Timothy Bates had been in the Public Service for eight months and was
beginning to feel he belonged. At first he had been appalled by the
triviality of the work he was expected to do and by the sententious
style by which he and his fellow perpetrators of trivia were supposed to
lend it dignity in their communications with each other. Now, though, his
amazing ability to adapt to his surroundings - an asset in which he had
taken enormous pride ever since his undergraduate days - was asserting
itself. He realized at last that no topic was too trivial to merit the
attention of the aspiring Permanent Head. Indeed he had grabbed the basic
maxim that the length of a minute on a given topic should always be in
direct proportion to its triviality. He had even grappled with and
mastered the subtle distinction, well known to all true public servants,
between the verbs 'use' and 'utilize'. In short he was good at his job.
Timothy was reflecting on his new-found talents with no small degree of
satisfaction as he left his office and made for the car park one sunny
Thursday afternoon. Climbing into his modest but reliable car, he
inserted the ignition key and was astonished to find no response in the
engine. It seemed to be completely dead. His buoyant mood changed to one
of deep pessimism. He loathed machines when they went wrong and was quite
helpless about what to do with them. That his car, bought for the
reliability of its make, should do such a thing to him was a severe
shock.
'Well,', said the man at the garage, phoned from a nearby call-box, 'what
is the trouble?'
'There is,' replied a voice, 'a complete cessation of vehicular motion in
relation to my automobile.'
'Good God,' thought Timothy, who said that? People don't talk like that.
They write minutes like that, of course, but they don't <italic>say
</italic>such things.' He started to explain. 'There is, ' said the
voice, 'a no-go situation with regard to my vehicle.'
'It's me,' thought Timothy, horrified.
And it was.
Several hours later, still pale and shaken, he was sitting opposite his
doctor. In the intervening period he had spoken as little as possible. It
was too traumatic. Every attempt at uttering even the simplest sentence
produced a horrifying piece of public service English.
'Now,' said the doctor, 'say "the cat sat on the mat"'. Timothy struggled
with himself: 'There is a feline recumbency situation in relation to that
floor covering'. It was getting worse!
'Yes,' said the doctor, 'a very bad case. Not the worst I've seen, mind
you, but still very bad. Have you had any sudden shocks lately? That
often brings it on.'
Timothy was staring at him in horror. How could he take it so calmly?
'Are there any known palliative for the condition?' he asked.
'Is there a cure? Well yes, I usually recommend a course for evening
classes in English literature. Most patients are almost completely cured
in something like six months. As a matter of fact I've had so many cases
recently that I keep the prospectus for the evening classes out in the
waiting room. You might like to look through it as you leave. You can pay
the receptionist. We prefer cash'.
***********************
Three weeks later Timothy was feeling a little better. His symptoms had
subsided and he could now be 90 per cent sure of producing a lucid,
comprehensible sentence whenever he spoke. He was enjoying his classes
too. He had enrolled in 'English poetry - an overview,' an only last
night there had been a stimulating session on 'Chaucer - his life and
times'. Timothy smiled as he sat at his desk. He was definitely feeling
better.
His phone rang. A summons from his supervisor. He probably wanted to
congratulate Timothy on the first draft he had prepared that morning for
a press release. Timothy hurried in.
His supervisor looked grave. 'This press release ... ' he said. Timothy
waited. Could there be something wrong with it? He wrote so well, always
managing to pick up just the right tone for a particular piece of work.
He took the paper his supervisor was holding out at him.
'A minister of great renowne
Whose fame was right well known through Canberra towne ....'
****************************
The doctor was obviously puzzled. 'I have to admit I've never seen this
side-effect before'. He read through the specimen memo Timothy had
brought with him .
'<bold>To all staff
</bold>Present to your mind's eye the office car park
All shimmering in the hazy afternoon,
And mark ye well the large and awesome lorry
That to the oil tanks wends its dusty way.
Aye mark this well - park ye not in its path,
As has occurred full oftentimes of late,
Or else incur the wrath of our great leaders
Who from their windows scan the bustling scene.
Thus ye are warned. Obey this note and know
That departmental business smoothly shall go.'
'I see you're up to Shakespeare,' he said.
'Yes,' said Timothy, 'the minor plays.'
***************
'The exercises aren't helping doctor.' Two weeks later Timothy was in
the surgery again. 'Last week I wrote a paper on the low numbers of third
division officers in regional offices that began "I wandered lonely as a
clerk". Do you think I should give up the English classes?'
The doctor shook his head. 'I don't think that would help at this stage.
There's not much call for romantic poetry in the public services. Tell
me, what's the last lesson in the course called?'
'Poetry of the seventies - towards a genealogy.'
'Then I should certainly stay with it. After all once we get into the
twentieth century verse it will be a very short step back to prose. Yes,
my advice is most certainly to stay with it.'
'I will then,' said Timothy, 'but I must say I'm extremely concerned
about next week's lesson'.
'What is it to be?'
'Gerard Manly Hopkins.'
**********************
'Sun deck, dappled deck, dripping drowsy blossoms,
Blowsy blooms dropping, where the fat cat sat.'
'Really,' thought Timothy, 'that was quite good - but perhaps not as an
application for recreation leave'. He was definitely more cheerful this
week. Hopkins, despite his fears, had been confined to notes with
circulation only to his own section, and the paper he had written on
administrative procedures after his recent session with T.S. Eliot -
'Between the decision and the action falls the paperwork had been
received quite well by his superiors. Yes, it was much easier now that
the course was well into the twentieth century. And tonight's session was
the one that would bring him almost to the point of total cure. The poets
of the seventies. Timothy left the office in a mood of high optimism.
****************
'Tonight,' began the lecturer, 'I want us to concentrate on some local
poets of the present day and to see how they fit into a wider view,
indeed a <italic>word </italic>view, of poets writing in the seventies.
I'll begin by reading you a little piece by a very talented local poet -
and a great personal friend of mine - Bruce Turtle. It's called
"Taxonomy":
'Too often now I find myself
in a situation of on-going depression.
And then I ask
what are the factors regarding myself that contribute by their causal
relationship with regard to the
status of my soul,
to my State?
How shall I name them?
And I reply ...."'
The reading was interrupted as Timothy leapt to his feet with a shout of
joy. 'I'm cured,' he cried, 'completely cured'. Then, realizing that such
an exuberant display was not quite in keeping with the image he liked to
project of a responsible, sober public servant, he became calm and smiled
politely at the lecturer. 'It is not at this point in time necessary to
await the termination of the session,' he said decisively. 'Kindly direct
me to an established point of egress'.
Phil Graham
pw.graham who-is-at student.qut.edu.au
http://www.geocities.com/SunsetStrip/Palms/8314/index.html