Email to:My Double Life: KJ Outs Herself!
To live a double life is to be propelled into dark places way out of your usual personal TomTom range…….
(cr: Gabby DC: flickr)
How do I know?
Because I did.
I’d like to say it all started innocently, but that would be a lie.
On a day even more appalling than others, Sister Mary McKillya – of St Joseph’s Convent and Prison Farm, Leeton – made terrible accusations about my relationship with The Father, Son and Holy Spirit.
Specifically, that I had weak ties with the best trio that (sort of) ever lived.
Sister Mary McKillya informed me that I was now on a Holy Trinity Disciplinary Programme.
Daily - at 4pm - I was to collect eggs from Leeton’s most productive chookyard which was in the grounds of the nearby Presbytery.
After collecting the eggs in a big enamel bucket (provided as part of my programme) I was to cross the road, knock on the convent kitchen door and hand over the eggs to Sister Egg Contact.
*Suspecting there were adult concepts involved I dared not ask why nuns could not – in pairs, if need be - harvest their own eggs.
That afternoon, I told Gwennie her daughter was an Egg Runner.
Without hestitation, in a threatening tone which I had never heard before, or since, she said:
I WANT SOME AND I’LL PAY.
And so it was that Egg Pimp Gwennie put a false bottom in the enamel bucket.
For a while, I was happy. I collected the eggs. I hid four and I handed over the rest to Sister Egg Contact. Sometimes, Sister Egg Contact would give me rainbow cake and lemonade. And talk about how Sister Mary McKillya was pleased with my progress on the Trinity Discipline Programme:
She is turning into a fine Egg Collector and is earning trust…..
Thank you Sister Egg Contact……
…..All the while thinking:
You dare come near that bucket, and I swear to God I won’t be able to guarantee your personal safety…..swear to God I WON’T!!!
Every Friday, Gwennie paid up.
But she was changing. And not in a nice way. She was high, drowning in the compliments she got about cakes made with the contraband Super Eggs.
I’d take a vow of celibacy if it meant all my eggs could be like that……..
And then one day:
I want more KJ, I WANT MORE!
Soon, I was reporting to Sister Egg Contact that I wasn’t masquerading as a vet BUT the chooks didn’t look at all well – in fact, half dead - AND hardly any were laying.
By then, I had so much cash I was laundering it in Griffith - buying dozens and dozens of boob tubes which I knew I’d never get to wear.
Gwennie, who had been so loved for her modest nature, turned obnoxious. She spent her days pushing sponges:
Look at this, will you please just take a look at THIS!!!
So, how did it all end?
If I don’t say so myself, very well thank you.
One day, Sister Egg Contact announced that the St Vincent de Paul society wanted to resume the chookyard site for charitable purposes. I was to be re-assigned to altar cleaning duties.
And Gwennie?
She went back to being nice.
But not before she’d made it very clear around town that she thought the nuns use of child labour, disgraceful.
***********************************
*So, there you have it – I’m out, out, OUT and proud of it. I hope Gwennie feels the same way – I really, really do…..
Have you ever lived (or ARE living ) a double life? Would love to know all about it. Anyone who tells you it can’t sometimes be fun is really having themselves on, don’t you think?
Perhaps you have just have fond memories of a chookyard from long ago…..
And, as usual, the poetry, the prose and the peccadillos that ARE the stanzas of your life (did I really write that?) are eagerly awaited…….
All posters take a deep breath…and just click on the ‘comment’ thingo and follow the simple instructions. The place to write your gems is at the bottom of the last published comment. *A little bit of counsel for people new to this caper. Your email (just called ‘mail’ in this case) address does NOT come up on site. And just ignore the URL thingo.
Prawn Cutlet Award
May 24th, 2010 at 2:42 pm
Channel Seven,
I’m in heaven,
And my heart beats,
So that I can hardly speak.
When you film me,
Dancin’ cheek to cheek.
May 24th, 2010 at 4:03 pm
Confucius say fowl play lead to egg on face.
May 24th, 2010 at 6:23 pm
Why on earth would anyone bother leading a double life in Sydney?
A double life implies that there is something taboo, that your action must remain secret for fear of reprisal….
According to conversations I’ve heard around town today and over the weekend, Sydney is a place where there is nothing taboo and if there is then no-one is interested in it.
No-one is the least bit interested in who is f******* who – especially if the people f******* are gay and/or married.
As far as Sydneysiders are concerned this lifestyle choice is TOTALLY the business of those involved and their families and anyone especially a media outlet who shows the slightest interest are just way off the mark and way out of step with public opinion.
So why would I lead a double life?
Dear The Lonely Scholar,
When people come in here with heads of steam, I always take them very seriously. In other words, I respect and I honour heads of steam.
There is much to think about in your treatise – media ethics, modes of living, consumer trends…….
I suspect that some people in civil societies get nervy about double lives because they – in this age of excess and diminishing resources – truly believe that one life is enough. AND if society increasingly deems double lives de rigour, what next? Triple or even quadruple lives as the norm?
* I find talk of any sexual activity confronting.
KJ
May 24th, 2010 at 8:30 pm
I was only saying yesterday to Art – in Art’s Bar and Grill, Leeton – that where’s there’s a nest egg there’s always a Dame.
Am I right, or am I right?
Get involved, and there’s egg all over your kisser.
There’s always a Dame, and there’s always somethin’ hatchin’.
Something brewin’ away beneath the shell….
They don’t call ‘em chicks for nothing…
Pretty and fluffy, coming in all colours. That’s right. Purty as what the heck. But go near their eggs and you’ve got a tornado.
I’d rather face a team of mobsters than the Ross girl gang led by Mama Gwennie and her Famous Five Fowlers.
They’re certainly not Hillbillies because they live on the Flat. That means no place to hide. Try to take an egg and they’ll say: ‘Go ahead, make my day.’
Mama Gwennie taught ‘em that.
What I have to discover is:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l-b_zC1U5CM&feature=related
May 24th, 2010 at 8:35 pm
Another matter for investigation……
Did Hec encourage the Famous Five Fowlers?
May 25th, 2010 at 8:55 am
Dear Miss KJ,
Carnt understand what all the fuss is about – if a chap carnt get undressed with like thinking chaps in the privacy of his club without some quarter-of-a-million-dollar a year hack from Channel 7 producing grainy black and white footage of said chap exiting (I was going to say OUTING, but the word is way past its used by date in Sin City) said club, then SOMETHING IS SERIOUSLY WRONG and my name’s THE DUCHESS OF PORK.
Of course, as usual, the reptiles have ENTIRELY missed the really big story in SIN CITY.
It’s not the number of High Court Judges, Captains of Industry, Bishops, Media ‘Personalities’, Sporting Identities, Undercover ASIO Operatives and High Ranking Police Officers who choose to exercise their individual freedoms and patronise clubs with discrete holes in walls, NO the big story in Sydney is:
WHO’S STAYING IN?
Once again, it’s not Crikey or Four Corners or The Parrot who’re cracking the BIG ONES – it’s kerriejean.com & your correspondent The Lonely Scholar.
The big game is not OUTING, IT’S IN-ING.
And I used to think there was no one more ‘IN’ (consult Macquarie Dic here – I mean ‘IN’ in the new sense, not the old cool sense) than The Rev Kev. I thought the only time these days he went OUT (now he’s visited every hospital and school yard in the country) was to take Abby for a walk.
* Rumours that Abby refuses to be seen in public with The Rev Kev are just that – malicious rumours promoted by the mining companies.
BUT, as The Rev Kev is wont to say:
You know what?
In the steam room of my club late last night, guess who I saw hiding out in the corner, swaddled in more than the club regulation ‘one towel at a time boys’, his glasses all steamed up, pretending to read a Bible, trying not to be noticed?
I remain yours,
The Old Carnt.
PS: The Old Carnt would like to point out that no money has changed hands in the writing of this piece.
Dear The Old Carnt,
My goodness – such is the quality of the info in here, let me firstly say this: If kerriejean.com had a budget you’d be on top of my payroll – more, more, MORE please.
It’s great to have someone who knows the scene, knows what they’re talking about.
God knows, I’ve tried to understand…..
Last night, in the interests of good journalism (everyone knows I don’t see it as a job, rather a VOCATION) I turned up at a bath house in clever disguise – flowing hair under shower cap, painted nails covered by rubber gloves, ample breasts pushed into a latex sling.
What a night!
*Photos will be posted on Radio National’s Facebook page, later today.
KJ.
May 25th, 2010 at 10:32 am
Do you think that Gwennie could whip up a false bottom for my husband?
(It would have to be soft and not enamel based).
Dear Greek and loving it,
Absolutely!
For false bottoms, Gwennie is truly ‘mixed media’. She’s worked in enamel, foam, plastic, paper mache – you name it, she’s used it.
One thing – if Gwennie WAS commissioned to do a false bottom for your husband – she’d need to see him, but only once.
It would involve a quick appointment – where Gwennie would take a mould of your husbands’ buttocks. Playdough is her choice of material for this crucial part of the process.
KJ.
May 25th, 2010 at 10:51 am
Good news. ‘Cause I’m sick of not looking at it.
Roger that. KJ.
May 25th, 2010 at 3:01 pm
For the attention of The Knuckle and The Rev Kev.
I have been given a Slive Blanket (size 140 x 180 cm).
It is jet black and has long sleeves, a WEARING BLANKET, or perhaps a WALKING OUT DOONA.
This, say the makers, will dramatically reduce my heating bills, and keep me warm and cozy while I ‘comfortably perform daily activities’.
I look like Mother Courage or a witch of Endor (Hail To Thee), but I’ve also been told that I look like Death of the Seventh Seal.
Still, I am settling into the Slive Sleeved Blanket.
Dare I wear it out?
So, The Rev Kev, here we may well have the answer to sustainable energy.
No need for pink batts.
Just put a sleeved Slive Blanket in every home.
Dear Chadwick,
I like very much the idea of such a garment……
Just as long as I don’t end up looking like Death Warmed Up. KJ.
May 26th, 2010 at 10:33 am
It is said that the first Rosses arrived in a covered wagon and set up a chicken run on the Murrumbidgee Flats.
Sure, they only had a tent but they were happy.
It is said all five Ross girls were born in the henhouse.
It is said that the man of the tent, Hec Ross, enjoyed homemade hooch laced with Murrumbidgee Water.
Local Historian,
It is said that Hec not only enjoyed homemade hooch laced with Murrumbidgee Water but started running it – in the dead of night – to small, isolated Riverina hamlets. It is said he made a fortune which his five lovely girls never saw a cent of. KJ.
May 27th, 2010 at 7:12 pm
Not coming downstairs even as An Act Of Courage…Brrrrrrrrrrrr!
Besides, who’d get out of the man-eatin’ doona when you have Patsy Cline and a bottle o’ wine?
Dear The Knuckle,
Good move! When it comes to courage, you have nothing to prove. KJ.