CHOWDERFRAUD: Taking delight in a gourmet’s letdown learning that the clams, fish, or meat in his soup are really shark or TVP: defines P.L. Inkletter

Be all that as it may, meanwhile:

In other news…

14^th October 2009:

Wednesday: After walking with Baby Inkletter yesterday afternoon from before the Bell Tower on the riverfront to almost the Causeway – the same walk we did last week – I couldn’t keep my eyes open back home past half nine; the wispy woylie tucked me into bed; I didn’t arise today until over thirteen hours had passed; such is the lot of the chronically fatigued.

Before my visit yesterday with Baby Inkletter, I had visited Mum down in Melville, who is feeling a little better from her ill health of a few weeks back. The Babies Ink&Peggletter wanted me to stay again for tuck tuck, which was a fish chowder that my daughter had made, and left simmering in Adelaide Terrace while we walked; this explains the crowd of thousands of the city’s homeless out the front of their place when we returned, Oliver Twist style, with empty bowls, crying ‘Please Sir Babies, we want some’ (pathos noted); this also explains this post’s headline. I was home by eight, to greet The Dear Leader and the brush-bootyed bettong.

Even after this marathon sleep, which included many dreams that I recall snippets of – some pleasant, some unpleasant – it took me the usual forever to fire up two of the sixteen cylinders of my distant youth. And so, it wasn’t until towards three thirty that I got to Bob’s at Guildford to take him on the train to the city for his much anticipated Perth outing. Poor fellow, for I cancelled this same outing two days ago with his social trainers on the strength of a late arranged visit by Reeve Chocson, who had made a new batch of herbal blaster death-is-preferable-to-disease hooch juice, and asked to drop by and leave it here; he is such a rare gem of a fellow and time with him alone or with but the little green bag/s is so rare that I deemed it warranted me cancelling with Bob (forgive me Bob and your supervisors if you ever learn of this true reason!) And while we spent but an hour and a bit late on Monday with him, that being Missus Inkletter and I, it was, as always, minutes to treasure; if only just every second person was as socially and spiritually fragrant as this fellow!

So it wasn’t long after getting to Bob’s that we set off to catch the crowded train to an idyllic ticking city, what with the cool sunny day and totally pleasant surrounds, the air being rather clear, the birds in Supreme Court Gardens as friendly and amusing as usual, Bob being his normal hyperactive but endearing self (with huge doses of patience imbibed before working with him, this pharmaceutic being essential), the Red Cat ride less crowded than usual and most enjoyable, I could go on…

I deposited Bob back home about seven, and after the paperwork set off for home, getting money from the Malaga Commonwealth Bank ATM before getting home, mindful of the possibility of doubtful loiterers as was the case at this very ATM when I called in recently. The daughter of Dracula had been busy cooking yet again all afternoon, interspersed with dressmaking, bless her fishnets. I was weary, and she kindly fed me din dins while I watched most of Kerry O’Brien’s 7.30 Report. The great Wednesday evening line-up on Aunty followed, and I departed for some writing at half nine, till Lateline began: The (Leigh) Sales Graph: sporting a very attractive white jacket sleeved to mid-forearm, with a pleated collar and lapels, contrasting very nicely with a black and white mottled mid necklined blouse, Ms Sales’ only jewellery was small earrings, her hair out in that complimentary flared and shoulder length style, subtle make-up, all in all a most professional appearance. Her long interview tonight was with Minister for Immigration and Citizenship and Leader of the Government in the Senate, Senator Chris Evans, speaking from Perth; Mr Evans looked dashing in a dark suit, white shirt, and maroon tie, plus a head of hair that Lindsay Tanner would scratch his eyes out for; his accent still belies his birth town of Cuckfield, during this long conversation – you can take the cuckoo out of Cuckfield, but can you take the Cuckfield out of the cuckoo? – in which he demonstrated several very impressive things.

Firstly, he demonstrated a high level of articulateness; secondly, he remained professionally calm throughout, choosing to clarify rather than argue; thirdly he imparted much useful information about a very difficult arena of policy. His approach left me very glad to have a Minister of his maturity in charge of the portfolio.

Shades of bias appeared to have been seeping through from Ms Sales a few times, such as when she asked “So their (Indonesia) co-operating is now extending, is it, to take people that we don't wanna have to process here?” Mr Evans didn’t bite, instead sensibly explaining the cooperation between our two nations, and again later when Ms Sales queried the Minister, referring to the views of a possible rednecked letter to The Australian editor writer Robert Pallister, “…What do you think of that view? Do you think it's a common view among Australians?” he was graciousness in motion with the way he rejoined.

On the subject of bias, to be human is to be biased, and even the very best journalists could not possibly erase all vestiges of partiality in a lively and unpredictable interview situation, even if they sincerely desired to; I couldn’t do it; who could? Having said this, it is certainly a worthy aspiration, to aim for perfect impartiality in an interview process; the aspiration will draw the actions congruent with it, will develop the skill.

This subject, refugee genesis and treatment, is highly charged, and the public debate in all Western nations that I’ve seen is generally of a rather low order, with highly spuriously dichotomised opinions being traded furiously. I have written on the subject, and my approach is to very carefully examine the underlying principles of the concepts of ‘nation’ and ‘family’, sifting out the parallels, applying the relevant similarities, and giving consideration to many other pertinent rationales that are somewhat complex, but are certainly required to do the matter justice.

I found this interview to be a particularly good one; Ms Sales remained polite even when Mr Evans didn’t bite, and Mr Evans didn’t get flustered for a moment to his credit, for a lesser politician would have: I would expect the likes of Malcolm Turbull, Christopher Pyne, John Howard, Kevin Rudd, to have become indignant several times under the identical questioning. Many questions, and confronting ones, got asked, and they all got answered, not one was ducked, all on a fraught subject: I almost had to pinch myself. Thank you Ms Sales, thank you Mr Evans.

I watched Letterman, and while the fabric softener had already retired, I wrote and researched till dawn.

+paytontedwithlove+