the service of food. It was a "win-win" situation for all concerned.
So there I was chief caterer for our promotional evenings as well as secretary, office manager and whatever else I was. Titles have never meant anything to me. I was John's secretary, and under that umbrella I expanded my horizons. He allowed me to fly free, never clipping my wings.
Kolotex soon became the “talk of the town” because of our wildly successful promotional evenings. No one else could match them.
Carla Zampatti, the now late acclaimed Australian fashion designer, at that stage a few years into her career, was contracted to design a signatory range of women’s wear by the Rogtex Clothing division. I was the first person to cater for Carla in Queensland. Her virgin trip to Queensland Carla was as our “special guest” at the launch of “Rebecca by Zampatti”, the line of women’s clothing bearing her signature. She was a stunning-looking woman, tall with golden skin, evidence of her Italian heritage. Carla Zampatti was born in Italy. With her family, she settled in Australia in 1950. Her personality and grace matched her good looks.
The beautiful, effervescent, unstoppable Maggie Tabberer, former model, owner of designer label “Maggie T” and well-known personality was also contracted at one stage, putting her name to a new pantihose line being produced. Maggie sadly passed away on 6th December, 2024, five day away from her 88th birthday, the 11th December. It was once said about her that she “was too beautiful to be a model”. She certainly has been a bright light in Australia’s fashion, television, and editorial industries for many years. Maggie was an honest, straight-forward, no-nonsense person.
Coincidentally I was to meet up with her again a few years
later, in my greengrocery-healthfood store in Hastings Street, Noosa Heads, circa
1985.
Our company became the major runner in the hosiery field and in the metal-mesh
world of handbags and accessories. The Rogtex division was a minor player in
the fashion industry compared to others in that field, but it still played its
small, though important part well. Its customer base was slowly but surely
increasing throughout the retail outlets in Queensland
and Northern New South Wales.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sunnyside,_Kangaroo_Point The late Dr. Robert Wright's home.
To be continued.....
