As I travelled from Here-and-now to There-and-how along the Troublesome Track, I passed a new hospital on the outskirts of Aussietown. Signs pointed the way to the maternity ward, the cancer clinic, the mental health clinic, the children’s section, and the cardiac unit. Larger than the others, the sign at the entrance declared, ‘THIS HOSPITAL IS FOR TENANTS ONLY. LANDLORDS NOT ATTENDED TO.’

In the middle of Aussietown at the roundabout, a sign pointed towards the school, where a similar sign guarded the entrance: ‘THIS SCHOOL IS FOR TENANTS ONLY. LANDLORDS NOT TAUGHT HERE.’

Reminded of a Queensland Premier’s declaration during the Covid pandemic that Queensland hospitals are only for Queenslanders, I did not think such exclusionary signs were unprecedented. But that was years before, when hospitals and schools had been considered part of a wealthy, modern country, developed from scratch by settlers over a couple of hundred years.

That was when so-called renters and landlords mixed freely, helped each other out, shared laughter, and all the benefits of a developed society where the poor and vulnerable were supported, educated, and represented in all three layers of government. Only those who removed themselves from society voluntarily were left out – but still generously supported by the rest of society.

After the era of social and political change that became known colloquially as The Shoutn, starting with the ushering in of the Voice to Parliament, the self-declared landlords pressed Parliament to impose rents on those they called tenants. Unsurprisingly, this went down like a dead wallaby and the tenants began to organise.

First, they made lists of all the improvements they had made to the property, which took a long time and used up lots of gigabytes.

Then they tasked the members of the Voice itself to estimate the cost of the improvements since 1788 – like all the infrastructure around Australia as well as the benefits already paid to landlords, currently at over $30 billion a year. The Voice committee said no, it isn’t part of their objectives.

Being willing to help fill the need, I relied on precedent: I took a drink coaster, a napkin, and a plain envelope, and scribbled down some estimates … and made sure I stuck to the precedent in all aspects, including under-estimating the reality.

I won’t reveal the figure I came up with, but will say it still comes to considerably more than 1 per cent of all the wages of all the landlords currently working. I can say this without fear of contradiction because the Australian Bureau of Statistics has not calculated that figure. (What percentage of ABS employees are tenants and what percentage landlords?)

As I continued my journey in my giant battery with wheels from the Aussietown school to the University, I became aware of the noise of a rowdy crowd (crowdy, colloq.). As I neared the entrance to the campus, I was stopped by a stern security officer. ‘Papers please…’ Being white, he no doubt insta-classified me as a tenant. He wanted to see my rental payments certificate. He pointed to the sign that had been defaced. Where it said TENANTS ONLY, a thick red scar crossed out TENANTS and replaced it with LANDLORDS.

As I reached for my wallet, he shouted, ‘Hands on the wheel!’

It took a minute or two to explain I couldn’t get my papers with my hands on the wheel … but he had to stick to his training. As we argy-bargied, I slipped in the info that I was not from There-and-how but Here-and-now, which was too confusing so he let me glide silently through. I parked the battery and continued on foot.

The crowdy was in full swing. Placards and flags (some of which I recognised) bobbed and waved above the throng. Someone was approaching the microphone on the impromptu stage made of piles of books with trestles across them. The green-haired person in flowing work overalls picked up the mic and screamed ‘Lift the rent!’ which was echoed by a thousand voices. ‘Lift the rent!’ times a thousand.

I veered round the side of the crowdy towards the uni buildings. As I came to what I thought was the main entrance, a young blackfella (or was it a blakfella?) staggered past with a huge sign ‘TREATY NOW!’ He stopped when he saw me. ‘What’r you doing here?’ Then I recognised him. We had done community service together years before, both for minor driving-related offences (in the days of petrol cars). I was on toilet block duties while he was weeding and raking.

He rested the sign against the wall. ‘Bit noisy here,’ I said, ‘can we chat inside?’ He nodded. ‘Sure. There’s nobody there anymore … we’re all busy with the treaty now campaign.’ I excused myself, ‘I have to use the toilet.’ He quipped after me loudly, ‘Don’t forget to clean it after, ha ha…’

Avoiding the crowdy, I switched on my battery to slide silently off campus. I had to get out of Aussietown, maybe even the country. No welcome here for tenants…

At the airport, cars were directed first into Landlord and Tenant areas and then to EV and petrol areas. Tenants had to show their papers. ‘Once we have the treaty,’ a security guard told me while I queued, ‘you’ll only have to show your passport and residency permit … won’t need tenancy papers.’ I smiled weakly.

Having boarded and been ushered to my ‘TENANT ONLY’ seat at the back of the plane, I buckled up and put on my headphones. The pilot came on the PA and recited the welcome to country; my headphones were no protection.

I was heading back to Here-and-now, but my unease stayed with me as I caught sight of the on-board news; the strap said ‘VOICE REFERENDUM TODAY’

Crossing the dateline from then to now, the chap in the seat next to me leant over to his travelling companion (perhaps wife) and whispered: ‘Dunno about this Voice …’