I stand on the chair, as Phyllis instructs. She again works the stapler around the drooping hem of my shorts. I wouldn’t have bothered but my PA insists I try and look respectable. I don’t think anybody else sees her flicking my testicles, as her remonstrance against my lack of common decency. Yep, they do dangle a bit, but since my years with the 2nd Punjab Regiment, and then this posting into the tropical heat of the Top End, I assess underwear as an unnecessary obstruction to natural forces.
Phyllis is in charge of my morning ‘elevenses, and my hems. Strong black, unsweetened tea, or if it’s a farewell or birthday, she discretely adds a dash.
Twenty years at work across remote northern Australia. On Fridays, charter flights to somewhere: always a rationale; a Project Action Plan to refine, or staff to brief. My support staff know the drill – day trips mean an esky equipped with Victoria Bitter onboard the plane. If an overnight trip, I provision the old briefcase with a carton of B&H and a bottle of Johnny Red. If room, I might also snaffle a file or two from Registry!
Four kilos of sausages are boiled on Wednesdays, refrigerated and used, as needed. Three cartons of beer and two bottles of Johnny complete the weekly providore.
From my office, a short stroll, three cigarettes and the Green Room’s punka and cane lounges await. Five fifteen and the first beer is in my hand, those on my left, alert to the need to dodge my ash, and light my next fag.
I hear that my ash became a tell-tale marker of my reading habits. Apparently, archivists continue to follow my reading, using the amount of cigarette ash as a gauge to my interests.
In hushed tones, I occasionally overhear junior staff whisper “… the Brigadier said…or … he advises”. It was pleasing to note some influence on the comings and goings in the office.
My first-class, annual holidays start at the Burns Philp travel desk. Specific properties, rooms and outlooks. In Singapore it had to be Raffles, third floor, looking back over the city. In Manilla, the Peninsula and in Shanghai the top floor at the Fairmont. When on the briny, my preference is for top deck staterooms and valet service.
I’m off to Honkers. At the Captain’s Table, dickie suit, monocle, braggadocio in full flight – “haur, haur, haur, …” belly-sourced laughter sets the mood. I regale the ladies with tales from Afghanistan, the Hindu Kush and Indian Raj derry doo. I see a familiar face across the table. After a moment’s rumination, I recognise our companion as the local Darwin coastal barge operator. Didn’t he tell us about his Greek shipping empire, based out of Piraeus? I maintain discrete diplomacy.
Death approaches within months of retirement. I reflect on a useful, albeit spartan life, uncluttered by unnecessary trappings. There are a few beers in the fridge for my retrieval team. I depart on my own terms.