9.   EN MG and Two CV

I considered returning to Adelaide via the coastal route. The scenery between Victor Harbour and Normanville is one of most picturesque on the Fleurieu Peninsula. There was nothing I would have loved doing more, than cycling through the pretty Inman Valley, which I had done many years earlier. But on Sunday morning 19/12/04 I was not in a tourist-mode. After the earlier strange experience, my trip meter reading 15.3 just as I passed property number 1053, then seeing a car registration plate with fitting letters and 153, made me want to investigate the location on my way home.

Driving out of Victor Harbour, without trying, I spotted a street name for a split second - Tyrone St. A sign Garage Sale was close by. After a moment of hesitation, I U-turned to have a look. The rego in the driveway V..123 made sense. There was not really much on offer. The best part in that location was the million-dollar view over Victor Harbour, right out to Encounter Bay and the Bluff.

The young man was moving to Ulverstone, Tasmania. My diary entry plays with this name, of course, HE U LV Stone. I didn’t stay long, only to chat a little. I had a feeling this person knew me.

 My next location for a stopover was diagonally across from the business Premises at No. 1053. It was well after lunchtime. I took a photo of the business premises, still unsure, if the number co-incident was leading somewhere. With one alteration to the business name I saw the word: ‘Alive’. Still I had an inkling there was more. Looking up as I walked back to my Suzuki I noticed a car yard. The name and the classic cars on display caught my eye. Having driven a 1954 Wolseley for 16 years in my early years in Australia, I took a closer look.

I noticed it immediately. This must be the reason for my earlier co-incidence and now stopover. An MG sports car with blue registration plates looked at me through the iron bars of the heavy metal fence. Blue registration plates are in use in Tasmania and the Australian Capital Territory. (These two states, by the way, were the only two states in Australia to be fatality free over the Christmas/New Year break this year).

‘EN 1963’ looked at me as if to say – “Hello, nice to meet you old friend!” Not that I had ever seen this car before, it was the number, which I read as: ‘N won & 963’. On the way home it came to me that, perhaps, those playing the game picked an MG, because in Roman numerals M stands for 1 with 3 zeros?  However, the M of this car would play another role a little later.

963 is a number I can’t easily forget. (Mind, Chapter 16). Late in 2004 out of the blue I received a letter from a Superannuation Fund, advising me a mistake had been made in my account. I had been underpaid the sum of $ 136.09. Thank you, I wrote back, but please check that no mistake has been made, when placing the decimal point. There was no mistake made. The money has been credited to my fund just days before uploading this. 963 became a number which seemed to follow me.  

Just behind the MG Sports car another exotic car sent greetings from my childhood. At that time the interesting looking Citroen 2 CV was very popular with University students; a symbol of non-conformity and cheap transport. In Australia the car is very rare. You only see the occasional one imported by an enthusiast.

There was another reason I took notice: the letter C in 2 CV. Not only do I read it as 1 (Roman numeral 100), but also on the way home that very afternoon I took the photo, where those two letters, the M(G) and the C (CV) played a magic trick.  (See Ch. 6).

Rare or not, I came across another 2 CV parked in a back street the very next day. I was with a learner, not far from the spot in Thebarton, where I had cleaned the spilled rubbish the day before. I seldom went there for driving lessons. The rego Number, what else, caught my eye, a few V’s and a 4, a good enough reason to ask the learner to do a U-Turn and to leave my business card on the windscreen.

I also phoned the car company and had a little chat with a salesman. At $ 12 990, the MG was more affordable than the ugly duckling (the 2CV’s nickname). It’s price tag of $ 40 000 was aimed at a collector, with a passion for the model and the cash to match.

Ten days later I had reason to email our ABC Newsradio, after hearing a news- item about the 2CV, which is no longer produced. A small company in Southern France had bought the equipment to reproduce the popular car, plus spare parts to supply enthusiasts. The report, which originated from the BBC in London, said that the 2CV is called ‘duck’ in Germany. I remember we called the strange looking car ‘ugly’ duck.

I took this bit of trivia as an excuse to email them. In the back of my mind, however, the name duck (Ente in German) reminded me of a name in Chapter 1 in this part of my autobiography. Was there a link? I had emailed the BBC a number of times. It was possible that my main game was being played that far away.  

Email to ABC Newsradio and BBC London, 29/12/04:  

Hi all,

Allow me to add to John Lawnceson’s report on the 2CV. (But please don’t think that I know more). The German’s call the 2CV not just the duck, but the “Ugly Duck”. If anybody in Adelaide is interested, there is one for sale at C. C. South Rd., diagonally opposite 1053 South Rd. It was there still on the 19th Dec. But at $ 40 000 there won’t be a big rush, not from Poora Hills where I live. 

The little, cute allround duckling brings back memories of a European childhood. The Mercs, VW’s and Carman Ghia’s where all part of it.

Kind regards

Dieter R. Fischer

PS   My parents never reached the 4-wheel dream, built on the German Economic miracle. Not even a lawnmower, but that was because we had no law n.


Only much later, as I recapped the entries in my diary, did I realize that it was on the way home after the encounter with the two exotic cars, I had noticed the missing letters on the side of the building and taken the photograph with the missing M (agi) C in Home Comfort (Chapter 6). At the time I only linked it to my story in Chapter 34. (I have discovered since, Chapter 34 includes the words ‘comfort of home’). Slowly it sank in that I had made the discovery of the Roman letters M(G) and C(V) only minutes earlier. Had I not reset the trip meter on my Suzuki on the way earlier, and just at the right spot, I may never have come across all this magic.

I pasted this cut-out of a Citroen 2CV from the Oxfam Catalog into my diary. Whatever took my fancy?

My life evolved into an exciting, yet spooky pattern. I would get an inner alert to see certain things or to go certain places, which then triggered other action, leading to some further magic and in the end it all formed into a perfect circle. Circles don’t lead anywhere.

If my strange circles, or any segment of it, would be pure co-incident, my life would be going nowhere. But I believed that I was still at the level of being tested by a certain group of honest doubters. If those seekers of truth were getting answers and trusted God through my strange actions, my life would no longer be meaningless. This is how I made sense of what was happening on the Sunday before Christmas 2004. The day had not ended, however. Another short outing followed that evening.

I had considered visiting a Carol Singing Service that evening. There were at least three major events, I could have gone to, but instead I was led to attend a different kind of service altogether. The way it came about was very much a ‘one-thing-led-to-another’ story, the lifestyle I seemed to be living. Under normal circumstances there was no way I could have found out about this gathering in a small local Uniting Church in the Western suburbs. It had been in the newspaper, but we were not reading any paper at the time. But because, I believed, God wanted me there, I found out about it by a ‘holy’ fluke.

On the Friday before I had been shopping for a few items at our local shopping center. The short trip home in the car took less than 2 minutes. The radio was tuned to 5RPH, the station that reads the newspaper for the print handicapped. As soon as I turned on the radio, I heard the tail end of the announcement: “A special service for those who lost loved ones during the year, will be held on Sunday at W.L.… starting at 7.30 pm. As soon as I heard it, a whisper of a thought came: You will be attending. After all, I had been to more than one funeral that year.

The small group sat on chairs, arranged in a U. It was understandably a somber affair. The lady Minister had lost her first husband in a motor vehicle crash (not that year). She would understand, how recently bereaved people felt around Christmas. There was much weeping and reflecting. On the way out, in passing a small table with literature, I took a church magazine and was reading through it later. One item caught my eye: A meeting to be held at 2pm on January 2nd at the Gawler Assemblies of God Church. This was familiar territory. I knew the Pastor well. I made a mental note of the time and place, without writing it down. Maybe I was to attend there as well?

Before reporting on this event 2 weeks later and another discovery of a strange Christian book, let me report a final observation on my way home from the W.L. remembrance service. Driving home I decided to visit an old friend very briefly, which took me through the suburb of A’ton. I made a point of driving via 17 S… Street, which was the address of the young male photographer, who supposedly had had an overseas trip with a much older female MP. The whole saga created national headline news (Mind, Chapter 41) because the MP claimed her ‘boyfriend’s’ costs as expenses, which caused great controversy.

It was getting dark around 9pm, when I stopped right outside the photographer’s house. Next door displayed an array of Christmas lights. Number 17 simply had a string of pink balloons tied to the front veranda. Only pink balloons, no lights. I counted them twice. There were 9. As I parked and reflected on the hectic events of May that year, I was again overcome by the strong feeling that I had been right in my assumptions - That the whole affair was a fabrication; somebody must have paid various players to go along with a wicked scheme. And the public believed it all, how would they know the truth? 

But naked suspicion had not been enough to even start an investigation, let alone produce the truth. I had blown the whistle with letters to politicians, clergymen and the media. On the surface nothing came of it. What went on behind the scenes I had no idea. I trusted God to bring justice, in HIS time and in HIS ways. Unlike the New South Wales MP, whose character I suspected was also ‘assassinated, this episode did not cause the SA MP to lose her seat. The public had long forgotten the story.

Not so God. HE hates injustices. HE loves truth.

Exactly one week later, Sunday, December 26th 04 the world would witness events so horrible, humans everywhere would be reminded that the smallness of their frail existence, is being controlled by a God, who is all powerful.  

Chapter 10