My Lord – Why Have You Forsaken Me?

I have sad news to report.
But first I must set the scene.

Flashback to the year 1976. I was a young, bright-eyed 7 year old kid absorbed by Saturday morning telly on the black and white box. We had only 2 telly channels in Tassie at that time – the ABC and Channel 6. I eschewed the light-weight fluff of the ABC, whose shows centred around a bear with no knickers on and a puppet with a pencil up his nose, in favour of the realism of Channel 6 and one program in particular – HR Puff ‘n’ Stuff.

For those of you unfamiliar with the program it was a gritty real-life drama of an elderly cross-dressing transgender woman named Witchypoo and her torment at the hands of the asexual young mannequin named Jimmy. As could be seen by the gonad-crushing pants he wore, Jimmy had no genitals, preferring instead to hold his phallus in his hand and call it his “flute”. Witchypoo was forever trying to get her hands on Jimmy’s “flute”, the symbol of masculinity that would finally resolve her sexual confusion.
Luckily, we never got to see Jimmy blowing his flute …

One episode in particular I remember vividly. In order to get her Witchypaws on said flute, our struggling heroine entered the local talent competition in disguise, knowing that Jimmy would also enter cos the poncey little show off could never resist the lure of bright lights and makeup.

From the minute she started to sing, I was mesmerised. With my exceptional musical talents and innate sense of theatrics I knew that Witchypoo’s act was extraordinary. The tone, the projection, the warbly bit you do at the end of a long note – she had it all. But by far the best part of the performance was the words of the song which were so poignant I remember them to this day:
“Oranges boranges, who says, oranges boranges, who says, oranges boranges, who says there ain’t no rhyme for oranges?”

Flash forward to 2006 and I am wandering along the street with my husband and my arms full of groceries.
And suddenly I see it.
I am stupefied and dumbfounded. I drop my groceries in a heap on the pavement and shriek “NOOOOOOO!” to the heartless sky encircling my now pointless existence. My head spins and my eyes bleed tears of despair as they focus on the name of the Real Estate Agents in front of me:
Roland Gorringe’s Real Estate.

OH MY GOD! There IS a rhyme for oranges!
The next thing they’ll be telling me is that C is NOT for Cookies and that’s NOT good enough for me!

Was everything I was ever told a lie?
Is there any real truth in the world?
Could anyone else possibly understand the despair I feel?
I am so alone.