My Secret Job

My Life as a Phone Sex Operator.

Long before the Internet became a big part of our lives, long before dating sites such as Tinder, Oasis,RSVP and the like, there was phone sex.

I know that many couples have phone sex but this was different.

This was a hotline for men, and the odd woman ,to partake in a fantasy session of a sexual nature. The person on the other end of the line was unknown to the caller. A faceless woman who knew all the right words to say in order for the caller to achieve sexual satisfaction.

How do I know this?

I know because I was one of the women on the other end of the line.

It was in the late 1960’s when I found myself a single parent with young children to support.

Back then there was no single parent payment. Child endowment was 50 cents a week per child.

I had no work experience as my husband would not allow me to work.

With young children still at home, the chance of scoring a job was remote.

I was living in abject poverty. Such a worrying time and almost impossible to have any money to put food on the table for my babies.

One day, I was reading the job vacancies in the local paper when I saw a small ad asking for women who had a broad mind to consider a phone sex career.

There was a phone number to call, so I did. Can’ t hurt to enquire, I told myself.

It all seemed pretty straight forward. I was allotted a certain phone number starting with 19. My name and details would be kept secret and I could choose a name to have as my worker name.

Another good thing about it was that I could choose what hours I was available. This suited me down to the ground as I could do this when my children were sleeping.

The pay rate was excellent. The longer I could keep a client talking, the more I money I could make.

I had a very broad mind so did not think I would have any trouble conversing with whomever called.

The first call I was just a tad nervous. I had chosen Angel as my name and had to make sure I responded when called that.

My first ever client was a sweet sounding gentleman who really just wanted to talk about everyday kinds of things. He was happily married ,he said ,but his wife did not want to know about his day at the office or anything else. He was very easy to chat with, nothing sexual from this dude and he talked for over 3 hours.

This bloke became a regular caller. I had my very first client and had not even had to leave my armchair or get out of my pyjamas.


As time went on , I took all manner of calls. Some blokes just wanted to breathe heavily into the phone, this was fine by me. I did not have to talk at all.

Others wanted the whole sexual experience, as much as is possible over the phone anyway. I was quite detached from any feelings but became a good actress and made the appropriate sounds when required.

I carried on this work for over 3 years until my children were all at school and I could then get part time work in a supermarket whilst they were at school.

I know many people knock phone sexoperators, but there was a place for them back then . I am sure I saved the odd marriage or two as well because I became a skilled counselor as well as a sexy voice on the end of the line.

Without this job, my children and I would have been destitute.

The Maybush

Storyteller extraordinaire, is what I aspire to be.

A feeling of utter dismay came over me when I realised that my maybushes had not bloomed.. They always bloomed by Mothers Day , but this year was different.

I needed the blooms for a Mothers’ Day morning tea. I was shattered.

Maybe I did not fertilize them at the right time.

I had been busy running in the Boston Marathon so could have forgotten to do so.

The marathon itself went well, until the last stretch of the course, when a spectator tripped the leading runner. Absolute mayhem followed this incident. I myself, felt like running the other direction, but I was too close to victory to throw it all away.

The poor bloke who had the win in the bag, so to speak, could only lie there in agony as I flashed past.

Thus was my moment of glory.

Another reason I may have forgotten to fertilize the maybush was because

I had also been busy preparing copious amounts of mayonnaise for the Chicken sandwiches I had to prepare for the upcoming Mothers’ Day morning tea.

The local Mayor took credit for this event. That arrogant little man did nothing to help with the preparations. All he did was make an appearance.

There was absolute mayhem in the community kitchen. People were running around like crazy trying to make sure everything was in order for the Mayor.

I don’t know why they bothered though, as he was such a horrible person.

Many of the towns people adored him. They could not see through his lies and deceptions.

I suppose to them, the title “ Mayor” meant he was a person to be respected.

I myself, did not care for him, but in the local spirit of things, I chipped in to help. The morning tea was free for all the townsfolk.

Well, the ones that did not prepare food that is. I was quite out of pocket after making all those chicken sandwiches.

The one and only thing the Mayor did for the community was to turn up to this annual event.

Most of the time he ignored those who had elected him and spent his time frequenting the local brothel.

Of course the local women did not know this. They were all too busy taking care of their husbands and children to notice the Mayoral car outside the House of Ill repute.

The men knew though. I do believe they were in awe of the Mayor. That is probably why he was always re elected to his position.

His poor long suffering wife knew. Maybe she tolerated it because he brought home the bacon every week. Who knows.?

I would have strangled him, Mayor or not.

The morning tea went well, despite the fact that there were no Maybush blooms to decorate the hall.

All the local Mothers ate their fill and even had some leftovers to take home.



Vegans have been in the news of late.

For all the wrong reasons.

It seems to me that the Vegan movement has lost all sense of sensibility.

It has reached almost vigilante proportions. Illegally entering private properties, abusing and assaulting the land owners and trampling on good plants in the process. Bundling up unsuspecting livestock and cramming them into car boots. Yes that is very noble of you.Very kosher indeed.

Who’d of thunk!!

People who survive almost solely on a few blades of grass and a dose of fresh air, would have the energy to demonstrate their hatred of those who support and sustain our country .

These poor demented vegans are running amok, all over our land, and deliberately causing the farmers grief. Not to mention frightning poor animals.

They are somewhat akin to terrorists. Trying to push their far fetched ideas on normal people.

Trying to save the animals..

Well, Vegans, animals have been farmed for many years. Your parents would have eaten them, and probably still do.

Cave man was primarily a carnivore. It did him no harm and he did not go around spruiking his ideas on anyone.

Plants are living things as well. I know the humble lettuce has a heart, I was given that information by a Vegan. If lettuce has a heart, perhaps more veggies have a heart as well. I know for a fact that Artichokes have a heart.

Do you ever stop and wonder, whilst pulling up a carrot or a turnip, that you are in fact causing that plant to have a terrible death? How would you like to be pulled out by your roots, and eaten raw. Not a nice thought is it.

You need to get a life. Grow up and let others be.

Carnivores, and omnivores do not encroach on your land, destroying your precious leafy greens. They do not go around telling all and sundry what their eating preferences are.

Dear vegans…

You need to get a job. Start breeding bees and other insects that you claim to love . By eating all the plants and vegetables you have caused the poor insect population to go down by 40%. In Australia anyway. Especially Bees. Without Bees the world would be doomed. Other insects make up the ecological balance of life. You vegans are eating all their tucker. You are destroying their habitat and most of all, you are pissing everyone off.

Harry and Megs Baby….

I did not give a fig about the royal wedding last year, and now I feel somewhat the same about the expected royal baby.

The media is on a frenzy about the impending birth. Who is going to get the first photo?

Who is going to be the first to know?

Obviously the couple themselves will be first to know, then The Queen and Granny and Pop.

There has been much hype about this baby, there was even talk of it before the wedding had been finalised.

Talk that fills the TV screens and every imaginable newspaper/magazine.

There is no escape, the radio blurts out news as well

There are millions of babies born each and every day. Why do we not have the same interest in them?

Some precious media folk are crying buckets at the latest theory .

That Megs will give birth at home.

Oh no!! Shock, horror.

How will they get that perfect first photo of the little darling.

There is even talk that the couple will not broadcast the news of the birth until weeks after the event.

This would surely give the waiting reporters the rats..

Some say that the home birth is because Megs is not even pregnant, that fat belly is actually a fake belly. No doubt hired from one of the film industries wardrobes. More than one fake belly would be required. The bellies would have to vary in size. That could cost a fair bit of money, the hire of all those bellies.

Come to think of it, she would have access to such things as she was an actress.

There is talk that a surrogate is carrying the royal bundle of joy.

They say that Megs does not want to spoil her figure. Could be some truth in it. Stranger things have happened.

People wonder also about what colour hair bubs may have.

Does it really matter?

Is the Monarchy going to cease if another blood nut is born into it?

I think not.

And the sex of the baby!

Maybe it will be gender neutral. Maybe if will be a “baby” of unknown sexuality.

That would be interesting.

That brings us to the name. One could not call a genderless baby Diana or Arthur, no, they could not.

Possible names could be Leaf, Twig or even Grass. Now they are genderless names. Beat , Race,and Hip are others that could be considered.

We will just have to wait and see.

By all accounts, it could take a while.


Dad was the watermelon king of the mallee.

Back in 1929, when the bottom fell out of the wheat, wool and dried fruit industry, Dad decided to give growing watermelons a go.

Dad lived with his parents and 10 siblings in a little mallee town called Goodnight. Goodnight is nestled on the banks of the Murray River.

The years between 1927 and 1930 were very lean times for those on the land, although the country folk were still better off than their city cousins. Country folk could still grow a few veggies and had access to the odd lamb or two.

Anyway, Dad had noticed an old Spanish fellow who worked for Dads Uncle, was growing melons.

He approached the Spaniard and asked for a few tips on growing these melons. As a result he was offered a partnership, 50/50 for the work and the profits.

It all sounded pretty good to Dad and as soon as the frosts had gone, the melons were planted, about 2 acres of them.

Dad supplied the land and water , courtesy of his father, and the other bloke did most of the weeding etc as Dad still had wheat to plant and care for.

When harvest time came around, a bounty of melons were picked and Dad could help his father out a bit financially as the wheat harvest had brought very little profit.

The Spaniard used to also take the melons around to other little towns and convinced Dad to go hawking with him one day. It was the first and only time for Dad as the Spaniard was not the most honest of blokes. He would sell a shopkeeper some melons, and then as people came into the shop he would sell them melons off the truck. The results were a few very angry shopkeepers and Dad being extremely embarrassed about all of the dirty dealings.

Needless to say, Dad decided it would be better to go solo in the melon growing game.

He realised there was money to be made. More money in fact than growing wheat.

In 1933, Dad planted 7 acres of melons. He and his brother also planted 700 acres of wheat.

The year was pretty good for both crops, but wheat prices were right down and there was way more money collected from the sale of the melons, than the sale of the 5000 bags of wheat.

The story of Dad’s melon success was broadcast in America.Such a good crop was produced on so little land. I still have the letter that Dad received from the Agriculturists in America who marvelled at his ingenuity.

So that is where the title Watermelon King eventuated.Dad held the title for many many years. The old folk around the district still talk about the marvellous melons Tom used to grow.

I myself took up growing pumpkins and watermelons about 15 years ago, but that is another story.

I ate puffer fish and survived.

The Japanese delicacy known as Fugu, Puffer or Blowfish is more poisonous than cyanide.

Japanese people love it and one would wonder why, when the risk of dying from consuming it is always a worry.

People say it is 200 times more poisonous than cyanide and 23 people have died in the last 15 years from consuming ill prepared Fugu.

Given that a meal of Fugu could set you back $120 it is quite an expensive way to die.

It is also not a particularly pleasant way to die. Tetrodotoxin poisoning is described as rapid and violent. Firstly it numbs one’s mouth, then paralyses the rest of the body. The mind however is not affected so that in itself would be pretty scary. Imagine being lucid whilst at the same time struggling to breath and eventually succumbing to the deadly toxins.

There is no antedote.

To prepare and serve Fugu, a Chef has to have special training and also a licence to state that he is indeed qualified to prepare the delicacy.

Using extremely sharp knives the chef will prepare the fish in the following manner.

First the brain and eyes are removed. They are placed in a metal tray marked as non edible.. Next the skin and innards are removed. Particularly poisonous are the ovaries. One tiny sliver of ovaries has enough poison to kill 40 people. The poisonous parts, once removed, are locked in a metal container and then taken to be burned.

Training for this takes at least 2 years. To acquire the skill required , the chef practices on hundreds of fish. A third of the applicants in training fail the last test.

The Fugu Chef is well aware of what can happen if the slightest amount of poison is left in the fish. Loss of licence, a great shame and litigation could occur if the fish killed someone.

Whilst in Japan, last year, I was taken to a restaurant and sat down to a 6 course meal.

The meals on offer were amazing. At around the third course, fish was served. It was delicious tasting fish. So mild in flavour and prepared in such a way that I wanted more. Little did I know, it was Fugu.

It was not until the meal was over that my guide told me the fish I loved so much was in fact Blowfish or Fugu.

I had always thought that Puffer or Blowfish was poisonous. I just never knew how much so until I did a little research.

If I had known the above facts before my meal, I would probably not have eaten it.

But, in hindsight, it was really delicious and I can understand why people risk all to eat it.

Luckily for me, the Chef who prepared my meal was a good one, and I am still alive to tell the tale.

Funny how quickly time flies by.

This week I decided to clean out my pantry and the freezer. Pantry first as I could barely see into the shelves.

What a surprise, I did not think it had been that long ago since I last cleaned it out, but it must have been.

There was stuff in there that was older than Methusulah. Probably it had been left over from the Ark trip.

I know some things are ok when they are past their use by date, but really, how far past is safe?

First I found some canned coconut cream hiding in a back corner. The use by date said 1999. Inot the rubbish bin with that one.

Pasta, tinned tomatoes, brown sugar, so hard one could use it for a brick without any fear of it collapsing.

Peaches and pineapple in tins, all pre 2002.

I stopped for a moment to reflect, it is now 2019 and that stuff has been hiding in the pantry for over 17 years.

I cannot even donate it to a charity as it would be sure to make someone unwell.

Quite possibly could kill them, especially the sugar if it hit them on the head.

There was wine, white and red, as I do not drink either it made me wonder how that even made it’s way onto the shelves.

Soy sauce of every description, thick, thin black and brown. Most of it well and truly out of date.

Spices, hundreds of different kinds. A quick smell told me they were no good. They actually had no aroma, that is how old they were.

I really do not need such a wide array of things in the pantry now. All my children have left home and I tend to cook basic no fuss meals using fresh ingredients.

When I do need to cook in large quantities, like at Christmas time, I think I will just buy what I actually need and not stock up on extras.

Next chore, on to the freezer. This freezer is huge. About 500 litres.

Why would anyone need a freezer that big I hear you ask.

Well, I live a fair drive from the nearest town and also had 3 sons with huge appetites, as well as a couple of foster children. Back then, early 1990’s until around 2004, they all lived at home. The lads were carnivours and also enjoyed their eggs on toast in the mornings. Once a month I would get a whole cow and several sheep slaughtered so I needed that big freezer to fit the meat in.

I would also buy multiple loaves of bread and ice cream in 10 litre cans.

Tackling the freezer was not quite as bad as the pantry. Yes, there was a few pieces of shrivelled up stuff that was probably once meat. A few iced up loaves of bread and quite a lot of fruit from my orchard. I used tostew the fruit and freeze it.

None of this was any good though as it had been in there far too long.

The neighbours chooks had a ball eating all that leftover fruit , bread and veg. The shrivelled meat, I buried in the vegie patch. It was too far gone to even think of giving it to the dog. Meat makes good fertilizer for citrus trees and other veg so really it saved me buying fertilizer for this year.

Bags of ice by the dozen also lurked in the depths of the freezer. Solid as a rock, it would do to water some plants as it slowly thawed.

I have made up my mind now, do not buy in bulk, never ever buy in bulk, no matter how cheap an item is. If I do not need it, I will not buy it.

Luckily it was bin day next day, the bin was full. What a waste I told myself, I must never let the pantry get like that again. As for the freezer, well it will be sold so that will no longer be a problem.


The recent hot weather has brought back memories of days gone by.

With temps in the high 40’s in some parts of the country, and thoughts about the good old days, it struck me that , these days ,we really have nothing to complain about.

When I was just 12 years old, my Father had purchased several thousand sheep and they needed droving from where they were, back to our family farm. This was a distance of 30 miles.

My older sister and I were the designated drovers. It was mid January and the temperature was hovering around the 110 mark, Fahrenheit, not Celsius.

Dad borrowed an old Clydesdale and flat top trailer so as we could put our camping gear on it, as well as a few bales of hay for the horses and plenty of drums of water. My sister was designated driver, much to my disgust. I was sure I could have done a better job of it, but what Dad said went, no argument .

.At 5am on the day, my sister started off with Old Clyde. The plan was to go through a couple of neighbouring properties, short cut, and then onto the main road to the first small town. Camp would be made there for the first night.

I had to help Dad do a few jobs before I set off, so I was a good 3 hours behind my sister. All went well for a while. Dad insisted I had to use a saddle, something I did not really like as I always rode bareback. Again, Dad’s word was it.

After a couple of hours I had emptied my canvas water bag, it was mighty hot and my horse was thirsty.

I veered off route to where I knew there was a small creek.

How cool it was near the creek. My horse drank its fill and I then noticed that the saddle girth had been rubbing on the horses belly. He was not used to saddles either.

What to do? I removed the saddle and leant it in the shade under a nice gum tree. I then had a quick dip in the creek to cool off, even drank some filthy water as that was all there was.

I was really tired by this stage and thought I may as well have a bit of a rest. There were no mobile phones back then so I could not call Dad to tell him about the horses condition.

I must have fallen into deep sleep as next thing I knew I was being shaken awake by my Father. He had realised something must be up when I did not catch up to my sister.

Dad knew how us kids thought, he taught us survival skills , so he knew exactly where to find me.

He was not angry at all, he was pleased that I had thought of the welfare of my horse before anything else.

We left the horse tied to a tree and went back to get a float to take him home again.

Mum was beside herself when we got back, “the children cannot camp out” she said. She had heard on the radio of an escaped prisoner who was in the vicinity and felt it too dangerous for us to sleep out in the bush.

Dad had to go back and collect my sister, who was more than annoyed by this news.

Next day saw me with a different horse and starting at 5am. I arrived at the town to meet my Dad and sister and we continued our journey.

There were no major hiccups that day, the temp was by now 115 so even hotter, but we travelled alongside a river and every now and again jumped in.

By nightfall we had reached our destination. We still had to go back home to sleep, but next day started the long drive home with all the sheep. The going was pretty slow as sheep are not known to be fast movers, unless of course you are trying to catch one.

That night we made a bush fence and put the sheep in it. We tied the dogs around it and then went home to bed.

Next day, no sheep!! The blighters had broken out and gone back home. They could certainly run fast

when they were headed to familiar parts

Oh well, nothing to do but to go back and start again.

This time things went a bit better. Dad found a secure yard in a farmers paddock and there were no escapes that night.

The days went well from then on and after

two more days, we were within a few miles of the farm so Dad allowed the little brothers and sisters to saddle up their ponies and come and help with the sheep. The little ones were excited. They thought they were real drovers and couldnot wait to get back home to tell Mum of their adventure. It was great to be altogether having a lot of fun despite the heat.

A week later, Dad took us all on a holiday to the beach. That more than made up for the discomforts of droving in the extreme heat.

I taught myself to crochet with a little help from Youtube.

I had been able to sew and knit since I was very young , but the knack of crochetting seemed to be something I just could not grasp.

I loved the look of crochet, I tried many times to do it, but no luck at all.

For many years I put all thoughts of crochet out of my mind.

In 2016 I was blessed with another grandaughter. She was so cute and all I could think of was how lovely she would look in a little crochetted dress.

It was time to have one more try at the art of crochet.

How difficult could it be, I thought.

My late Grandmother had taught herself to crochet when she was 75 years old and almost blind. Gran made beautiful doilies in yarn that was no thicker than a hair on ones head.

Surely I could do it. There was no youtube back in those days, I made up my mind. If Gran could do it, then so could I.

First thing to learn was how to hold the darn crochet hook. That skill took me hours of watching a basic crochet tutorial on youtube.

Once I had mastered that I tried the holding of the yarn technique. This proved more difficult. Yarn is slippery stuff with a mind of its own.

Finally I was ready to start . Hook in one hand, yarn in the other, oh dear, what a mess. My first chain looked like tangled something that defied description.

I gritted my teeth and chanted to myself, Gran did it, Gran did it, I will do it too. Luckily I lived alone, except for the dog who would look at me with pity in his eyes. He even put a paw over his face when I uttered obscenities.

After about two weeks I felt I was getting the hang of this crochet business. My chains were quite respectable looking. Time to tackle another type of stitch

Reading a pattern was quite mind boggling , but I persevered and after about a month I crochetted my first beanie.

The beanie looked a bit skewwiff, the back seam where the stitches joined was as crooked as bent stick but it was a beanie, there was no doubting that.

I sent it to my daughter in law and she very graciously told me it was beautiful. Even sent a photo with bub wearing it.

By now I was really inspired to become good at crochet.

Over the next year I made heaps of beanies, I made a lovely little dress and even attempted some baby sandals. With each new garment made I became more confidant.

I must have made hundreds of beanies, shawls and little dresses. Grandaughter was growing and wearing sewn clothing by now. In summer I sewed outfits and winter I crochetted.

Last year I tried my hand at Arigurumi, or little crochetted animals. This is what I really love doing. To make it more interesting for my grandaughter, I buy a book, for example, Pooh and Friends and I crochet the characters out of the book. I so far done Pooh, Tigger, Eeyore and Piget and justt this week completed theThree little Pigs and the big bad Wolf.

There is a lot to be enjoyed with crochet. I am so glad I gave it one last try.

snippets of my life as it is and how it was