‘The Chronicles of Goughy’ was never intended to become a book or a ‘memoir’ or even anything that would be read by anyone outside the circulation of the Rollingstone community newsletter. They were written because I missed contributing as the local policeman, I was retired, doing a little study, and I wanted the distraction.

Beyond all that, I liked the idea that I might be able to make someone smile with what I could write and if I was lucky, they might even laugh out loud and maybe not take things as seriously as they had.  That’s why some of the stories are about things like IVF, colonoscopies and homosexuality…

“ …a colonoscopy is basically when a doctor hires a camera crew from one of Bear Grylls’ cave diving adventures, puts a loooong telephoto lens on a great big digital SLR movie camera, wears a body condom with gloves right up to his arm pits and then spreads your cheeks (not the good ones on your face) and shoves the whole rock show up where the sun doesn’t shine…”

 “…what does it mean to be GAY?  Is there a club?  If so, do I need membership or a sponsor?  Do they require a medical or maybe references?  Do I have to sleep with someone first… just to prove I have the right qualifications?  What about an entrance exam… I’m sure I can name all the Spice Girls individually and I already know Kylie Minogue’s top ten hits…”

I saw it as my chance to desensitize a small community to some delicate topics, and if not, then it might be fun to make them a little uncomfortable.

Being as easily distracted as I am, my subject matter drifted to home and family, and as we had taken in a few stray kids around that time, I had plenty of material. 

“…her insistence to have you eat was only surpassed by her inability to cook.  She was a terrible cook and the menu was distressingly extensive – ‘burned, boot leather’ steak; ‘boiled to the brink of extinction’ vegetables; ‘crusted, clag-glue’ style mashed potato; ‘stand your fork up in it’ gravy; ‘2-inch-thick skinned’ custard; ‘tooth breaking’ biscuits; ‘uncooked bread dough’ sponge cakes; ‘window shattering’ pancakes; and scones worthy of any fast bowler in a Test match between Australia and the West Indies…”

Eventually, my working life seeped into my pervue and one or two of the stories took on a slightly more serious, if not darker tone.  The temptation to plunge headfirst down the rabbit holes of my psyche is always present. I have, for the most part, restrained from relaying those more graphic recollections, however on one occasion, the reader is led into a nightmare - for which I almost feel I must apologize.

 “…She was limp and cold.  Her eyes were half closed and her lips were blue.  She had been missing and under the water for over 45 minutes.  She was laid on a small blue tarp while the Paramedics performed CPR  We all knew it was a pointless exercise, but we all stood around the tarp – maybe hoping for a miracle, maybe just hoping for closure.  We all knew that once the Ambos finished, it would be official.  We knew result anyway…”

My memoirs are not unique in any way shape or form.  We all carry memories that, if thought about the right way, can produce smiles and laughter – and still others that deserve to be remembered with respect and gravity.  In my case, a career in policing has offered memories of a lifetime, as any other emergency service worker will attest to.  I’m privileged to be sane enough to be able to have recorded some of them.