Tannin
Storage? I am Storage!
I played cricket again this week and, after another successful evening (we came second), retired to the bar for a quiet one. And there unfolded a story that had me in stitches. This ain't a joke, it's a true story - but you'd never know it if I didn't tell you.
Albie is on of the guys on the team. Albie runs a sporting goods store but he has a few houses on the side - a man of scattered investments here and there, Albie is. And he rents out one of his houses to several blokes who have schiophrenia.
Now up until a few years ago, these guys were normally locked up in Lakeside: a grim, forbidding institution of the type that we used to call "a mental hospital". But starting about 15 years ago, there was a move to what was called "deinstitutionalisation" and Lakeside was closed down. This pleased everyone: the doctors and other experts believed that locking "mad" people away was, on the whole, bad for them, and that with careful management and on-going support most inmates would be perfectly capable of taking their places in the community, and that the money spent on maintaining vast prison-flavoured institutions like Lakeside would be much better redirected to providing community-based care, so that disturbed or retarded people could live more-or-less normal lives in normal houses.
And the governments believed that once they got rid of all the paitents, they could sack all the mental-health workers and make an absolute killing selling the land and buildings on the real estate market.
Both groups were right: the old mental hospitals were all closed down (bar a few small ones for the really dangerous ones who just can't be let out into the community), and most of the former inmates are quietly living in ordinary houses, bothering no-one and doubtless a lot happier than they used to be. And the former Lakeside Hospital was knocked down and turned into row upon row of townhouses, which doubtless made the privatisation-mad state government a small pile of money, and made whichever real estate developer got his graft payment in first a very large pile of money.
Meanwhile, the funds that used to be allocated to inpaitent care in the mental hospitals were reallocated to a wonderful set of new, community-based programs to help disabled and disturbed people live happy, productive lives as part of wider society.
Not.
This last bit didn't happen, of course. Our lying bastard politicians simply left the community mental health care budget as it was before the changes and frittered away the one-off windfall gains from land sales on other stuff, and conveniently forgot to redirect the money that they no longer had to spend on mental hospitals every year to in-community mental health care.
The result, of course, is that the non-custodial mental health services were swamped, quite unable to cope with the extra workload, and if you have psychological problems now and they are anything short of throwing-fits-in-the-main-street level, you just better hope that someone in your family will have the money to pay for private care.
The former mental hospital inmates are pretty much just left to fend for themselves. It's surprising how well they often manage. I play cricket against the ID (intellectualy disabled) boys now and then, and I can tell you they don't have all that many IQ points to spare but the buggers sure can bat and bowl - two matches out of three they beat us. But that's the younger ones, too young to have ever been institutionalised. The older ones you see from time to time walking around in their old clothes, doing the shopping or whatever, and you get to recognise the more distinctive ones among them from their walks or their odd behaviour. Everyone in Ballarat knows "Muttering Ron" for example, who, everywhere he goes, mutters dark imprecations under his breath, sometimes quite loudly. Never does any harm, just walks around frowning and muttering all day.
They are mostly unemployable, of course, but they get a small pension and tend to club together in groups of four or six to rent a house. And that's where Albie comes in: he rents one of his houses to a group of schitzophrenic men and keeps a bit of a fatherly eye on them from time to time. (Unless I miss my guess, he could probably get two or three times as much rent for the place if he kicked them out and got someone "normal" in.)
Well, today he got a phone call from one of the neighbours. Very early this morning, just after dawn, one of the guys was prowling around the street in his pajamas acting weird. He was staring at the ground looking agitated, bobbing down, standing back up, walking up and down outside her house, bobbing down again. She (the neighbour) was a bit spooked by this and rang Albie. She said that he'd been in her yard (though he later denied that). Albie promised to look into it, so he rolled around to the house and said "OK, which one of you guys was prowing around Mrs Johnson's house at six o'clock this morning?"
"Ahh, that was me" said Dave (I'm changing names here, of course), but I wasn't doing anything wrong. I was just looking for butts."
(They all smoke like crazy - not much else to do - and of course they can't afford it on their tiny pensions, so collecting butts is a more-or-less normal part of their lives. Some of them even catch a bus across town now and then to buy a big plastic shopping bag full of buts from another disturbed guy who doesn't smoke, just collects butts to sell! Then they all sit out on the back porch talking and unravelling the butts into a bowl ready to be rolled back up into smokes again.)
So Albie read the riot act to them - Dave in particular - and said they mustn't go doing weird things to upset the neighbors and acting like prowlers or else they could get into serious trouble. (He says he has to do this every now and then, keep them on the straight and narrow.)
"You mean like ... the police?" asked Dave.
"Could be, I don't know", said Albie, knowing perfectly well that they had not been called but not wanting to let on just yet, "Depends if Mrs Johnsone laid a complaint or not. We will just have to wait and see, I guess."
And with that, he left them, content in the knowledge that Dave had had a bit of a fright and would more than likely be a pretty good boy for a while. He'd more or less forgotten about the incident when he popped back again late that afternoon.
"Hi guys. What's happening?"
Dave arrives back - he's been out for a walk.
"Hi Albie. Have they been yet?"
"Been? Who?"
"The police!"
"I don't think so, Dave."
"It's pretty serious, isn't it?"
"Well, it looked like prowling. You were only looking for butts but ..."
"Oh they know that."
"How would thet police know that?"
"I rang them up."
(A short silence.)
"You rang them up."
"Yeah. I rang up and told them I was only looking for butts."
"You rang the police station and told them that?"
Dave nods.
"And ... er ... what did they say?"
"He didn't say anything. Just that the information would be passed along."
So far as I know, Dave is still waiting for the knock on the door.
Albie is on of the guys on the team. Albie runs a sporting goods store but he has a few houses on the side - a man of scattered investments here and there, Albie is. And he rents out one of his houses to several blokes who have schiophrenia.
Now up until a few years ago, these guys were normally locked up in Lakeside: a grim, forbidding institution of the type that we used to call "a mental hospital". But starting about 15 years ago, there was a move to what was called "deinstitutionalisation" and Lakeside was closed down. This pleased everyone: the doctors and other experts believed that locking "mad" people away was, on the whole, bad for them, and that with careful management and on-going support most inmates would be perfectly capable of taking their places in the community, and that the money spent on maintaining vast prison-flavoured institutions like Lakeside would be much better redirected to providing community-based care, so that disturbed or retarded people could live more-or-less normal lives in normal houses.
And the governments believed that once they got rid of all the paitents, they could sack all the mental-health workers and make an absolute killing selling the land and buildings on the real estate market.
Both groups were right: the old mental hospitals were all closed down (bar a few small ones for the really dangerous ones who just can't be let out into the community), and most of the former inmates are quietly living in ordinary houses, bothering no-one and doubtless a lot happier than they used to be. And the former Lakeside Hospital was knocked down and turned into row upon row of townhouses, which doubtless made the privatisation-mad state government a small pile of money, and made whichever real estate developer got his graft payment in first a very large pile of money.
Meanwhile, the funds that used to be allocated to inpaitent care in the mental hospitals were reallocated to a wonderful set of new, community-based programs to help disabled and disturbed people live happy, productive lives as part of wider society.
Not.
This last bit didn't happen, of course. Our lying bastard politicians simply left the community mental health care budget as it was before the changes and frittered away the one-off windfall gains from land sales on other stuff, and conveniently forgot to redirect the money that they no longer had to spend on mental hospitals every year to in-community mental health care.
The result, of course, is that the non-custodial mental health services were swamped, quite unable to cope with the extra workload, and if you have psychological problems now and they are anything short of throwing-fits-in-the-main-street level, you just better hope that someone in your family will have the money to pay for private care.
The former mental hospital inmates are pretty much just left to fend for themselves. It's surprising how well they often manage. I play cricket against the ID (intellectualy disabled) boys now and then, and I can tell you they don't have all that many IQ points to spare but the buggers sure can bat and bowl - two matches out of three they beat us. But that's the younger ones, too young to have ever been institutionalised. The older ones you see from time to time walking around in their old clothes, doing the shopping or whatever, and you get to recognise the more distinctive ones among them from their walks or their odd behaviour. Everyone in Ballarat knows "Muttering Ron" for example, who, everywhere he goes, mutters dark imprecations under his breath, sometimes quite loudly. Never does any harm, just walks around frowning and muttering all day.
They are mostly unemployable, of course, but they get a small pension and tend to club together in groups of four or six to rent a house. And that's where Albie comes in: he rents one of his houses to a group of schitzophrenic men and keeps a bit of a fatherly eye on them from time to time. (Unless I miss my guess, he could probably get two or three times as much rent for the place if he kicked them out and got someone "normal" in.)
Well, today he got a phone call from one of the neighbours. Very early this morning, just after dawn, one of the guys was prowling around the street in his pajamas acting weird. He was staring at the ground looking agitated, bobbing down, standing back up, walking up and down outside her house, bobbing down again. She (the neighbour) was a bit spooked by this and rang Albie. She said that he'd been in her yard (though he later denied that). Albie promised to look into it, so he rolled around to the house and said "OK, which one of you guys was prowing around Mrs Johnson's house at six o'clock this morning?"
"Ahh, that was me" said Dave (I'm changing names here, of course), but I wasn't doing anything wrong. I was just looking for butts."
(They all smoke like crazy - not much else to do - and of course they can't afford it on their tiny pensions, so collecting butts is a more-or-less normal part of their lives. Some of them even catch a bus across town now and then to buy a big plastic shopping bag full of buts from another disturbed guy who doesn't smoke, just collects butts to sell! Then they all sit out on the back porch talking and unravelling the butts into a bowl ready to be rolled back up into smokes again.)
So Albie read the riot act to them - Dave in particular - and said they mustn't go doing weird things to upset the neighbors and acting like prowlers or else they could get into serious trouble. (He says he has to do this every now and then, keep them on the straight and narrow.)
"You mean like ... the police?" asked Dave.
"Could be, I don't know", said Albie, knowing perfectly well that they had not been called but not wanting to let on just yet, "Depends if Mrs Johnsone laid a complaint or not. We will just have to wait and see, I guess."
And with that, he left them, content in the knowledge that Dave had had a bit of a fright and would more than likely be a pretty good boy for a while. He'd more or less forgotten about the incident when he popped back again late that afternoon.
"Hi guys. What's happening?"
Dave arrives back - he's been out for a walk.
"Hi Albie. Have they been yet?"
"Been? Who?"
"The police!"
"I don't think so, Dave."
"It's pretty serious, isn't it?"
"Well, it looked like prowling. You were only looking for butts but ..."
"Oh they know that."
"How would thet police know that?"
"I rang them up."
(A short silence.)
"You rang them up."
"Yeah. I rang up and told them I was only looking for butts."
"You rang the police station and told them that?"
Dave nods.
"And ... er ... what did they say?"
"He didn't say anything. Just that the information would be passed along."
So far as I know, Dave is still waiting for the knock on the door.
