EXACTLY ACCORDING TO PLAN

 

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PART ONE - SYDENHAM

I owe the title of my story to Gary D., that wonderful A New Freedomer who now lives Stateside; he was revisiting the year past when celebrating an A.A. birthday, and commented that, "The past year has gone exactly according to plan. I'm @#$%ed if I know whose plan it was, but it went according to plan."

My tale has neither beginning nor end and I have the same problem each time I relate it; how or where do I begin … ?

So, let me tell it as it unfolded before me …

It was a March morning in 1992 and I was facing a half-shaved, half-lathered face in my en suite bathroom mirror. (The mention of en suite is my own bit of humour, I was sleeping on a foam rubber mattress on the floor of my master bedroom in a four-bedroomed house, where nobody except I resided and which had virtually no furniture – I once heard someone describe himself, during a meeting, as 'living like a tramp, in my own house'; that sort of described my situation quite well – the 'ex' had taken the whole bang-shoot when she had moved out to join her, then, boyfriend. Which circumstantial background will serve to clarify the freedom I had to behave as I will get back to recounting … ) The face in the mirror was one I'd got used to liking lately, as the result of the Fellowship having managed to teach me some of the rules of normal behaviour.

Which was why the thought that crossed my mind, as I resumed shaving, was such a surprise.

"Why don't you skip going to work today?" my head suggested. "Come on, I don't do things like that anymore." my sober consciousness retorted.

So I finished shaving, got dressed and made another cup of coffee, a sort of 'one for the road.' But the bunking thought kept on insinuating itself.

Now, I had been around A.A. rooms long enough to have started believing in the guidance of a Power greater than myself and had witnessed its 'interference' in my life, and those of many other recovering as I was, too often to scoff at the premise that God communicates directly with people who want to have a conscious contact with him. Besides, I had recently been warned by our personnel department that I had to use up a mountain of accumulated leave, or risk losing it. Thus, in keeping with my newfound honesty, I called the office and advised my superior's secretary that I would be in the following day and would submit a leave application for the day I was about to take off, un-jacketed and un-tied myself, slipped on a pair of shorts and prepared to enjoy a relaxing day of parking off.

I recall being seated before my PC, probably playing 'Sokoban' or 'Rockford', when the next cerebral jab occurred. "If you are going to take the day off, why not give it back to A.A.; after all, that's how come you still have a job to be absent from?" is, roughly, what impinged on my concentration.

After a bit of resistance the child-me got out of the way and, for the third time that morning, I changed clothing; I then packed my G.S.O. tog bag, left a note for my housekeeper to let her know where I had gone, and departed for central Jo'burg.

It was, I recall, around 10:00 a.m. by this time. As I approached the corner of the first main road to be encountered, I had to make a decision about where to wait for a bus; I could turn right, walk half a block, and wait at a stop which would see infrequent buses at that time of the morning; or, I could carry on walking, for about ten blocks, to a major suburban thoroughfare used by many and more frequent bus routes. I opted for the former, knowing that I could be disappointed as I had no way of knowing when the last bus had passed that way.

I proceeded to commune with God, while waiting, by appreciating the wonders of bird life, clear(ish) blue sky, the calm of a quiet suburban morning, my sobriety, and so on. I used, at that time, to make a habit of talking to him, sometimes out loud (naturally, provided that there was no one else in earshot) and I probably did so on that morning, considering how I had come to be waiting for a bus in the first place.

It was 10:25 when I looked at my watch and, amusedly, wondered whether I should get peed off at the slap bus service or whether I should just do the obvious and walk the ten blocks uphill. I decided to give the JMT another five minutes before I made the effort.

A cream bakkie pulled up to a stop before the allocated time was up and a curly brunette head ducked, to look through the passenger window, and said, "Hop in."

"Excuse me?"

"Get in. I'll give you a lift."

The thought that went through my mind was that this little girl must be mentally disturbed. This was Jo'burg '92, she didn't know me from Adam Smith and I was scarcely dressed like the senior middle management employee I was. (Characters in denims and short-sleeved shirts, with nothing but a blue tog bag, are not the types I want my daughters picking up, clean-shaven or not!)

"Come on, jump in."

"Which way are you going?"

"Don't worry, I'll drop you off wherever you're going. I know what a pain it is, waiting for buses."

My next mental image was not really in keeping with our programme, "Well, let's see where this leads," I mused. "This may be your lucky day. And she's quite attractive …" (Apologies to our female readers, for the blatant chauvinism.)

I climbed into the bakkie. "Good morning. My name's ------."

"Hi, I'm Simoné. Where are you going?"

"Hello, Simoné. I'm on my way to the City. Where are you going?"

"To Belgravia."

"But that's in a completely different direction to central Jo'burg," I said. "Why don't you drop me off at the top of the hill? I'd appreciate that."

"Don't worry, I'll take you to town."

She proceeded to Harrow Road, Ellis Park, Kensington … Hardly the most direct route to where I wanted to be, and the ungallant thoughts I'd been having were getting stronger by the minute.

"What are you going to do in town?"

"Well, I'm an alcoholic and I'm on my way to the General Service Office of Alcoholics Anonymous - sort of like a head office - where I have some work that I'd like to do, as I am the ________ for the Fellowship. Have you ever heard of Alcoholics Anonymous?"

"Yes … My mother once mentioned it to me." She seemed to become subdued and I wondered about the advisability of trying to explain such things to the uninitiated when, suddenly, she pulled up at the kerb.

I, equally suddenly, had my hands full with a sobbing little girl, whose tears washed uncontrollably down her cheeks and dripped off her chin, into her clenched fists.

Through the sobs and gasps she tried to apologise for her outburst, which I tried, uncomfortably, to make light of. I didn't have a clue as to the cause of this reaction until, slowly, she managed to stifle the sobs and, in between the snot and the snuffles, told me how she had been involved in a bad drugging crowd; how she was trying her best to give 'the shit' up; how they (one guy, in particular) were hounding her to score on their behalf and keep on using with them.

"Sorry, Simoné! I have no experience with drugs, so I don't know what to say."

She continued with her railing against 'them' and then it occurred to me that I had heard of N.A., an A.A. equivalent for drug addicts, and that I knew one name which connected to that Fellowship.

I explained to her that I would get someone from that Fellowship to contact her soon, an offer which she vehemently declined with, "It's OK. I'll be all right if those bastards will just leave me alone!"

She composed herself and soon afterward, having exchanged phone numbers with me, dropped me in Kerk Street.

During the weeks that followed, as her mother lived around the corner from my house, she was a regular visitor and I invited her over for supper on one or two occasions. On others she availed herself of the fact that I was part of a 'clique' of six or seven recovering alcoholics who went around together, some weeks doing six or seven meetings. She was more of an age with the other members of the gang, than she was with me.

We also spoke on the phone at least twice a week, I being happy to be able to help someone who was willing to do something about her problem, while she seemed to derive comfort from speaking to someone who had walked a similar, addictive, path and was managing to keep the beast at bay.

While I kept the drug issue, and her possibly getting help from N.A., at the forefront of our talks (the length of which stopped them being regarded as chats) I had been taught in A.A. not to push the issue of how and when, if ever, she would take charge of her own recovery. Often, it seemed to me, she was at that point but, always, there came the withdrawal, with the assurance that, "I'll be O.K. I don't need those people's help."

Then, very late one night, she broke through the barrier. She was almost hysterical on the other end of the phone and I sensed that she was desperate. A certain Andrew had returned from the coast, where he had been hiding from the S.A.P., and was making her life hell with his demands that she not only score drugs from dealers on his behalf but, worse, that she put him up and allow him to use her place as a base.

After calming her a bit I promised to make contact with my 'name' in N.A., early the following day. It took until after 3:00 a.m. before I could get off the phone and go to bed.

As promised, I made contact with N.A.'s Twelfth Step colindictor line; thereafter with first one, and then another, named person, to whom I explained where I was coming from in relation to Simoné. I suggested that she be given assistance in getting to an N.A. meeting. Next I was given the name and number of a 'Van', who lived in proximity to me and Simoné's mother. I called him, explained the situation and got an assurance that he would meet her outside the local meeting place and look after her, as we do with newcomers in A.A.

I called her number and gave her the venue and time of the meeting, as well as Van's name, and explained the arrangements I had made for him to await her outside the venue. She assured me, and I could sense that she meant it, that she was going to keep the appointment.

As seems par for the course with types like us, the next thing that happened was a phone call of an afternoon to tell me she couldn't go through with it, she was scared, she didn't know them, en so voorts and …

I tried to, caringly, explain that I would, had I been allowed, accompany her to the meeting but, as I was an alcoholic and not a drug addict, it was just not possible for me to attend a closed meeting with her. I also stressed that, in my opinion, they were the people best qualified to help her with the problem she, obviously, had.

She calmed down, relented, and promised to go to the meeting.

The call, at about 6:15 p.m., came as no surprise, but still saddened me; she had changed her mind again, she could not possibly go, but would if I would go along.

(Cunning, baffling, powerful is the mind of an addictive personality, if you will excuse me paraphrasing the Big Book.)

I called Van and explained my dilemma, offering to bring her to the meeting, then either wait for her outside, until after the meeting finished, or cab it home. I was taken aback by his insistence that it was perfectly acceptable for me to attend their closed meeting, but he then went on to explain that, far from being a breach of the Fellowship's Traditions or custom, alcoholics were allowed to attend, because alcohol was specifically identified as one of many types of drugs, in the N.A. Blue Book.

With relief and a sense of trepidation, I arranged for Simoné to fetch me at 7:00 p.m. or thereabouts, on the understanding that I would accompany her to the meeting and stay with her during the full course and, yes, we could leave during the meeting if she felt too uncomfortable.

Which is how this alcoholic came to Twelfth-step a fellow sufferer into a parallel recovery programme.

We went to a few more N.A. meetings and I took her to a couple of open A.A. meetings, where she seemed to fit in quite well.

The happy ending to this story of God's intervention in 'just another day' of my life is that Simoné is now a clean and sober member of Alcoholics Anonymous, having decided that this Fellowship gave her more scope for identification. She still, as far as I am aware, attends meetings at the group where she got her sobriety and, reasonably often, I hear news about her from some of the members of the same group.

PART TWO - KLERKSDORP

When one can look at occurrences in retrospect, this example [of which people like us have many, many experiences] of God's involvement of humans in his furtherance of The Plan, is miraculous.

The Ultimate Scriptwriter knows exactly what is going on, even when – possibly because we humans are part of the cast and therefore too close to be able to perceive all of reality – we are at sea and often doing our utmost to be going in a direction opposite to that in which we are being steered.

So, to return to my tale …

I found that I heard far more about the emotions of addiction in N.A. meetings than the A.A. meetings I was attending and – having decided some while before that immature emotional reaction was the root cause of my alcoholic behaviour, and that this was because I had stopped growing emotionally at some stage of my childhood or youthhood – I continued to attend meetings on a fairly regular basis, adding new friends to the whole new circle I had started making when I got booted through the doors of A.A.

I was taken aback by the state of the N.A. newcomers and saddened by the regularity of their disappearance from meetings, apparently never to return. On subsequent reflection I have come to the conclusion that I got my sobriety in a stable A.A. group where people tended, by and large, to come and to stay put – hence I was unaccustomed to wholesale slipping. Of course another factor is that I was too busy with my own recovery and the domestic resistance to my A.A. membership to really pay very close attention to the comings and goings of newcomers. And, as to the physical state of some druggies, I have pondered what I would have had to confront had I come into A.A. via one of Jo'burg's poorer groups, instead of via its North-Eastern middle class white suburbia. In fact, would I have made it, had I been less financially sound when my rockbottom arrived? And if I had not still had a well-paid job? And if I did not have a wife and children providing a modicum of companionship when I got home at night?

I hadn't been attending my home group for very long when, around mid-May, Van suggested we put together an encounter group, similar to the ones which arose among some of the fellows of Alcoholics Anonymous. He approached me because his sponsor – who is an A.A. member – and I had previously been members of a similar encounter group. "We'd like you to lead it for us." I wasn't really ready for this, being in the throes of having to resell my house, suing for divorce, getting to grips with my children having been taken away from me, etc., but I agreed after a while.

[Author's note:

As I sat here word-processing this article, another incidence in this extended sequence of God's Will taking precedence over mine, jumped up and smacked me in the face. The reason I was still living in my house in mid-May 1992 and was trying to resell it – while I should originally have vacated it by the end of January that year – was because the lovely young lady, to whom I had sold it in December 1991, had passed away during childbirth in January.]

The members of the encounter group, ten or so in total, were all members of either A.A. or N.A. or both, this having been a stipulation prior to our first meeting. The programme we were to follow would constitute a lengthy and, if tackled properly, an extremely in-depth equivalent of Step Four and Step Five. Hence confidentiality among the group members was an absolute requirement, based on the concepts surrounding a Fellowship closed meeting. We proceeded to meet once a week to 'encounter' ourselves, and each other.

I do not recall what number meeting it was, but we were busy relating our dark pasts and the effect our behaviour had had on us and those with whom we had surrounded ourselves. One of my dark secrets was that I had had cause to spend some time away from my family, as a guest of the State. I mention it in A.A. meetings when it seems pertinent to the discussion, or necessary to stress a point I am trying to make; it is not a badge of honour I wear for all to see.

Diagonally across the room from me, in Van's flat, sat William. An N.A. member, he and I had not had many words to say to each other inside the Fellowship. His straight below-the-shoulders long hair no longer featured in my picture of the perfect me but, at another time in my life, I think I would have killed if it meant I'd have a similar crowning glory; his anti-smoking stance and his quietly stated dogmatic religious stance were not attributes that endeared him to me. Yet there was something about him I found attractive. It was as if we had broken bread together in a previous life.

In the context of the encounter group and the stated aim of trying to break down the walls I had once erected to protect me from humanity – the very same group or force I believe, today, God wants me to be an integral part of – I felt it necessary to recount the event of my State-paid holiday, without going into detail about the whys and wherefores of my being granted such a privilege.

William's raised eyebrows raised my hackles and my defence mechanisms. I recall thinking, "If he is going to go sanctimonious and holier-than-thou on me, there's going to be trouble."

We went around the room, Step-Five-ing our way through the encounter programme. When it came to William's turn I was all ears.

"Thanks for what you had to say," he said, looking straight at me. "I'm also not proud of the fact that I've been in prison, as a result …"

I hadn't let him finish.

I had stood up, walked across the room, stretched out my hand and said,

"Klerksdorp, December 1977!"

He'd risen, held out his hand and we embraced, like the bread-breakers we were, as another of God's puzzle pieces fell, amazingly, into place.

During late November 1977 six of us had been transferred from the Jo'burg Fort to Klerksdorp prison, manacled and chained together hand-to-foot like animals, in the back of a speeding LDV whose driver seemed to have only one aim; to hurt and bruise the occupants of our compartment, who were incapable of properly supporting ourselves or avoiding being thrown about as he took two-wheeled corners. William and I had been two members of that sextet.

I did not spend long at Klerksdorp. In fact I had considered the transfer bloody stupid – perfect civil service bungling – as I was due for release on or about New Year's Day 1978. During my stay there I had managed, just about, to stay out of trouble and had ended up 'living in Houghton' – a three-man cell at the very top of the social structure of the institution. We were sometimes left with our cell door unlocked at night. Some of the younger warders would join us, now and again, for a game of darts or a cup of coffee, a brew we had an almost endless supply of, held in a two-gallon blue plastic bucket.

One major perk of being a Houghtonian was that we were, as often as not, skipped over when the warders did their painfully regular klopjagte. I had even managed to hang on to my personal underwear and had acquired a pet, a praying mantis, who was allowed to live in a potted plant which adorned our 'home.' It was this 'oversight' of the bewaarders that caused William and me to get more closely acquainted than would otherwise have been the case.

As a roker he was under special surveillance by the authorities [remember, those were the days when being caught in possession of more than ten grams of dagga ended in a five-year prison sentence] and, consequently, much more likely to end up in bottom-lip-deep brown stuff of a particularly putrid variety. And he didn't disappoint them for too long …

About mid-December he cautiously approached me, with an illegal request which could land us both in hot water. He had smuggled a gold cross into the prison, in the knowledge that possession of personal effects (such as jewellery or underwear) was expressly prohibited, and wanted me to secrete it for him while he went to serve out an in-house sentence for some infraction of the many rules, in 'solitary.' Leaving it in his cell, while undergoing this extra deep incarceration would have left him vulnerable to either theft (by his cellmates) or discovery by the authorities. I agreed, because of the fact that we had come from the Fort together.

However, I had been released from prison before he had been released from 'solitary', leaving me with his gold cross for which I had no use, and the problem – because I could not entrust his secret or his property to anyone else – of having to smuggle it out of Klerksdorp prison.

Here we were, fourteen-and-a-half years later, meeting through a set of the most unlikely circumstances, and that cross was resting in a disused petty cash box tray, safely on the top shelf of my study's stationery cabinet!

Yes, he had it returned at the next encounter meeting.

Do I still see him?

Sort of regularly … You see, he asked me to be his sponsor …

PART THREE - SANDTON

But, when I thought I had been amazed enough and that nothing relating to this epic tale about a day off work, and what followed, could surprise me, I was not aware that God had another chapter up his sleeve. Its repercussions were to be even more significant, because they went beyond the boundaries of recovery Fellowships and people like us, to whom happenings of this nature are almost commonplace.

Around September of 1992, about six months after this adventure had started, I received a phone call from an extremely distraught Simoné.

Andrew, you will recall he was the fugitive from justice who eventually drove Simoné through the doors of N.A. and into recovery, had reappeared and was causing all sorts of havoc.

Her life had undergone the metamorphosis which usually accompanies getting sober, or clean. Frenetic activity had been replaced by calm 'pitching up for life.' Dishonesty, and its concomitant fear, had given way to the resultant contentment. Etc., etc.

"Can I please come and see you?" she pleaded. "I need, desperately, to speak to someone I can trust."

We arranged to meet at an A.A. meeting the following evening, after which we would have coffee together and she could lay her problems on the table.

During the meeting her discomfort was almost palpable. She seemed so on edge that I expected her to burst, like some over-filled helium balloon.

In the bakkie, on our way for coffee, she had been unable to contain herself any longer, and the torrent simply spewed out …

"Andrew is driving me insane. Almost eight years ago …" And she had proceeded to pour out her heart about her past. The contents of her disclosure are not relevant to the completeness of my tale, and I consider myself bound by the trust she showed in divulging what she did.

Suffice to say that I had been hard pressed not to tell her to slow down and take a breath, so that I could try to digest her outpourings.

By midnight I felt almost overwhelmed by the intensity of this young woman's pain and her, apparent, lack of equipment to deal with all of the issues involved. I was at a loss for words (a condition which some of my friends will tell they find impossible to believe) as I did not know where to start my unravelling and sorting of this jumble of very real dragons.

As I scratched for an opening, she leapt into the breach and started again.

"That @#$%ing Andrew …"

… and God had slipped another of his jokers into my head, just as he had done the morning before the bathroom mirror …

"You don't mean Andrew G______, do you?"

Gasp!

"How the @#$% did you know his surname? Who HAVE you been talking to?" she had demanded, too surprised to be angry, but displaying fearful doubts.

"I didn't … " I tried to explain. And it was true, no matter how unreal it may have seemed to an outsider or non-believer, and no matter how unbelievable my denial may have sounded.

What was true was that I had not thought the thought that had put the name in my mouth. God had been busy again.

What was also true was that I had been listening to my subordinate at work for eleven years, go to the Gates of Hell, time and again, over a son named Andrew, and …

I still get goosebumps when I recall these events and their improbability.

When I had started working for an organisation in 1981, Kelly had been the supervisor of the department over which I was appointed manager. A widowed mother of a daughter and two sons, she had been a hard working and conscientious staff member.

Quite ambitious as well, she was busy studying toward a B.Comm. at the time. Somewhere between my helping her with her Accounting and Law assignments and her having to ask for yet another day's leave, the topic of her domestic life had been broached.

Her daughter was a steady, but acceptably rebellious, adolescent.

The boys, however, were cast from a different mould.

The elder of the two, scarcely in his teens, was being held at Norman House, a place which could euphemistically be called a 'place of safety' in today's politically-correct SA. In those days it was known as a reformatory.

His crimes: house-breaking, theft, smoking dagga, mugging, etc.

And, to make matters worse, his main aim in life appeared to be to educate his younger brother, who had proved himself to be a remarkably adept apprentice. That was why Kelly had needed another day off; to appear in court with the younger brother, aged seven, to appeal for clemency to prevent his being sent to join Andrew.

That had, more than likely, been late early 1982 or early 1983.

Kelly had, in the meantime, been promoted out of my department. I had also taken a promotion into a different sphere of our employer's business but, during the course of the intervening decade, I had also been the provider of the shoulder or strong arm she had needed to enable her to make it through yet another traumatic chapter in the history her sons were busy writing. The longer I had remained sober, having been brought to A.A. by my Higher Power in 1987. the more she had been willing to confide in me and seek my company for comfort.

And here I was, in late 1992, frightening and confusing the hell out of a poor girl whose only crime had been to be available, when the God of her understanding had demanded that she stop at a bus stop to offer a lift to a complete stranger.

The meeting with Simoné had been on Friday night. I considered phoning Kelly, at home, during the weekend to inform her of the information I'd been given, regarding her child.

I had decided not to do so, however, because she had married again at some stage and had borne another son who was the apple of his daddy's eye. However, the younger of the two hooligans still lived with her and the relationship between him and his stepfather was about as calm as the relationship between the authorities and his elder brother Andrew had been.

So, I had two days in which to decide how to approach the subject with Kelly. The last I'd heard, she had not been too well disposed toward her elder son's nefarious lifestyle.

Monday morning. "Hi Kelly, so-and-so here. Haven't seen you for a while. Do you have some free time, there's something I need to discuss with you?"

"Sure. My office or yours?"

"Yours … see you now."

"Hi. I have a problem … how or where do I begin …? So, let me tell it just the way it happened to me …"

Anonymous
Johannesburg
February 1996

[Author's note:

It was the first time in more than eighteen months that Kelly had had any word about her son; whether he was dead or alive, reformed, or still on the run from the police.

I have changed all the names in this article, to protect the anonymity of persons in and outside the Fellowships.

The other detail, however, is precisely how it happened to this alcoholic.]

A.A.	Alcoholics Anonymous
Big Book	The book named "Alcoholics Anonymous", so named because of the thickness of the pages of the original edition Interestingly the Fellowship took its name from the book's title, not the other way around
Blue Book	The book named "Narcotics Anonymous", equivalent to the A.A. Big Book
Encounter  group	The group get-togethers do NOT constitute A.A. [or N.A.] meetings, notwithstanding that all participants were also members of either or both of the Fellowships This particular group had as its primary objective the 'encountering of self' for each of the participants; the discovery and healing of the dis-ease of each, in relation to self and the world about us; and was working through a structured programme, based on a book by M Scott Peck
G.S.O.	General Service Office of Alcoholics Anonymous
Home group	A 'base' where most recovering alcoholics [or addicts] find it comfortable to attend meetings initially, and remain while they settle into the new way of living which accompanies adherence to the principles of the A.A. [or N.A.] programme
N.A.	Narcotics Anonymous
Newcomer	A recovering alcoholic or addict who has recently entered into recovery
Regmaker	A.A. South Africa's "meeting-in-print" published by G.S.O. South Africa
Rockbottom	A point at which the pain of continuing with a certain behaviour pattern is so great that the prospect of changing the pattern becomes a viable alternative
S.A.P.	South African Police
Sponsor	A sponsor would generally (but not necessarily) be another member of the Fellowship who has been in recovery for a while longer than the sponsee, and therefore has personal experience, strength, and hope to share in relation to the recovery programme Contrary to the popular definition of the word, a sponsor is not expected to contribute financially to the sponsee's recovery; assistance is given, mainly, in the spiritual, mental, and emotional, aspects of recovery
Step Five	The Fifth Step reads: Admitted to God, to ourselves, and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs
Step Four	The Fourth Step reads: Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves
Twelfth Step	The Fellowship members follow a programme of Twelve Steps to recovery The Twelfth Step reads: Having had a spiritual awakening as a result of these steps, we tried to carry this message to addicts [alcoholics], and to practice these priciples in all our affairs
Twelve  Traditons	The Fellowship groups generally adhere to a set of principles known as the Twelve Traditions, as guidelines by which to function
Using	A member of Alcoholics Anonymous tries not to drink alcohol, one day at a time A member of Narcotics Anonymous tries not to use or 'pick up' narcotic drugs, one day at a time
Webmaster's note: This is a true story. I have the privilege of knowing the author and some of the central characters personally. It has previously been published in Regmaker©, the meeting-in-print of Alcoholics Anonymous South Africa, in the February 1996 edition, under the same title. The story, with minor grammatical amendments, is taken verbatim from Regmaker©. In keeping with A.A.'s tradition of public anonymity, the editors of Regmaker© have ensured that no member of A.A. can be identified by the names used in the piece. I thank Alcoholics Anonymous South Africa, in whom copyright subsists, for the opportunity to bring this miracle to the public.

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Page last updated 21 January 2001
URL : exacplan.htm