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in their electorates, preferring to work from "The House."

        Each MP was entitled to a generous issue of paper, envelopes, rubber bands, pins, and other office supplies.   There were available from a store in the temporary building next door and I set off to collect my initial supply.

        Just as I was starting back up the stairs with a carton of stationery, the door opposite was flung open and a burly figure emerged.

        Rex Jackson, Minister for Your and Community Affairs, introduced himself in a jovial manner;   his thumbs hooked in "Police and Firemen" braces, his dark eyes shining behind a smooth face.

        He invited me into his office.   Through a tiny ante-room, his den was cramped and gloomy.   It contained a large desk with two telephones and a framed picture of a dog, a few chairs, a sofa, and a cocktail cabinet.

        Jackson showed me his extensive range of liquour, and was insistent in offering hospitality.   With some difficulty, I managed to decline his offer of a drink.

        As I started up the stairs again, Jackson called after me, "Remember mate, my door is always open."

         I described this incident to several older backbenchers and they warned me to be wary of Jackson.

         He was not very discreet, being often seen on  

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