It was a time of danger. Of letter bombs, of envelopes containing anthrax, of paranoia about parcels. One package, which the postman delivered to my Sydney home, was deemed suspicious by my secretary Sandra. I was at the ABC that morning and, showing her usual enterprise, Sandra tossed the parcel – a very heavy one – into the swimming pool.
Later I fished it out, peeled off the soggy brown paper and gingerly opened the flaps … to reveal a dozen jars of marmalade, an annual gift from a reader named Simonette. When I told Simonette what had happened, she said, “I won’t make that mistake again.” And as you are about to learn, she didn’t. (Sandra was right to be cautious. Only a few weeks earlier a reader, infuriated by a column, had posted me a turd. Australia Post had delivered it, plastic-wrapped in a Jiffy bag, in mint condition).
Fast-forward a year. Another parcel arrives for me – this time delivered to the ABC HQ in Ultimo – where it immediately arouses suspicion in the mailroom. It isn’t ticking or anything; an alert staffer just thinks my name is written “in lettering that looks a bit Islamic”.
Alarms are sounded and the entire ABC building is evacuated. All the TV and radio studios, all the executive offices, backstage areas, the cafeteria and the car park. Sleeping babies in the ABC creche are carried to safety. Hundreds of bewildered people are mustered outside into Harris St. (Knowing nothing of this, I’m in my office at home with Sandra answering run-of-the-mill hate mail).
The cops are notified and the ABC awaits the arrival of the bomb squad, expecting armoured vehicles, sniffer dogs and men lumbering around in heavy protective clothing. We know what to expect from TV dramas: the deployment of a remote-controlled robot that will approach the parcel, prod it with a metal nose and probably shoot it full of holes.
But no: this is Australia.
Instead a couple of young cops from the local police station arrive in a Falcon, casually toss the parcel in the boot and drive off. No drama, no fuss, no worries. With a collective sigh of relief the staff troop back to their tasks in TV, radio and management. And the babies are returned to the creche. What passes for peace is restored. The incident will not even rate that night’s news.
Finally Sandra gets a call from the ABC to inform me of what’s happened. It was, after all, my parcel, my fault. Immediately I’m suspicious. Could it be possible that this year Simonette, to avoid Sandra and the swimming pool, sent my marmalade to the ABC? I make tentative inquiries. Finally the police confirm the fact that, yes, the mysterious parcel contained a dozen jars of marmalade.
In coming weeks all is explained to Simonette, and Sandra is tasked with getting my marmalade out of a jam. Indeed, out of jail. But this never happens. Is it still mouldering away in an evidence locker? Or did the happy-go-lucky kids in the Falcon share the loot back at the cop shop? I like to think the latter as I reckon they deserved it. No hint of corruption here – just an appropriate reward for their Australian-style heroism. It’d make a great plot for a TV show. Remind me to email this column to Law and Order creator Dick Wolf.
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