ANGRY and FED-UP!!!

 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!

REACHING OUT TO THE CITY LIGHT.....CHAPTER 14

                                                            

                                

                                               

 

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...

REACHING OUT TO THE CITY LIGHTS....CHAPTER 13

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...

 

 

REACHING OUT TO THE CITY LIGHTS...CHAPTER 12

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....