Traffic jam poem No. 4 (aka a farewell to my tortured syntax)

When I was at high school, my English teacher was one Reverend Alan Dale. One day, handing back a marked essay, he said, "Please stop torturing your syntax". I was a bit puzzled. I wasn't sure what he meant. It sounded as if I had done something very cruel.

I asked Dad about it and he said, "Well, Zimble, what he means is stop trying to fight the problem. Make what you say mean what you want it to say and keep it simple."

So here we are, twenty-something years later, with a little bit of remedial nonsense.

Oh, tortured syntax now it's time to go,
For years you've slowly sent me round the bend,
It's time for you to have the full heave ho,
No longer can you call yourself my friend.

I've twisted, turned and tweaked my words about,
My commas strafe the lines on every page,
I flip my phrases over, inside out,
Your machinations put me in a rage.

Who cares if Captain Kirk to boldly goes,
Some things a tortured syntax cannot save,
We need the prose to spark in molten flows,
Not plod like un-dead corpses to the grave.

So, tortured syntax leave this pen, be gone!
I've had you up to here for far too long!

Voting day

Camp Hill School of the Arts circa 1940. It's now painted white and there is a new fence.

This post was meant to be an ode to snag-proof pantyhose but that, I've decided, is a bit too optimistic a concept for a weekend afternoon. Instead, here are a few lines about my visit to the 'Camp Hill School of the Arts' where I went to vote this morning.

While I stood on the footpath outside the hall, lining up with the other voters, a man came up and handed me a " Vote 1 Socialist Alliance" (I don't think so) card which immediately turned into a handy fan and fly waver-awayer. Along with something about the cost of Lady Finger bananas the briefest of thoughts about an individual's responsibilities in a democracy as opposed to their democratic rights flitted (as most thoughts do) through my consciousness.

Compulsory voting means that even though you may waste your say with a half-smart informal vote, you do have to have remembered the Federal Election was on and you do have to have stood in the sun for 10 minutes or so being handed how to vote cards. Barring sunstroke, everyone is at least given the chance to decide (and, Mr Bush, we use a pencil).

The line moved forward and I was inside in welcome shade, six evenly spaced ceiling fans whirring above. It was still relatively early in the day so the people at the trestle tables marking off the electoral roll weren't looking too hot and frazzled, yet. Although the process from this point was fairly quick and painless, (zimbles can't go for too many political complexities) I did have a few minutes to glance around the hall.

I drive past the hall every day on my way to and from work but this was the first time I had been inside the hall since I was little. I suddenly realised that, here, time had stood still.

The hall is a weather-board structure about 25 m x 10 m in its main part with a pine wood floor and corrugated iron roof. At one end is a small stage with a worn dark-red velveteen curtain. Beside the stage, a polished wood board with gold embossing lists the Camp Hill District's fallen. An enameled Union Flag beside an Australian red ensign, date the board to about 1901. Directly above the board is a portrait of the Queen, which, from the look of Her Majesty, must have been added in the 60s.

Standing in that hall today, I imagined a warm November evening in 1942. A Thanksgiving Day ball for the American servicemen is in full swing. The hall is crowded with people dancing, chatting and flirting. Young women in their home-sewn summer evening frocks, bright red lipstick and stylish peep toes twirl, each in the arms of a clean cut local lad or a dress-uniformed soldier. The small but talented jazz band on the stage plays selections of Glen Miller tunes into the early hours. The good ladies of the ladies' auxiliary sell cool cordials, cups of tea and a judiciously invigorated fruit punch from their servery between the hall and its enclosed verandah. They don't miss a thing. Outside, in the cooler air, the men talk quietly of politics, cricket and the war.

Just then, an election official taps me on the arm and points me to a desk and I'm back. Name please?

Hard boiled lolly lady.

I'm scouring every toy shop in Brisbane for a water pistol that is small enough to conceal in my purse. Rest assured, this does not herald any ideological shift towards crime and anarchy (although in moments of extreme frustration that has been considered). No, this water pistol is for a very, very specific mission.

At the chamber music series, to which I subscribe each year, there is a dumpiness of a woman who occupies the seat at the end of the row. It is this woman who must be stopped, with my water pistol, when I find one. In four years, no one has done anything about her. I can see no alternative: in 2008, I must act.

At each and every concert, she waits for the moments when the theatre hushes, the pianist's hands poise and those beautiful first notes sound. Only then does she lean forwards so her taffeta skirt rustles and the heel of her right shoe scrapes on the parquetry floor.

As beads and bosom fold over blubber and bulge, she delves into a raffia handbag at her feet for a plastic container filled with hard boiled lollies. Each lolly is wrapped in a little clear cellophane wrapper. They may be barley sugars or they may be butterscotch. I don't care.

Then, slowly, tediously, she unwraps one of the lollies from its crinkling cellophane and plops it in her mouth, slurping as it slides over the tongue into oral depths unknown. For the rest of us, those magical seconds of aural anticipation are utterly destroyed.

What is worse is knowing that hard boiled lolly lady could easily unwrap her sweet before the pianist walks on stage. Instead, she chooses to wait. This selfish act is entirely premeditated and unbeaten in cunning execution. Even renowned theatre trolls such as the whisker scratching fat man, her honour Judge Bangle Banger and Consumptive Methuselah, all fall silent to listen for hard boiled lolly lady.

I'm never sure whether the artists can hear her. Even if they cannot, they would definitely know there has been a disturbance of some sort at row J. All we row J-ers sit there trying to hide our collective embarrassment as the curmudgeon of seat 1 munches.

Between concerts, I dream that one day, when this sonic terrorist is mid crunch, I will quietly stand and taking the tiny water pistol in a steady hand, I will strike with the ease of an eager trigger finger, blasting all over the lacy blouse and uncaring carb crammed face.

Perhaps you think a water pistol too extreme. Maybe so. I suppose I could tactfully offer to anaesthetise her for the duration. That would be simple and effective. Nevertheless, the water pistol will make so much more of a statement. Theatre goers of the world unite!