Shutting up shop

This place is just down the road from us - a couple of doors up from the wine bar.

Geoff and I had been at the tile shop a couple of weeks ago (yes, that renovation is finally getting underway!) to pick up some samples and I commented that the line "As a soft touch for getting you back to life" makes no sense at all.

I was a bit surprised when I was walking to the Post Office yesterday to see it had been shut down by the police for operating as a brothel. Those signs stuck on with red tape are from Victoria Police and the Magistrates Court. I won't post close-ups - even though it's clearly public - because it names the accused.

So why only a bit surprised? It's certainly not the first. 

Myrna's Relaxation Centre popped up in the strip more than ten years ago. Retail around here mostly consists of high-end antique shops, a florist, interior designers, upmarket gift and homeware stores and more recently, a myriad of cafes. I was suspicious of Myrna's from the start. Their front window was adorned with dated lace curtains and plastic flowers - not very day spa-like.

The owner of Myrna's saw Geoff in his work truck and asked if he could install a basin upstairs. He did and later confirmed that it was in fact, a front for an S&M brothel that had an array of racks, whips and other equipment upstairs.

What was surprising was when not long after, our neighbours came over one Friday night for fish and chips, small children in tow, and the guy casually asked if either of us had had a massage at Myrna's? (Dear god.)

As it happened, when he went in and asked for said massage, he was asked how 'hard' he likes it. He conceded he did indeed like it firm. They then asked if he liked it to 'hurt', to which he looked aghast and said 'No!' At that point, they realised he had no idea what was actually going on there so he got your straight forward massage. He was so impressed with it, that he went home and told his wife that she really should pop in and have one, too!

We enlightened him as to the true business going on at Myrna's and suddenly that strange exchange made perfect sense.

Anyway, back to yesterday.

I sent Geoff a text about the massage shop above and later that afternoon, when he was returning the tile samples, he spotted two more.

I had seen these places but had noted nothing more than the Kmart bedside tables in the window.

Speaking to some passing friends from the 'hood yesterday, we agreed that if there are brothels around this area, we really don't care, as long as they're licensed, regulated and the workers properly cared for. But I was surprised when one said she'd read in the paper that they'd had underage girls working there. Geoff confirmed he heard the same thing from the owner of the tile shop. And that's not funny.

Slavery in Australia's sex industry is apparently rife so I can only hope that with these raids and closures, any girls not there of their own free will have been liberated. It's shocking.

Vicky's Funeral

Vicky was a neighbour from the 'hood. A Greek woman of indeterminable age. She had long hair, smooth skin, a good grip on English and Jesus in her heart. She was devastated when our daughter Jaz died and almost inconsolable when George, our oldest also died, just three and a half years later. She wept at the mere mention of his name and repeatedly asked 'Jesus, why?'

We were all very fond of Vicky. She was a beautiful soul. A seamstress by trade and a perfectionist by nature, the local fancy-pants interior designers kept her busy with custom-made cushions using outrageously expensive fabrics and trim.  But sewing for neighbours often took priority. At the start of each year, she'd take George's school pants in and up and let them out and down each term as he grew. She even whipped up four cushions from let over fabric one week - one for each of the kids.

At Easter, and in spite of my protesting, she'd often slip me $5 or $10 and insist I buy some chocolate for the children.

Vicky's sister lives down the road from us and Vicky would walk past our house - almost daily - to visit her and have coffee, so we ran into her regularly. 'I loooove youuuuu,' was her usual greeting.

Vicky died last week. Turned out she was 79.

I mentioned to our elderly Italian neighbour we were going to the funeral and we'd be happy to take him. 'No, no, no... I no go' he insisted. Hmmmm. There's a story there I'll never know.

The funeral was Friday. It was all Greek to me - literally. Occasionally I recognised a word and realised they'd slipped into English - but it was suspiciously similar - probably had something to do with the singing. The church was spectacular, the bells ritualistic, the incense heady, the day warm - it was very meditative. Sadly, there was no eulogy as we know it - no back story of Vicky, who had never married or had children. A woman who was so generous of heart and probably physically beautiful in her youth - I'd love to have known more about her.

Our neighbourhood Greek Orthodox church.

However, what I did notice in the church, was that all the women - her contemporaries I assume - were all versions of a very, very clear theme. They were all quite short and stocky, most had short hair, much of it blow-waved or permed. Their clothes could all have come from the same shop they were so similar, right down to the fabric and pattern, and even their gold jewellery seemed part of the 'uniform'. It was uncanny.

It got me thinking; do my peers and I also look like versions of the same theme? I was sitting with a couple of them - also neighbours. I stole a glance along the pew - long hair, high heels, make up, tailored dresses - yep. Same same.

Vale Vicky. We looooove youuuuu!