The Balloon Debacle (P. 1)

It was the early nineties and Grunge had reached the shores of Australia: teen spirit, flannel shirts and braided, long hair was in style for both genders. I knew this because I was attending university, finishing my Arts degree, wading in the black hole of post modern theory and 19^th century philosophy. My son had entered our lives, and full time study was simply out of the question. You are a family man now, and with that comes responsibilities. As if written by destiny, I landed a part time job at a local newspaper, selling classified ads and writing advertorials.

The supervisor, a stern lady in her early fifties, managed to gain a little sympathy for me as a new father and full time student, thus she organised my work schedule around my lecture time, and for months, this worked out for all concerned.

After a few months, my supervisor put me on full time advertorial writing, because every client desires to see their business's described in print. The 50 to 150 word expose', placed next to their ad, in my experience, is a good marketing strategy, Advertising is all about results, and it seemed my descriptive words about their company, brought more business, and my little corner desk in the office, became a constant flurry of activity.

An average 4 hour day at the office before jumping on a train to the university, ran more or less the same every week. Entering the office,  my-basked was always piled high. I would find the client information, call them and conduct a small interview. Hanging up, I'd immediately write the piece based on my scrawled notes. After a quick proof read, would send the piece to the sub-editor, and with luck, it would never come back with editing instructions. Occasionally, it would be: Please add 20 words or minus 10 words, because for the sub editor it is all about space. I'd make the changes and shoot it back up to her, crossing my fingers, that it wouldn't shoot back again. Luck on my side, over that 4 hours, my in-basket would be empty, and off I'd go to a lecture.

In retrospect, there wasn't any time that was or could be wasted, every minute counted, including reading while travelling. In those productive days, my juggling skills were well honed, because dropping one ball could well cause the entire enterprise to fall in a heap.

Our little newspaper was owned by a well respected publishing company. In fact they published some well known Australian writers. On some days, I'd enter the elevator to be met by a famous author, and for me, that was always a bit of a thrill.

On a particular morning, I was met by the managing director, who asked me to join the company on a “team building” exercise in Mt. Bulla. This activity for companies was certainly in vogue at the time. He said the entire company would engage in social activities, intense meetings, and “trust-group-exercises, aimed and a more harmonious and productive company.

Feeling I had no choice agreed, and never expected that one of these “trust” activities, would result in almost ending my life.