Excerpt from manuscript re Early Days of Brisbane Radio For The Print Handicapped.  (C)

      
By Flora Smith.
"Fricassee Friday". January 18th 1985,
It had become habit for me these days, on finishing work every Friday (paid work
this time, employed to officially organise and run the Queensland Tape Service For The Handicapped ), to get a quick snack and head for the Studio to do the evening shift.

This particular Friday the sky did look rather forbidding and on leaving the
restaurant it looked as though all the hailstones in Creation, plus wild winds and every other storm element were all intent on demolishing our beautiful downtown Brisbane
City. Millions of dollars damage was accomplished that night. Many people's lives had to be literally rebuilt and businesses suffered extreme damage.
I took off my shoes and paddled in the overflowing gutter to reach what road there was,crossed it, paddled another gutter and saw at the bases of pillars of buildings in the main street, (Adelaide Street) where hailstones were gathered like avalanches slid down. I caught a bus, my car already parked next door to the studio in Wharf Street,
and cautiously stepped out and walked amid complete traffic chaos, lightning, winds, ambulance and police sirens screaming as they raced to accident after accident.
On arriving at the front door, I hesitated before descending the stairs to the basement
where our Studios were.  Should I straighten my hair? How did I get that hole in my
best blouse?  Arrived at the bottom step and had to paddle my way to the door of the
office-come- receptionist area. Pat, the salesman at that time, was there. My reading and console operating colleague (Max Long) was not. Neither were there any signs of
reading material, like newspapers, except a thin evening paper and my morning daily
in my sodden bag. Pat said that Max was caught in the storm but on his way.
I wandered bleakly into the main on air Studio. It was as dry as the proverbial dog's bone! Being slightly elevated from the rest of the premises down there.
Pat said he would turn the transmitter on, and I, not to be outdone said "Well, I know how to talk!"
We decided to get the Friday programme material from its box which also contained
cartridges with our sponsors' wise words, records etcs., as per the schedule and in true
blue Aussie style, were going to 'give it a go'.
You may remember from previous chapters, but I did not, that there were now all those extra little gizmos and things that had been added to the console that I hadn't been introduced to as yet, as at that time, I knew my trusty co-newsreader would Always be there. We found 2 reel to reel tapes on Sports Championships which had been especially sent up from Canberra and agreed that the longest one which ran for 49 minutes, would give us plenty of time to get organised.
Because of those alterations to the console's face, the exact manner of cueing was not working. Max 'phoned again saying he was definitely on his way when road and debris permitted, and Pat told him what we planned. I ran barefooted to the 'phone and was
advised that when I stood facing the console, behind me on the right side was machine number one, to just pull the little lever down and press the corresponding button. (?)
There seemed to be a dozen correspondong things resembling buttons that would qualify. I raced back to the 'phone with the sardonic Monster (my name for the Beast
when I had troubles learning about it before) leering its leerist at me.
Finally I got all to work. Pat inserted the cart which played our opening test words
and theme.  At four minutes past six I opened the air waves and my mike with a triumphant grimace at the Monster, said a cheery "Hello" and explained about the
vicious storm ravaging our fair City and why the main announcer was delayed and why
there would be no reading from the daily newspapers. I was cognisant of the fact that,
while this storm was doing its worst ever in town,it was possible, and later proved to be true, that in outer suburbs there was NO sign of rain or showers. Many listeners
were totally unaware of what was currently happening to their loved ones and friends trying to get home from work, as telephone lines were down. chaos was reigning
supreme as I went live.
I introduced the Sports special programme and said it went for 49 minutes. A well-earned sigh of relief got breathed.  Pat re-read the label on the box and sadly informed
"Oh, Flora, that one doesn't go for 49 minutes, only 15."
Busy cueing, my imagination ran riot. We were, at that time, running a romantic serial in which there was a beautiful, seductive, gorgeous siren, Carla by name.
Standing for the four hours at that console (I couldn't sit down as my bottom kept
sliding off the plush upholstery) and being uncomfortably far from my mike, I thought
of Carla. SHE would have had her drenched hair, by now, no doubt drying in
becoming little ringlets, hugging her sweet neck. MY hair had gone an ugly shade of black and my neck felt it hadn't been washed for a month, and where my hair was drying in patches, it stood up in jagged little wopses. No Carla me.
Carla, I thought, your skirt would have dried and caressed your womanly curves. Flora, your skirt dried and crept up in the most unbecoming manner. Provocative
is what Carla would have looked. Pitiful is what I was.
Was that, then the end of the evening's turmoil? Was everything now going to
scale down and run smoothly?  NO!
The Monster, I felt, was going to have a little fun with me while it was for free. I put in
a self-winding cartridge,a thing that automatically rewound itself after playing its piece on air. It was a jaunty little number announcing a favourite Australian serial of the
olden days. all went quite well.  Max finally arrived and asked if it was okay for me to keep on with what I was doing as he wanted to word a report on the mayhem outside to inform people what was going on. I said 'fine', and felt I was.
I quite missed the sneer that flickered over The Monster's panel, Missed the tell-tale jump of sheer hedonic joy of the voice level needle and was blindly unaware of the satanic leer that shone in the lights of the little bulbs.
Came the time when I said in a suitably sounding voice, "And now for episode 19 of our dramatic serial 'Dossier on Demetrious' and then pressed the remote control button, but the wrong one!  The previkous humourous-sounding cart of the 'Dad 'N Dave' serial had dutifully rewound itself, and now burst out, not with the serious-sounding dramatic tones, but the bouncy How's Your Uncle tune.
No haunting whistle that always preceded the murder story, just the merry, flighty
little ditty.  I felt the vibration of the Monster and swore as I "Killed" the wrong
cart and replaced it with the correct one.
Max came in later with his report which was not pretty.
House windows were smashed by hailstones. Car windscreens also.
Many, many traffic accidents. Rooves blown off. People huddled in doorways,
terrified. Storm still lashing out as he spoke. Power lines down. People hazards
everywhere and NO let-up in sight.
With only one newspaper to read from, I took to turning off my co-reader's mike to
avoid rustling of paper going to air.  Max publicly praised my efforts to get the
Station to air. A lot of lovely thnings, the man said. But, I had forgotten to turn his
mike on. I had even read three paragraphs before noticing that my voice level needle still lay skulking in the corner, not moving. Sullen. I turned my mike on and
explained what I had not done, the  went on with the narrating.  The Monster
like to make sure that Everyone knew about my evening's misdemeanors.

At night's end, I sincerely thanks everyone for bearing with me and expressed appreciation to glen Miller for all his records which kept us company. He came
through every time.
I applauded Pat for his consistent assistance and Max praised us both and said
something about 'Flora's Baptism By Fire'.

On the way out to check my car for hailstone damage in the carpark, I took one last, lingering look at the blackened soles of my torn stockinged feet - Carla's dainty feet
would have been merely tinged a light brown. I paddled my sad, b edraggled way out of the Studio to the bottom step leading to the outside and away from Simon Legree
with this Monstrous triumphant gleam.  The shift for the evening was over.
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Postcript: After that evening, I was given my own programmes and later
asked to do a regular "Flora On Friday" 3 hour segment in which I was given
carte blanche when I asked what did I have to present and was told
"Anything you like, my Dear"... but as they say in the classics, Thereby Hangs
Another Tale.
Flora.
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