Swimming naked and other scandals

 This is taken from my LONG Australian history, You Missed a Bit, which is much cheaper as an e-book.

Today, swimming is among Australia’s most popular pastimes, but in the 19^th century, ‘bathing’ as it was called was severely restricted. When we read about our Victorian ancestors in neck-to-knee bathing costumes, we assume that was the norm, but originally, public bathing was banned between sunrise and sunset, simply because most people did away with “togs” altogether.

Miles Franklin reflects this practice, even at the end of the 19^th century. On a hot day, she and a number of girl visitors “…went for bogeys in a part of the river two miles distant…”

Aunt Helen…was the only one who bothered with a bathing-dress. The rest of us reefed off our clothing, in our hurry sending buttons in all directions, and plunged into the pleasant water. [i]

Confirming evidence comes from official announcements like the one below, dated 4 October 1810. The key term is found in variants and derivatives of the word ‘indecent’, which was the officials’ code word for ‘naked’. This command was signed by the Governor’s secretary, J. T. Campbell:

A very indecent and improper custom having lately prevailed of soldiers sailors and inhabitants of the town bathing themselves at all Hours of the Day at the Government Wharf, and also in the Dock-yard, His Excellency the Governor directs and commands that no person shall Bathe at either of those Places in future, at any Hour of the Day; and the Sentinels, posted at the Government Wharf and in the Dock-yard are to receive strict Orders to apprehend and confine any Person transgressing this Order. [ii]

On the other hand, it was fully accepted that people would go to a secluded place to bathe, as indicated by an 1817 warning in the Sydney Gazette, about dangerous places near Farm Cove and Cockle Bay (Darling Harbour), where “coral” [in reality tubeworms, Galeolaria] and oysters lined the rocks:

Some of the accidents have been very serious, and in one instance threatened the necessity of amputation. Parents will we trust benefit by this caution, and admonish their children against the unnecessary hazard, as there are retired situations much better adapted to the recreation of bathing. [iii]

In other words, the problem was not the act of bathing, or being naked: it was being seen naked that was the issue. Unobserved open-air nakedness was fine, all the best people did it. At the end of 1821, wealthy parents could enrol their sons at the Sydney Academy, Macquarie-street, conducted by Isaac Wood. The school-house was described as standing on a hill, next to the Domain, in a healthy spot with excellent views.

This House has been erected at a considerable expence, affording to the Pupils every accommodation, with commodious apartments, &c. &c. Its contiguity to the Domain (where the Pupils have a liberty of walking, and, in the season, bathing, &c. &c.) renders it one of the most delightful situations possible. [iv]

There, young Gentlemen, of all ages, would be “…received and educated in the several branches of useful and polite literature, according to their destinations in life.” That said, there was only one school-room, though each student had a separate bed, and would learn English, plain and ornamental Writing, Arithmetic, Latin, French, Drawing, Dancing, Music and Fencing.

Boarders paid £40 a year from the age of ten upwards, and below that, £30—and even that amount was a shepherd’s pay for a year, so these pupils were “upper crust”. Clearly, the habit of bathing in a suitable place was normal for all ages and classes.

Indeed, in 1824, somebody writing as “An Independent Whig” wrote to the liberal newspaper, the Australian, protesting at a sign which had appeared, a fortnight earlier. The sign read:

NOTICE.—All Persons found Bathing, at the Military Bathing-house, and which is fenced in, will be prosecuted with the utmost rigour of the law. N. B.—A sentry is now posted to guard the ground and fence and to secure all depredators. [v]

The writer was furious at this high-handed action by the officers of the garrison,

…forbidding any persons bathing at the military bathing-house, not only myself, but I presume the inhabitants generally, would be much obliged by being informed, through the medium of your Independent Paper, if the officers have any legal right to usurp to themselves exclusively, a public place, for their own private use. [vi]

Here, there was no suggestion of indecency. But as the population grew, secluded places became harder to find, and enclosures and bathing machines began to appear. The first was in Hobart in 1829:

The public will be pleased to learn that Mr. Easton has completed a bathing machine, and is well advanced with a second for the accommodation of the inhabitants of Hobart town. [vii]

And it wasn’t only gentlemen who used Easton’s facilities, given this, four weeks later:

We are happy to observe, that the laudable enterprise of Mr. EASTON, in having erected bathing machines, for the accommodation of invalids ordered sea-bathing, and those fond of that recreation, is likely to meet with encouragement—daily remarking several groups of respectable females visiting the same at Sullivan’s Cove. [viii]

In Sydney in 1833, things were apparently getting out of hand, and the Sydney Gazette praised the new orders about bathing:

Years ago we called attention to this. No gentleman could take his wife, sister, daughter or female acquaintance, to any of the public walks adjoining the harbour without keenly feeling the want of some regulation like that which is now in force, and which, we trust, will be strictly enforced. [ix]

Towards the end of the year, The Sydney Gazette and New South Wales Advertiser reported that men had been bathing openly at 1 pm on a Saturday on “the Domain side of the Cove”. [x] That was all very well, said the Sydney Monitor the next month, but where were people to be allowed to bathe? The relevant Act referred to Sydney Cove and Darling Harbour, but was Woolloomooloo Bay included in the list? At that time, swimmers wanting a bathing spot within three or four miles of the town either went through private property, or chose Woolloomooloo Bay.

As a prevention of the indecencies that occurred in Sydney Cove and Darling Harbour, the Police Act is considered an important benefit. But if Woolloomoollo Bay be to be included in the restriction, it becomes a public nuisance, which, however, might easily be rectified by a reservation to a particular spot, and which, when known as a bathing-place, would be avoided by females. [xi]

Perhaps the writer thought women would not wish to bathe, but across the continent, even vice-regal ladies did it. In Perth in 1836, it was announced that the Governor, Sir James Stirling and Lady Stirling and family, would all be visiting Fremantle to go sea bathing.

Captain Scott, the Harbour Master, has a bathing machine in readiness, and others no doubt will soon be prepared, when the number of visitors attracted to this fashionable resort increase. [xii]

The term ‘bathing machine’ was fairly elastic. When a hairdresser named Robinson established a bathing machine at Figtree Sands, Woolloomooloo Bay in 1838, it was soon referred to as “floating baths”. It was “…sixty feet in length, completely roofed in, and provided with dressing-rooms, and other conveniences…”. [xiii]

These were clearly swimming baths, an enclosure off the sea. By 1840, Robinson’s establishment was catering to both men and women, but never at the same time and place.

HOT AND COLD BATHS. Robinson’s Australian Floating Baths, adjoining the Domain and Woolloomoolloo Bay.—J. ROBINSON with great pleasure announces to the Ladies and Gentlemen of Sydney, and its vicinity, that his Baths have undergone a thorough repair and are now ready for use…The great benefits derived from such a delightful recreation as Bathing are too well known to need any comment from the proprietor of the Baths.—Terms Twelve Months £2, Six ditto £1 5s, Three ditto 15s., One ditto 7s., single Bath 1s., warm ditto ditto 2s. 6d. All subscriptions to be paid in advance. [xiv]

As an additional attraction, both baths offered Coffee, Lemonade, Soda Water, Biscuits and Cigars, and Mrs Robinson also had bathing dresses and oil skin caps for sale, though Mr Robinson offered no “bathing dresses” for sale.

In March 1845, the earliest recorded swimming race took place. The competitors were male, the races were around buoys in the harbour, and they started at 6:30 a.m. and 6:45 a.m., suggesting that clothing was not involved.

This noble and manly exercise is much practised by our colonial youth; but the merit of bringing together some of our best swimmers to compete for the honour of a prize, is due to Mr. Robinson, who has for some years catered for the public comfort by establishing his baths in Woolloomooloo Bay. [xv]

Over time, other cities became involved, and in 1854, Adelaide was planning two plunging baths, “…that for gentlemen measuring 88 feet by 40 feet, and that for ladies 48 feet 6 inches by 28 feet; besides numerous warm baths, dressing rooms, towel rooms, waiting-rooms, committee-room, engine-houses, residence for bath keeper, &c., &c.” [xvi]

In 1861, Elizabeth Ramsay-Laye was full of praise for the bathing facilities in Melbourne, something which she called one of the gems of the city.

No places could be better adapted for the purpose. Gentlemen have, at some distance from the shore, a bathing ship, from which they may jump into the water and swim a certain distance, buoys being placed to prevent the uninitiated from getting within reach of sharks. The ladies are equally cared for, and the arrangements made for them are most comfortable. [xvii]

Other Melbourne ladies swam from the beach, and a letter to The Argus signed “DECENCY” sounded a note of alarm which reveals in passing that while women wore “bathing dresses”, those swimming at Brighton, if they had no private dressing-box, got changed in the scrub.

A “well-known broker”, a married man, had been hiding in the bushes to peep at the ladies in a state of undress, creeping up to them on hands and knees. On one occasion, he ran off when he was detected, but he had been recognised.

The same ladies met the same wretch near the same place the following morning, and accused him of it, when he again made use of his legs to the best advantage. And I may add, that this fellow, in the garb of a gentleman, will be well ducked if he persist in it. [xviii]

Throughout the later 19^th century, there were more and more reports of “indecency” charges, but the times were changing. In 1890, Dr E. G. Leger Erson delivered a scientific paper in Melbourne on “School hygiene.”

This was mainly about making children aware of the need for good (diffused, not too bright nor too dim) lighting, sewerage, and ventilation, and it also touched on posture, but Dr Erson also wanted to see children taught to ride horses, shoot and swim.

While the writers at the Bendigo Advertiser thought the horse riding part unnecessary, and said shooting was dangerous, they agreed that all children should learn to swim, and offered helpful suggestions, like adapting the dams scattered around the goldfield:

These could be levelled, and the bottom covered with gravel, and a bit of hoarding would be sufficient to protect from the public gaze, while modesty could still further be prevented from being shocked by the boys wearing swimming pants. By this means a great benefit could be obtained at a minimum cost. [xx]

Note how a concern for ‘decency’ has been replaced by a desire for ‘modesty’. Two years later, in 1892, Port Fairy in Victoria proposed to make mixed bathing legal, and the Portland Guardian agreed with keeping up with the times, noting that “some estimable persons will regard it as a very horrible and immodest course of proceeding…” It would, said the paper be a very desirable one, and no more immodest than a family game at tennis or rounders.

Judging by the pictures in the American papers, bathing dresses may be very handsome and becoming costumes, and as to the modesty of the attire—well, honi soit &c. They are Diana’s robes, compared to some of the displays I have blushed to look upon in the theatres and public ball-rooms. [xxi]

Mixed bathing became more popular in the 1890s, and all Australian newspapers reported the Parliamentary debates in the other colonies. One thing quickly becomes clear: in New South Wales, Newcastle had taken the lead in matters of bathing, and they were keeping themselves informed, as a report from Melbourne in the Newcastle Morning Herald and Miners’ Advocate shows.

In spite of police prudery and the cost of “neck-to-knee” bathing costumes, the residents of Port Melbourne approved of mixed bathing in the open. Their Mayor, Dr Malcolmson, headed a deputation to the Harbour Trust…

The chairman of the trust said they could not interfere with the Police Offences Statute, but as a practical remedy suggested that the residents of Port Melbourne, following the example of other suburbs, should pack the Bench, and fine offenders 1d only instead of the customary 5s. [xxii]

There was debate in the NSW Legislative Council over bathing at Newcastle, and the decision was made to legislate for the whole colony. [xxiii] By August 1894, the battle had been fought, and won, with a Newcastle Borough Council by-law, allowing daylight bathing (but banning mixed bathing).

“Bathing at the Beach: It shall be lawful for all persons, whether male or female, to bathe in the sea at all times and at all hours of the day at those parts or portions of the sea beach within the municipality duly set apart and defined as male and female places. Provided such persons desirous of bathing, being male or female, shall be clothed or covered from the neck and shoulders to the knees with a suitable bathing dress or costume to prevent exposure or indecency; such clothing or covering shall be approved of by the council or other persons employed by the council as caretaker or caretakers. That portion or part of the beach set apart for females or young children shall not be encroached or trespassed upon by any male or males above the age of 7 years, nor shall the part or portion of the beach set apart for males be encroached or trespassed upon by any female or females. Any person infringing the provisions of this bylaw shall be liable on conviction to a penalty not exceeding £1 nor less than 1s. [xxiv]

By 1900, swimming was an Olympic sport, and one Australian swimmer went to the Olympic Games in Paris. While few Australians have heard of him today, F. C. V. (Frederick) Lane won a gold medal for the 200 metres freestyle in 2 minutes 25.25 and a second gold for winning a “200 metres obstacle race”.

This race involved climbing up and down a pole, scrambling over a row of boats and diving under another row of boats, as well as swimming 200 metres. He completed that race in a creditable 2 minutes 38.4 seconds. [xxv] Notably, the race was held in the Seine, where the swimmers had to beat not only the current but the sewage of Paris, which flowed into the river.

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[i] Miles Franklin, My Brilliant Career, ch 17.

[ii] The Sydney Gazette and New South Wales Advertiser, 13 October 1810, 1, http://trove.nla.gov.au/ndp/del/article/628098#pstart6682

[iii] The Sydney Gazette and New South Wales Advertiser, 5 April 1817, 2, http://trove.nla.gov.au/ndp/del/article/2177167

[iv] The Sydney Gazette and New South Wales Advertiser, 29 December 1821, 4, http://trove.nla.gov.au/ndp/del/article/2180705

[v] The Australian (Sydney), 11 November 1821, 4, http://trove.nla.gov.au/ndp/del/article/37072524

[vi] The Australian (Sydney), 25 November 1824, 4, http://trove.nla.gov.au/ndp/del/article/37071701

[vii] The Hobart Town Crier, 17 January 1829, 2, http://trove.nla.gov.au/ndp/del/article/4218444

[viii] Colonial Times (Hobart), 13 February 1829, 3, http://trove.nla.gov.au/ndp/del/article/8644113/666470

[ix] The Sydney Gazette and New South Wales Advertiser, 28 February 1833, 3, http://trove.nla.gov.au/ndp/del/article/2210938

[x] The Sydney Gazette and New South Wales Advertiser, 15 October 1833, 2, http://trove.nla.gov.au/ndp/del/article/2214382

[xi] The Sydney Monitor, 20 November 1833, 2, http://trove.nla.gov.au/ndp/del/article/32145054

[xii] The Perth Gazette and Western Australian Journal, 19 March, 1836, 670, http://trove.nla.gov.au/ndp/del/article/640502

[xiii] The Australian, 24 July, 1838, 2, http://trove.nla.gov.au/ndp/del/article/36857967

[xiv] The Sydney Herald, 13 October 1840, 1, http://trove.nla.gov.au/ndp/del/article/12866022

[xv] Sydney Morning Herald, 3 March 1845, 2, http://trove.nla.gov.au/ndp/del/article/12877795

[xvi] South Australian Register, 18 October 1854, 3, http://trove.nla.gov.au/ndp/del/article/49197848

[xvii] Elizabeth Ramsay-Laye, Social Life and Manners in Australia, 96 – 7.

[xviii] The Argus, 14 March, 1861, 7, http://trove.nla.gov.au/ndp/del/article/5698419

[xix] William Morrison Bell Other Countries, vol 1, 279, and E. E. Morris (ed.) Australia’s First Century, 75.

[xx] Bendigo Advertiser, 14 January 1890, 2, http://trove.nla.gov.au/ndp/del/article/88979480

[xxi] Portland Guardian (Victoria), 11 March 1892, 3, http://trove.nla.gov.au/ndp/del/article/65390320

[xxii] Newcastle Morning Herald and Miners’ Advocate, 19 March 1894, 6, http://trove.nla.gov.au/ndp/del/article/137177795

[xxiii] The Argus, 10 March 1894, 9, http://trove.nla.gov.au/ndp/del/article/8731262

[xxiv] Sydney Morning Herald, 24 August 1894, 4, http://trove.nla.gov.au/ndp/del/article/13965281

[xxv] Sydney Morning Herald, 15 August 1900, 7, http://trove.nla.gov.au/ndp/del/article/14330670

The last of the Copywrong Pirates

This is the third and last sample from my revised Monster Maintenance Manual, a book recommended for the very young who want to grow up as cryptic crossword champions.

Go here for the print version, and here for the ebook

Roger Rabid was a very mild-looking person because he was a very mild person. He was born with the name Peter Percival Rabbit, because his parents named him after the famous Peter Rabbit, but his grandfather was an artist and he warned Peter’s parents about copyright law.

“I got into trouble once when I was using the name Rupert Bunny, so put in a Percival to be safe,” he told them.

P. P. Rabbit grew up in his home burrow on Circular Island, embarrassed by his name. He got in the habit of telling people he was named after Padraic Pearse, a famous Irish rebel, but people soon found out that it wasn’t true.

Because P. P. Rabbit hated his name, he hated the copyright law. At a very young age, he decided to run away and become a copywrong pirate.

He wasn’t really sure what a copywrong pirate did, but he thought it was probably damaging to copyright. He hoped it meant smashing up the copyright laws, but whatever it was, it had to be more exciting than living at home, competing with aunt’s flock of lawn moas for a feed of grass, and very occasionally getting some grated carrot.

He decided to go and find a copywrong pirate so he could ask what they did. He worked out that most pirates use ships, and that meant they should be found near the sea, but he wasn’t sure where to look for the sea.

This should tell you all you need to know about P. P. Rabbit. He lived on an island, surrounded by sea, and he had several lucky rabbit’s feet. His mother said they had to be lucky, because they were still part of him.

One day, P. P. Rabbit heard a rumbling while was out walking, then he heard the squawking of parrots, and he decided that a troppo was coming along the road. Off the road he went, fast as he could, right across Circular Island—and fell into the sea.

Thinking quickly, he grabbed a bar of soap out of his pocket. “All I have to do is wash myself ashore,” he bubbled, but the soap ran out, and so did his luck.

Then his luck returned, as a kind old man with an eye patch scooped him out of the water, shouting ‘Aaaaarr!’ as he did. P. P. Rabbit smiled, even though he was cold and soggy.

Going on the eyepatch, if this man wasn’t a copywrong pirate, he must know about them. So as the man rowed him back to the beach, he plucked up the courage to ask a question.

“Thanks,” he said, shaking off the water. “Are you a copywrong pirate?”

“Aaaaarr!” said the man, either winking or blinking. P. P. Rabbit might have been a bit silly, but he worked out that when somebody has a patch, it’s hard to tell a wink from a blink. “That oi be! Me name’s Wrong John Sliver! Why did you ask that?”

“Oh, thank you,” said P. P. Rabbit. “Now can you tell me what copywrong pirates actually do? I think I want to become one…”

The man thought for a moment. “Well, we shout ‘Aaaaarr!’ quite a lot.”

“What does that do?”

“Well, it makes you feel a lot better if you’ve just stubbed your toe because some evil son of a sea-cook just shivered their timbers and didn’t clean up after themselves. Besides that, d’you know what our favourite letter of the alphabet is?”

P. P. Rabbit thought about this. “Could your favourite possibly be the letter P? That’s my favourite letter…”

“No, you hornpiped lump of unspliced mainbrace! It’s R!” bellowed Wrong John. “That’s why all our names start with an R!”

“But your name starts with a W, doesn’t it?”

“Only if you’re a copyright pirate, but we’re copywrong pirates. And I’m the pirate king! Aaaaarr!”

“So you don’t like the letter P?”

“Aaaaarr, we like it a bit. That letter’s the next best, but if you give it a wooden leg, it’s an R. Anyhow, you can’t be called anything Rabbit, so we’ll make that Rabid. Aaaaarr, we’ll call you Roger Rabid.”

Roger was glad they didn’t chop off one of his legs or even one of his lucky feet. Instead, Wrong John tied a lump of wood to one of his own legs. And he didn’t poke out one of Roger’s eyes, he just gave him a patch to wear. “Which eye will I wear it on?” Roger asked.

Wrong John Sliver grinned. “Aaaaarr, we be copywrong pirates! Different eye each day, lad!”

They stood, looking silently out to sea, but the quiet was soon ended with a roar.

“AVAST, YE BLUBBERS!” Roger jumped and turned to see two men with eye patches. One wore a kilt, but Roger noticed that instead of being tartan, it looked as though it had been made from a Hawaiian shirt. The other one held a teapot and wore a garland of leeks with camouflage shirt and pants.

The one in the kilt held his hand out. “I’m Rrrrobert the Brrrruise!” he said in a broad Scots accent. “I jump to contusions quite a bit, while my friend here with the teapot jumps to infusions.”

The other waved his teapot and spoke in a Welsh accent. “I’m Roberts the Brew,” he said. “Care for some tea, boyo?”

Roger nodded.

“Hold your hand out then!”

“Umm, maybe I won’t,” said Roger.

Roberts the Brew shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

Roger noticed Long John Sliver was looking unhappy, and glaring at the other two. “What’s this BLUBBER stuff?” he asked them. “I’ve been losing weight!”

Robert the Bruise nodded. “We can see that. We’re just trying to be wrong, like the rule book says.” He pointed at Roger. “This here’s a new member?”

Roger held out his hand. “Roger Rabid,” he said. “Pleased to meet you!”

Robert the Bruise scowled at him. “Are you really pleased?”

Roger nodded. Roberts and Robert jumped up and down, chanting loudly “Keelhaul him! Keelhaul him!”

“Just a moment, lads,” said Long John Sliver. “He’s very new, and I haven’t explained yet.”

He turned to Roger. “See, lad, it’s, aaaaarr, like this. Everything we say has to be wrong, and the punishment for being right is keelhauling.”

“Right!” said Roger, but then he noticed their faces. “Umm, wrong, I mean. I’m sorry—I mean I’m not sorry at all.”

“Aaaaarr,” said Robert and Roberts, smiling. “Bad lad, you’re not catching on quite badly!” said Roberts.

Two more people with eye patches walked onto the beach. One was a good-looking short man with green skin, the other was a beautiful tall lady with blue skin. Long John Sliver introduced them as Richard the Repulsive.

“Which one’s Richard,” he asked.

“We both are,” said the lady. “We are identical twins from Poland. People can’t tell us apart, so we save them having to ask us which of us is which.”

Roger noticed that she had a strong Irish accent.

“And we’ve both got magnetic personalities,” said the short man, in an even stronger Irish accent.

Roger thought he understood now why they were called repulsive. He began to wonder what he had got himself into. “That sounds only a bit more exciting than stamp collecting,” he said.

“We do that,” said the man. “But we only collect forged stamps.”

“Why?”

“Because imitation is the sincerest form of philately.”

“Right,” said Roger, setting off another chant about keelhauling. He decided it was time to do something before they went from chanting to doing.

“Think about it,” he told them. “If it’s right to be wrong and wrong to be right, then every time I’m right, that’s wrong, so being right is more wrong than just being ordinary wrong.”

“I understand that,” said Long John Sliver. Roger realised this meant the opposite, so he took a deep breath.

“Think about it,” he said, “when I’m right, I’m being doubly wrong. It’s like being not unhappy, which is the same as being happy.”

Long John Sliver looked very unhappy. “But two wrongs don’t make a right!”

Roger grinned. “Is that right?”

“Yes, it is. No, that’s wrong. No it’s not, it’s aaaaarr …” Long John Sliver stumbled up the beach, sobbing.

The other copywrong pirates looked at each other as he disappeared. They pondered.

Then, when the copywrong pirates realised how they had been deprived of their wrongs, their lips trembled. Then they went into a huddle. Then they went into the kitchen, where Roberts the Brew taught them how to make tea.

Then they all went off in different directions to open tea shops in seaside villages where they charged pie rates, and there were no more copywrong pirates.

Or were there? I know the answer to that, but it would be wrong for me to say.

Aaaaarr!

Legal notices (for groan-ups):

All the low-fat words in this story were laid by free-range word hens.

All blubbers mentioned in this story were derived from surplus tea shop proprietors.

The tea used by Roberts the Brew was actually an aaaaarr that had come down in the world. It is now feeling much better.

Peter Rabbit has gone freelance, and declined to be part of this story. His role in the back-story was played by a piece of tape, a bunch of keys, and three mice in a tennis sock.

Long John Sliver’s leg was played by the runner-up in the Hollowood Wooden Actors’ Award who wishes to remain anonymous.

The forged stamps were played by themselves, as was the tennis match, but that was in the binding of the book. It was a net gain.

Epimenides was invited to take part, but declined when he found he would have to change his name.

Reference:

Johann Sebastian Bach, The Copy Cantata.

The Deconstructionist who liked books

Another of my monster stories for kids who are adult in years. You can now buy the whole book, either as an ebook, or as old-fashioned dead tree print.

That second link also allows to look around inside.

Always read between the lions.

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Spanner the Surfing Wrench was a deconstructionist. She was an expert at taking machinery apart, and most of the deconstructionists admired her mechanical skills. All the same, Spanner couldn’t ever make friends with other deconstructionists, because she liked books.

When she was little, her family worried about the way she read. “Why can’t you rip the ears off teddy-bears like your brothers and sisters?” her mother asked her one afternoon.

Spanner just sighed, and turned over the page. They would never understand, but her books made good friends.

Constructors put things together, but deconstructionists get their name because they like taking things apart. At home, they call themselves Decos, and they were active in Egypt in the days when the pharaohs made pyramids. Back then, the things Decos liked best was taking the head off a hammer, or separating a pick or an axe from its handle.

Then one of them, a deconstructionist called Ptakeittobits discovered papyruses and decided to pull those apart as well, because one of them told readers about better ways of repairing axes and hammers and picks. Ptakeittobits shook his head. “We don’t need that,” he growled as he chewed up the papyrus.

A papyrus is a long roll of stuff that looks like paper. The Egyptians used to write things on papyrus, and sometimes they would add drawings, before they glued the pieces together to make a long scroll.

Ptakeittobits found one of these one day, and realised that if you undid the glue, the scroll would fall apart. He started with that, then he began changing what was on the papyruses, and for a while, the Egyptians made upside-down pyramids. “It’s brilliant,” he told his friends, “all the taking apart just takes care of itself…”

Later, the ancient Romans had problems when the deconstructionists discovered Rome. It took a long while for them to get there, because every time the Decos set out to sail from Egypt to Rome, one of them would start taking the ship apart, they would all join in, and all the deconstructionists would drown.

In the end, the deconstructionists walked east, all the way around the Black Sea and the Sea of Azov, and then west to get down into Italy. By the time the deconstructionists got to Rome, the Romans had forgotten about them, and they had started gluing sheets of paper together to make scrolls.

Well, the deconstructionists soon put an end to that! The Romans were clever, but Biblius Philius was the cleverest of them all, because he came up with the idea of stitching sheets together, so there was no glue to undo.

When the deconstructionists made it to Rome and learned to cut the stitching on books, Biblius Philius invented page numbering and book binding, so the pages could be assembled once more, and then be bound again.

Sometimes the book lovers won, and sometimes the deconstructionists won. Illuminated manuscripts used poisonous pigments full of arsenic and lead, mainly because it stopped the deconstructionists chewing the pages. In the end, the deconstructionists learned to wash the pages before they chewed them, and the Dark Ages started when all the illuminated manuscripts were eaten.

Over time, most of the deconstructionists found other things to do. Some worked for builders as demolition experts. Some learned to pull old cars apart for spare parts, but most of the time they forgot and pulled the spare parts apart as well. Most deconstructionists weren’t very bright, because they never read books.

Modern times have been hard for the deconstructionists. It’s hard when you plant a vegetable garden and somebody in the family digs the seeds up every five minutes to see how they are doing. Sometimes, there was no work to be found, but the deconstructionists scraped by.

Still, wherever deconstructionists went, even if they worked in some other area, they liked to damage books whenever they could. They would sneak into libraries and put books on the wrong shelves, they would scribble in books, they would tear books, they would steal books, they would borrow books and not return them. All of this made it very hard for Spanner, who was often stopped at library doors, because all the deconstructionists look like each other.

And then she met Jo March.

Jo had been brought up to judge people by their actions, not by their appearances. More importantly for Spanner, Jo wanted to be a writer. In her researches for plot ideas for books, she had excited the suspicions of public librarians by asking for works on poisons. Now she was older, they knew Jo and trusted her when she spoke up for her friend Spanner, who might look like a monster, but who really, really loved books.

“And I don’t love books the way my father does,” Spanner told the nice librarian. “He likes to curl up in front of a fire and eat toasted pages. I just like to read them.”

Over time, Jo and Spanner became interested in how books were made and how they were repaired, so they went to one of the library technicians who knew all the old skills of book binding. Spanner’s family had taught her well, so she was already expert at taking a book apart into its sections, but now she and Jo learned the old arts of stitching, gluing. trimming and binding old books and slipping them into new covers.

“Taking apart’s much more fun when you turn around and put the bits back together again,” Spanner told Jo, who just grinned.

At home, Spanner’s family noticed that she was behaving more like a proper deconstructionist, pulling things apart. They worried, though, when they found her reassembling an old broken alarm clock. They were shocked when she set it going and it worked. Then she took apart an old television set, soldered it all together again, and it worked as well.

The family learned to turn the television on when the alarm went off, and sit around watching Demolition Derby and Great Junkyards of the World on the fixed TV set. Soon, they began to say nice things about Spanner and her fixing skills.

All the same, her father Bash looked worried and muttered “It’s not quite right for a deconstructionist…” He shivered and threw a few sheets of the Book of Kells on the fire.

“No,” said Mash, her mother. “It’s more like a reconstructionist than a deconstructionist. I’m not sure that we should tell the rest of the tribe, just in case the High Degger gets cranky, but there’s money in it, Bash. I think I’ll do something about putting all the old car parts together.”

Spanner’s family would have been more worried if they had known what she was doing in the library now. She was studying history, and in particular, the history of the poisonings caused by pigments in the old illuminated manuscripts that her ancestors had eaten.

One day they were at the beach, because Jo liked to swim and Spanner liked the breaking waves. “It’s amazing,” she told Jo. “All those bright colours seem to involve metals that are poisonous to us. Even painters used to get sick from them.”

She and Jo started looking into poisons and what they do. Jo was interested because she was going to write a murder mystery, but Spanner was beginning to think that it might be fun to make some new illuminated manuscripts to replace the ones her ancestors had eaten.

The only catch was that she didn’t want to be poisoned, so she needed to understand about all sorts of poisons that might be found in paints. Jo planned a murder story, set in an old monastery, and the plot involved manuscript pigments. “I’ll call it The Aim of a Nose,” she said.

They had no idea how useful all their study was about to be.

Mash and Bash had put together all the pulled-apart things in the house, but then a call went out for all the deconstructionists to come and help take apart a whole lot of old ships. It was well-paid work, and it involved cutting up the ships with tools and big torches.

Best of all, there would be lots of things falling down and making loud crashes. There is nothing a traditional deconstructionist likes better than the loud crash of bits falling off something, and Mash and Bash were very traditional.

Even though they were very traditional, Mash and Bash let Spanner do as she wanted. Spanner would come down to the breaking yard at lunch time. They would all break bread together, drink bits and pieces soup and eat lots of pizza, before they finished up with broken biscuits and Broken Orange Pekoe tea.

In the third week, Spanner noticed that all of the workers seemed tired. They had trouble lifting their heavy tools, and they complained all the time about having stomach aches, and deconstructionists never do that. Spanner started asking a few questions. Then she went back to the library to talk to Jo, because she had remembered something.

“It’s a nasty condition called Devon colic,” she told Jo. “But I can’t see where it’s coming from. Ships are made of steel, not lead!”

Jo thought for a moment and then walked over to a shelf and took down a large book. She looked in the index and opened the book up. “It’s the paint,” she said. Under all the other paint, there’s a layer of paint called red lead. They’ll need dust masks, or maybe breathing apparatus. We’ll have to tell them.”

“Right,” said Spanner. “Now don’t worry, I won’t tear the page out, but we’d better photocopy it.”

Within a week, all of the deconstructionists at the ship yard were happy, healthy, and making twice as many bits and pieces. The High Degger, the leader of the whole deconstructionist tribe, came on a special royal visit. He listened to what the tribe said and then called Spanner over.

“Reading has never been our way,” he said. “But it seems that your reading has saved the whole tribe from being very sick. Keep up the good work!”

And ever since that day, deconstructionists have been great readers, even if they read in a funny way.

Notes (for groan-ups):

Told to the author by the High Degger during breaks in the conversation, in broken English.

All the words in this translation were hand-crafted by traditional artisans working in reputable fair-trade workshops.

All rapping on doors, walls and fragile things in this work was all done by Mr McHammer.

Jo March appeared in this story by courtesy of L. M. Alcott Enterprises.

The Book of Kells was not harmed, as it was played by a stunt double supplied by Barbara Cartland.

Special illumination make-up by the House of Caravaggio.

All books damaged in the back story were later given first aid and provided with shelter under the Palimpsest Resettlement Program.

The Broken Orange Pekoe was bathed in hot water, and now feels much better.

Reference: Jack Derider, trans. Alan Bass, Writhing and Diffidence.

Vincent van Gogh: Semiotics: listening with half an ear.

I'm ba-a-ack!

 While I have been notably missing from here since early September, I have been flat out seizing back the rights to out of print books and republishing them.

You can find out all about them on this link, but today, I start on the last of them, the book that got me started as a writer of mainstream history. Australia's Pioneers, Heroes and Fools was in iconoclastic look at the tales of 'explorers' that Australian kids are fed at school.

Well, it's about to get a lot more iconoclastic: I wrote this foreword this morning:

There is a set of conservative politician who thunder that educational standards are dropping, that children are no longer taught the important dates and names (presumably including the names of the conservative politicians). The educational standards are indeed dropping — among the critics.

If you ask them to define Australian history, it comes down to a fluffy list: Bushrangers and Convicts (both scum), Diggers (the military ones), Explorers (brave openers of untamed wilderness), Farmers (who turned the sterile wilderness into riches at no cost) and Gold (ours by right of conquest). I call this the BCDEFG model.

If you question them about these headings, they may be able to name five of the more than 2000 bushrangers who once flourished, their understanding of the convict system is pitiful, they could not locate a single battlefield on the world map, they would be lucky to name more than four explorers worthy of note (and no, Burke and Wills don’t count), they have no understanding of the harm done to country by agriculture, and their history of gold is complete rubbish.

So their BCDEFG history of Australia is just worthless scribbles, but one in fifty of them may amend that to the ABCDEFG, because the ‘Aborigines’ don’t come into it for most of them—and don’t confuse the poor dears by amending it to a more polite IBCDEFG. Mention the role of Indigenous Australia, and they will look at you like a mallee bull which has just run at full tilt into Crooked Mick of the Speewah.

Having thought about it, let’s leave Aborigines as A (after all, they were here first!), but add H for Home (Britain), because for too long, that is where everybody looked for leaders to rule us. Then tack on I for Invasion. That gives us the ABCDEFGHI model of Australia.

This book is about the realities of what is in the E file, how exploration was done, what it achieved, and who the active players were. Mainly, ‘exploration’ was about drawing and labelling maps with new names.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Now I have almost completed Project Resuscitation, I will be surfacing more often.

The binomial theorem and herd immunity

Godfrey Hardy once called out another statistician's faulty analysis of Mendelian genetics, writing:

"A little mathematics of the multiplication table type is enough..."

I wish to call out some fatally flawed amateur assumptions about herd immunity. Please stay with me, because this has lockdown relevance. Be warned that the binomial theorem seems counter-intuitive, but it's a corner-stone of mathematics.

At one time, I was between jobs, and I worked as a casual (supply) teacher. I was amused once to hear some of my charges discussing me on a bus. One claimed I was their science teacher, another knew me as a computing teacher, and another thought I was their maths teacher. The fourth said "Naaah, he's Angus' dad."

They were all correct, but at the school where I taught maths, my Year 9 kids quickly worked out that I gave intellectually honest answers. I also had them to the point where a number of them came up to me in the playground to ask about maths problems I had floated past them. That's the payoff for being intellectually honest.

One of those kids, a boy, later asked me in class "what's the use of the binomial theorem?" and I said I would look into it. The next day, I gave an adequate answer. Now here's a Good Answer:

(a + b)^2 = a^2 + b^2 + 2ab. That's one form of the B.T. I keep hearing GladnBradnScotty bumbling about 70% vaccination being the Gold Standard, but consider a hundred random meetings after that time. Here are the odds: I will call single vax and no vax Nvx and double vax Dvx. P (Dvx x Dvx) = 0.7 x 0.7, so 49% might be OK. That may not be so, but let's pretend it is.

P (Nvx x NVx) = 0.3 x 0.3, so 9% are in a handbasket together. The balance of cases, 42%, involve a contact between a vaxed and a non-vaxed person (2 x 0.3 x 0.7, if you prefer). I call those people at risk, and notice that 42% > 30%. The 49% are OK, the 9% are self-selected and gone, but the 42% bloc is where the mayhem will occur. The vaxed can carry and spread the virus to the 21% of unvaxed that they encounter (and some of the vaxed can still be infected. Putting it another way, the 30% of unvaxed have a 70% chance of encountering a vaxed person: that's 21% another way.

Even with 80% vaxed, that means 16% vulnerable, and 90% vaxed leaves 9% vulnerable.

Now one of the three pollies named above once worked for me, and said numpty's papers were marked by me "not to be reemployed" due to incompetence, and I have only done that to one subordinate, ever. The other two are, in my estimation, far worse. These people should only be allowed to put the bins out, and even then, only if they are supervised.

There's a storm coming, and I want to be able to point back to this and say "Told you so!" There is no way in a sane world that you let decision-makers choose options when they haven't run the numbers. The Binomial Theorem does not make mistakes.

Please fasten your seatbelts...