Category: Domestics

With apologises to Ernest, I composed ‘Rooftop. For Sale. Rarely experienced’, effectively capturing my mood.

I am cold, sodden, and now, a weakening westward light is going to add darkness to my predicament. And this bloody corrugated iron is forming a rill across my bum!  I am thinking our luck has evaporated.

I knew we should never have bought the property. You were banging on about the nearby burbling creek, the wildlife, the idyll, perfect to raise a family: the adventures we were going to have. Yep, we’re in the middle of one right now! At least Maggie and the kids evacuated into town yesterday. They are in the emergency shelter set up in the school hall.

It stopped raining two years after we bought the acreage. The creek ran dry, the sweet green pastures disappeared, eaten out: remaining tufts scorched by a ner-ending, northerly blast. Four years of buying feed for the cows, and an ochre-coloured expanse stretching as far as the eye could see. Sorry Dorothy, but a “…sunburnt country’ just doesn’t quite ‘cut the mustard’.

I raised my head and a cold trickle of water sluiced off my hat, neatly finding and channelling into my shirt. Bloody marvellous!

The rain started two weeks ago. We rejoiced; the local church even held services, offering spiritual thanks for answered prayers. But maybe we were overzealous. The rain didn’t stop, and at week’s end, our creek was showing a new livery: at first ‘a banka’ but then it abandoned known boundaries, advancing into the shedding, and then drowning the veggie patch. That’s when the family evacuated. I stayed!

We lost power on Day five. By Day seven, I had moved our appliances, family albums, document, toys and some of the smaller furniture upstairs. The water continued to rise! The house now stood, an island in a swirling, malevolent brownness. Carcasses, tree limbs and a whole flotilla of hay bales floated past.

Before my mobile died, I texted our address and a brief situational synopsis to the SES; I needed help. As the water swamped the downstairs rooms, and started advancing up the bedroom walls, I took a hammer with me into the ceiling space.

I was surprised how easily I had dislodged part of the roof. A couple of whacks and I was sitting, perched on the apex of the roof, my back against the kitchen chimney. If the rain would stop, and if I could soften the corrugational indents on my backside, I might even declare my situation as OK.

I reviewed my earlier reverie. Should we sell? Dorothy had gone on to talk about this “… flooding rain…”, and it wasn’t rocket science to know that the flood would eventually deliver a bountiful return. Should we cut our losses. Maybe swap the rural idyll for a town allotment, atop a hill!

I heard the beat of the chopper, and then I was in a spotlight.  “G’day Jim. Slip your arms into this harness and we’ll head upstairs!”

We have a bald-headed coot living next door.  The day after our first rubbish collection, just three days after we moved in, this numbskull rang the doorbell!

“Hi”. His hand extends in greeting. “I’m Humphrey, from next door. Welcome to the neighbourhood”, and without further social engagement, launched into his suggestion for the placement of our wheelie bins! Helen had joined me at the front door: like me, quite eager to meet some of our new neighbours. But before we could even introduce ourselves, he’d turned and departed!

“Well that’s going to be a little confronting,” Helen suggested, as we retreated back to our coffees! “I think we’ve just met the bloke referenced in that note from the previous owners!” We chuckled as we contemplated learning life’s little lessons for suburban living. We’d downsized from the farm, fifty k’s out from town, where a wheelie bin was just a dreamed luxury. Here, at day three, we were learning about the minutiae of neighbourly wheelie bin etiquette.

We also met Humphrey’s wife. Harriet, a fish-wifey sorta lady, confided that Humphrey ‘has a bit of a bee in his bonnet, sometimes’. Apparently, he’d had a fall many years ago.

Harriet told us about the regular, noisy parties at number 53, and the Woollies and Uber Eats deliveries at 47. Without drawing breath, we also heard that she suspected the woman at 61 was having an affair, as Harriet is seeing a young man visiting in the evenings! And, OMG, the chap across the road fills his purple top with whiskey bottles!

We inadvertently committed several more wheelie bin indiscretions! Humphy’ advised that our green top was at least a foot over his boundary. Several weeks later, the garbo dropped our emptied yellow top across the ‘Mason-Dixon’ line. Scraps of old newspapers and a milk carton had drifted into his gutter.  Mon Dieu!

I was fed up with his pettiness. On Tuesday evening, I deliberately placed our red top 15 centimetres over the line!  I surreptitiously watched from behind the loungeroom curtains. Sure enough, I had hardly taken up my post when he was out like a shot, moving our bin.

Funny how some opportunities present themselves. A few weeks later I was at the tip, coincidentally at the same time as our garbage truck. I recognised the driver. I had a devilish idea and sidled over. I described our next-door neighbour’s obsession. He chuckled. “No worries mate. I can fix that.”

On the next pickup, both our bins were missed. Then his bins were missed for three schedules. One morning, his whole shebang was tipped into the street. Over successive weeks, his green top was broken, the truck ran over and shattered his purple top and his yellow top went missing.

We heard his outrage directed into the street. We sympathised, but had no explanation. By way of improving engagement, they came over for a barbeque dinner. We noshed on steak, salad and shiraz, while bemoaning Council’s derelictions.

I am 9th in the line snaking along the driveway and the early morning chill means we all hunker into our jackets. I presume most of us ‘early-birders’ are ‘fasters’, coffee is the priority on most of our minds. It certainly is for me!

The front door opens, we file in, grab a number from the desk dispenser and settle into the waiting room. This morning’s phlebotomist ignores us, walking outside dutifully to collect the wheelie bins. She returns, still ignoring the crowd as she opens all the blinds. Twelve sets of eyes surreptitiously watch her routine. Those collective eyes swivel instinctively as the pre-programmed overhead distraction bubbles into life. Without looking, I identify Karl’s gormless laugh, reciprocated by a bubbly young cohost. Number 1 is called.

The routine is routine, six-monthly bloods to ensure I get up in the mornings! But today, things are different. She briefly does what needs to be done with #1’s blood extraction phial, but before calling for #2, she is amongst us, checking our pathology forms. “OK; yep. ?OK. Yep Er; hang on, have you got a urine sample?” “No.” “OK, I’ll get you a container. The toilet is just through there.” She points and continues her rounds of the room. “Number 2.”

We all dutifully wait, one chair vacated for toileting duties. The TV tells us that Spiro Stavris has been cleared of assault charges arising from Saturday?s game; Jenny Jones is sharing a fantastic new recipe for breakfast pancakes; Trump is suggesting a denuclearization of Iran after he has orchestrated a regime change, and Hector the Bull Mastiff has won the prestigious Warracknabeal Dog Show. We get a rundown on a challenging new game show starting next week. All riveting stuff.The hollow, light-hearted banter is seductive. I gird my defences and take satisfaction from resisting the temptation to cast my eyes screen-ward.

I scan my fellow patrons. Two are intent on their phones, fingers flicking up, down and across in furious expectation of enlightenment. Four others are closely following the TV. I continue to studiously avoid the screen, belatedly noting a stain on the knees of my trousers – pruning yesterday. I’ll need to buy some Preen.

“Number 9” and I’m on my feet approaching the desk; Medicare card and form at the ready. “Please state your full name, date of birth and address.”

I pass muster as a legitimate, grounded soul and am instructed to make my way along the corridor to the middle room. She follows and closes the door. “Can you tell me your full name, date of birth and address.” I repeat my cardinal credentials.

“Any arm preference?”

“Right is good.”

“You’ve got great veins.”

I quip: “yep, a great intravenous user, in my day.” I note eyebrows rise, and I settle as three little containers are filled perfunctorily.

“Can you confirm your full name, date of birth and address?”

In case of an untoward address change, I take my long black at the local cafe.

“Oh you know. The thingy … with the orange and red doodads. The one we both love; don’t you remember, we bought it at that street market!” This is bloody ridiculous. “Jees, we carried it on the plane, as hand luggage, all the way back to Darwin.”

I dig deeper, the grey matter swirls; I look behind a memory of us in Albufeira, on the beach, the beautifully coloured fishing boats lined up on the shoreline, the crystal-blue water, mirror-still, reflecting the surrounding town, but the name of that ‘thingy’ refuses to land in my conversational grab bag.

I remember we both got very drunk one evening. I mistakenly committed some transgressive no-no when I rang that little bell hanging in the bar and consequently had to shout the roomful of fellow travellers.  What’s it bloody called?

I retreat further into the couch and contemplate my failing faculties. I briefly consider dementia; I voice my concerns and am reassured that we all do it. That doesn’t assuage my inner doubts, fears of … what do they call it; ah yes, EOD – Early Onset Dementia. Now, how can I remember that, but not the name of the other thingy?

So many of the minutiae of that long-ago Portuguese holiday flood back. We had flown down, keen to leave the dank autumnal grime of London for a couple of weeks, meeting up with Steve and Janet, fellow expats and all wanting sunshine, booze and laughter.

We outlay several gold bricks one evening, sangria by the bucketful, and that absolutely wonderful seafood Cataplana, a local cornucopia of chorizo, muscles, prawns and white wine.  The fifty kilos of garlic fairly brought the house down, and I distinctly remember a gaseous discomfort as we caught the train the next day. There was that stranger who got up and moved into another compartment!

Do you remember us venturing up into the hills behind Oporto, chasing a factory that specialised in the manufacture of cork floor tiles? We had the idea, stupid when you think back now, of buying enough to cover the floors in our new Darwin house. I’m not sure if we ever contemplated the reality of a Portuguese export industry, the subsequent purchase of the tiles in the Darwin homewares emporium. And we were still carrying that large whatsit: huge backpacks and this awkward package, usually under my left arm.

I glance at the bedside clock. Two in the morning. I needed a pee, a glass of water and fall back into bed.

Rooster! It screamed from my unguarded subconscious!

It’s the bloody rooster. Of course; that wonderful ceramic Rooster of Barcelos that we both instantly fell in love with at that Faro street market. How could I not remember that little omen, the Portuguese symbol of justice, peace and good luck?

Maybe I wasn’t going mad, just a lapse of memory, overlaid, possibly misfiled in the murky depths of an old man’s mind! I sink back into a deep, contented sleep.

Miffy, our adorable little fluffball, rules our later lives. We had been determined to have a dog-free retirement, but you know how these things can change; we dropped our guard, just the once, and she moved in! That was nine years ago and our Shih Tzu lives ‘…the life of Riley.’

It is Tuesday, an hour after breakfast; Miffy and I are riding the elevator downstairs for her morning exercise. Just the two of us at Level 9.  On her lead, she has her favourite plastic toy in her mouth: off-lead, I have my walking stick, my woollen beanie, pulled firmly down, a thick overcoat and wet weather boots. We are both ready for the elements outside.

There is a brief hesitation as I cross the foyer to the elevator – the bathroom – to be, or not to be – you know those little gut ripples – I make a Captain’s Pick, things will be fine until we return!

The door slowly opens, an invitation to journey. In we go, Miffy wriggles in anticipation, a couple of short, sharp barks, and then she scrapes the carpet – I know the signs, we definitely need to get a move on!

The doors close with the usual thump, a couple of bounces and down we go.  Opps, maybe I should have taken a detour before we left. Things are brewing; Miffy’s wriggles are becoming more intense, and I am certainly sharing some of her discomfort. I take a gamble and relieve just a little pressure. At that moment, we stop at Level 3.

The doors open to Janet’s serene, morning face. Miffy barks, I squirm, the doors close. Janet covers her gagging by facing the wall and starts urgently pressing the button. The lift doors obligingly move, she manically inserts her hands to move the doors quicker.

I adopt my sternest voice and, to Janet’s back, loudly berate Miffy. I inwardly acknowledge a decorous failure and wonder if my indiscretion will be brought up at the Village meeting later that afternoon.

I see Janet in the foyer a few hours later. I approach, intending to explain Miffy’s diet, but she glares at me and passes on. I decide it’s best to leave digestive discussions alone, and I make my way to the cafe.

Over coffee, I spend some quiet time musing over this morning’s encounter. I note the invaluable lesson from having the dog with you during morning lift excursions. While they may not provide an immutable cover for an accidental zinger, they certainly raise the possibility of doubt and/or blame – a legal defence!

On Wednesdays, I share a gym session with Janet. I take great delight noting her slightly strangled backdoor burp, loosed during her squats and her evident embarrassment. I acknowledge our shared humanity – it happens in the best of circles. She immediately leaves the workout.

Janet remains a little cool. But I sense an emerging détente, an understanding of our aging weaknesses, to be avoided, wherever possible, but accepted as a reality.

Her death has necessarily rescheduled the family meeting, September in lieu of November. Dad’s solicitor is politely moving around the room, a cold fish dispensing insincerity, whispered condolences! Sadness, some tension and a distinct chill best describes the lounge atmosphere!

Elizabeth, the youngest sibling, is acting as ‘mother’, liaising with the housekeeper on the refreshments and generally fluffing around the room. Lachie sits in one of the corner chesterfields, his Cuban cigar threatening to trip the fire alarms: silent, brooding, disregarding the increasing discomfort of his asthmatic brother James, who, in an adjacent armchair, is sucking deeply from his medical turbuhaler!

Dad’s wheelchair is positioned at the unlit fireplace; his legal honcho, now seated beside him. Dad’s stony-faced expression says everything about the meeting’s anticipated, predetermined outcome. He has donned his favourite Perry Mason’s Ironside costume – pompous, oratorical, egotistical: a ‘my way or the highway’ persona to both his family and his business dealings.  God how I hate these gatherings.

But I determine this time will be different. She was closest to me, she used to cower from his morning rants, it was me who accompanied her on the morning walks. How we loved the tranquillity of the ramble, the open fields, the wildlife darting off, the creek at the bottom of the hill, the birdsong. Always such a restorative escapade that we both thoroughly enjoyed. And when she started to lose her mobility, it was me that was at her side.

“Would you put that infernal cigar out. And Elizabeth, for God’s sake, stop running around, sit down!” The meeting starts. “OK. I have decided that her cremation will be next Monday. No service, no fuss, just a simple family acknowledgement. Agreed?” Lachie and Elizabeth both automatically start to nod.  James focuses on his inhaler.

“No way. This is not the way she would have wanted things to be handled!” I felt my upper lip start to quiver, my eyes are filling, but … “This is not how we are farewelling her,” I hiccup. The family just sits there, staring at me in disbelief. James sucks noisily and from the corner of my eye I can see Lachie fumble with his lighter. I think Elizabeth is actually nodding her head slightly. Dad is turning puce, his blood pressure rising dramatically.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he bellows.

“Dad, this is not your decision. For once, just shut up and bloody listen.” I am shaking: not rage, but determination. My jaw is set, my eyes clear and I sniff, noisily. “We kids all loved her, and in our own various ways, drew enormous comfort from her companionship, her uncompromised love, her role as the actual matriarch of this household, ever since Mum died.”

“This is absurd. I’ve already …”

“Dad. No, not this time. We will make all the arrangements. I, for one, fancy her buried at the bottom of the garden, where she can chase the rabbits and birds forever.”

I can see Lachie and the others nodding agreement.

Was it a buttercup, or a dandelion? I remember childhood explanations about the import of holding a blossom under your chin – it meant that ‘love was close at hand’, but which bloody flower was it? I could use a bit of loving right now, but another bit of residual memory dictated that disaster would befall if you held the wrong flower.

That same youthful oracle had also whispered knowledge of money for lost teeth, behaviour affecting the size and value of Christmas presents, the necessity to avoid pavement cracks and ladders, immediate mopping of spilt milk and salt, avoiding black cats, and a hundred other necessary curbs on my behaviour. In the intervening years, I reckon I had probably transgressed all of them, at one time or another. And look at the mess I was in now!

I left last month: a suitcase, the dog, one of the cars, and a shouted promise thrown over my shoulder to use the courts to pursue half the house and our super! It took a while to arrange but I eventually found a solicitor. There was a flicker of recognition as I walked into his office. He had been at our nuptials. He reminded me of the heavy rain on that auspicious Day!

On our honeymoon, I remember asking Tabitha if she had any superstitious thoughts about the torrential downpour. She scoffed at my question; “… just old wives’ tales…”. I did note her grandmother’s garter, hitched high on her thigh, and a delicately woven, silk horseshoe nestled within her bouquet. You should have seen the hullabaloo from her mother when, during his speech, her brother Duncan knocked over a tumbler of water, which in turn shattered the salt shaker! Nah, definitely no superstitions in her family!

Maybe it was the deluge that doomed the marriage. Tell-tale foreboding continued to trail inextricably through our lives. We found a wonderful block of land: commanding views, affordable, but the sale was abandoned when she realised it sat at number 13. And then, when another block was found and the build set to start, she insisted that we bury a bag of coins and a pot of fresh urine under the foundations. That had me flummoxed.

Feng Shei inveigled everything: mirrors, pictures, plants and furnishings were placed specifically. Our children’s names were selected on the advice of a Baby Name consultant; holidays never included a Friday 13^th; we always fed the magpies, and carefully escorted Daddy Longlegs spiders outside.

As the years passed, I found it easier just to ‘go with the flow’. The bizarre possibility, maybe even the probable, preordained potential apocalypse was perceived as a presence, awaiting an ill-considered trigger. Her obsessions dominated our lives.

The final straw came when I walked into the kitchen to find a cauldron on the stove, a diabolical stench filling the room as she stirred up a brew of frog and lizard bits, a possum’s tail and fresh oak leaves. I didn’t ask. I just packed a bag.

I’ve just about had enough of their self-serving, belittling attitudes. Things just don’t change.

I remember the cute, beret-wearing, goateed guitarist at the festival. His guitar work was spellbinding and I intentionally positioned myself to loiter within his orbit. A couple of my friends knew him from elsewhere and raised eyebrows when I whispered my intentions. I ignored their advice, and before I knew it, I was in his bed. He grew his own weed, and ‘tabs’ were often included in the party mix. Fun times, for a while, but I found him in bed with my girlfriend.

I took stock and tried to be more circumspect in selecting future partners. But the next special ‘other’ arrived at an end-of-year party. I had seen him in the corridors, and once or twice we rode the elevator together. Boozy parties were still my weakness; I fell into his clutches that December. His flowers arrived weekly, we ate out regularly at fancy restaurants and he was forever bringing me expensive clothes, perfume and jewellery. Tres-romantique but the cops arrived one night, and he went down for a string of home invasions.

Then there was the gym instructor. Muscle upon muscle and skimpy shorts suggestive of stimulating adventure. We moved in together and he organised and supervised my fitness program. His dietary demands were testing: I learnt to hate almond milk, lentil soups, and leafy green salads, but he did manage to wean me off ciggies. The booze and red meat were my undoing. He found the receipt for The Steakhouse luncheon in my purse. How dare he! We fought – him about my meat break-out; me about his bloody intrusion.

Other men tumbled in and out of my life but then, I turned 30! The biological clock gave a flicker, anxiety arrived at about the same time as Bruce. We were both post-grad students at Melbourne, me completing a post-graduate Sociology degree, him a Masters in Residual Rangeland protection. We clicked, sharing books, fine dining, bushwalking and camping.

We married, had two wonderful kids, serviced a huge mortgage and developed our individual careers satisfactorily.  There were occasional flareups, but always patchable. But snide barbs started to be thrown. They were bitchy, targeting my studies, insinuating that I put them ahead of the kids, a preference for reading over shared intimacies, and coldness. I responded with a query about his incessant overnight work trips.

I took it for a while, assuming that his dandelions and weeds, or whatever it was he studied, were out of kilter, but his constant niggling was wearing thin. A close friend suggested I watch my rear-guard. I did and his affair came to light. He announced an intention to leave. I had his clothes, library, seed collection and camping gear on the nature strip by day’s end.

Is it me; my chemistry, or something else? I ponder life’s dealt hand. I reframe it and decide that, well, I mean, … oh men, they just work very differently than me!

I’m not going to let this develop into a row, but … I mean, we’ve taken the long drive down to her place every year since the kids were little. I know Margaret’s getting on, but she talks incessantly and blathers about the doings of her neighbours and distant relatives: I’ve never met most of them! And the bloody football. Who cares if her team won or lost last season? No; not this year. This is going to be our beachside Christmas!

I need pre-emptive strategies. Should I book a beachside Airbnb now, claiming I forgot about Margaret’s Christmas expectations? Would that wash? Probably not, given the previous twelve-year protocols.

The kids need to be onside? They have each privately complained to me about Nanna, her hugs and kisses, her overpowering lavender whiff, her predictable menus, the repetitive quips, and the tiny, boring backyard!

Yes: this’ll work. I will introduce some innocent, after-school kitchen chatter about the upcoming Christmas holidays, I’ll remind everyone of the fun during previous visits to Nanna’s! I’ll need a segway at the dinner table to get the discussion going. I’ll give it a whirl over the next few days!

I need to introduce alternative Christmas ideas. I am pretty sure Betsy’s Mum says that they book a beachside cabin every year. And Damian’s Mum talks about the surfing lessons he took last summer.

Righto. I don’t want to ‘overcook the pudding’ but I reckon these inputs will deliver the beachside. Maybe I can suggest Charlie and I drive down to see Margaret the weekend after next. I can arrange sleepovers for the kids. Yep, and it’ll give Charlie and me a break.

Next Friday night, over dinner, the chatter starts with the declaration “Mum is suggesting we don’t go to Nanna’s for…”. The icy, silent treatment dampens the weekend mood.

Things well and truly go ‘south’ when Charlie gets a call from his sister suggesting Mum is starting to display signs of dementia. The prospect of moving out of the family home is the end of independent living. Charlie and his sister talk for an hour or so. Our impending visit is locked in, and timely!

We find her in good spirits. She tells us about the neighbour’s ginger cat, caught in the drain; and her constipation! We help her with the crossword and enjoy chicken salad sandwiches. I notice occasional conversational lapses, the right word proving elusive, but this is hardly dementia. We all do it, from time to time!

About a week after our trip, we’re in the snug, whiskeys in hand. The kids are in the lounge watching TV. Charlie says “Ya know, I reckon that idea the kids were talking about, the beach Christmas, is a great idea. Why don’t I book us a cottage, maybe at Port Arlington, Barwon Heads or somewhere?”

“But what about your Mum? She’ll be expecting us for Christmas.”

“I reckon Sis can bring her down for a couple of days.”

I’m innocent, Your Honour!

Summer heat, the bedroom air conditioning system is going flat out against the Bureau’s advice that it is unlikely to drop below 25 degrees overnight. At 8 pm it’s still 35. The north wind is bringing Central Australia to town. Even the vegetable patch is withdrawn, wilting to preserve some hydration.

Our breeding program is also under severe threat, with sprinklers constantly misting their enclosures, but I fear the girls might abandon their egg production. That would put us back nearly six months! We have Pet Shop contracts that are due to be delivered in the next couple of months.

We are stretched after three days of constant, howling winds. Broken sleep, even with the AC; dry, croaky throats, dust everywhere, and the air – crackly, almost electric. Tempers are short. I can’t remember a wind like this. Julie sits inside, nursing a bottomless glass of Chardonnay.

Was this climate change? No doubt industry and the pollies would be prevaricating; splitting hairs on the explanation first espoused by that ‘unflushable’ man the populace elected back in the 90’s. “This is just a passing faze! Nothing to do with human intervention.”

I’ve been running around like a headless chook. The water in the breeding ponds must be held below 30, proving to be the issue. The wind’s evaporative greed means the misters are on constantly, but are no match for these conditions.

Why hadn’t we enclosed the shed properly, and installed the air conditioner we’d discussed last year? I argued for the installation but Julie got her way and the bedroom now has a reverse cycle split system.

Things are going pear-shaped, rapidly unless; unless … to be honest, I was running out of ideas! The girls were starting to voice their discomfort, and the blokes were certainly not holding back: their ruckus filling the shed, a deafening crescendo long into the evening. But their calls are changing, the pitch more constrained, choked, a distressed growl.

I voice my fears with Julie over dinner and am quite surprised at her lack of empathetic concern. “You give them more attention than you do me”, she bitterly throws across the table. “Come on”, I counter, “surely you don’t mean that.” “I certainly do. I am starting to wonder why on earth I moved in!”

We had been together for almost two years, since that chance meeting at the Show. I thought she was as keen as me, but as I reflect back on the intervening months, I realise her program engagement has only ever been begrudging. She increasingly retreats into that damned green bottle!

The shed is dangerously overheating. I surmise most of the stock won’t survive another night of this! I need to cut my losses.

I collect my best breeders into a small, portable container and retreat into the air-conditioned bedroom.

Julie packs her bags, throwing the keys on the table before slamming the front door.

My Pobblebonk frogs and I breathe a little easier!

Morning sunshine is sneaking onto the front verandah, erasing memories of recent cold, gloomy days. As is my want at such a time, I’m outside, wrapped warmly and seated, expectant, waiting for the daily Magpie Chorus to start.

On queue, they arrive. There’s a bit of jostling; four, five, now six members executing some preliminary circle work, then undercarriages deploy, dropping down onto the power pole’s crossbar. Immediate carolling acknowledges successful perches!

As a youngster, my Gran tells me that six magpies herald ‘…gold in the offing …’ In this instance, it’s maybe the gold-trimmed, fluffy clouds disappearing into the west.

One bird lifts off, there’s a tiff, a squabble that has necks taut, all straining upwards into the day’s soft light, raucous chortles, a competition to outdo each other. A moment’s quiet, and then they are aflight, swooping, skylarking. I go and make another coffee. These performances set the tone for my day!

With a long black, stiffened with a nip of whiskey, I breathily whistle along as Classic FM play Purcell’s Trumpet Voluntaire. I resume my seat and sip, reflectively.

The kids will be here shortly. I have promised to take them across to the playground later. It’s also LSD (Lolly-Shop Day). I’ll need to load their wallets, each with a gold coin. Where can I scrounge coins?

I take another slurp and continue to ponder what, if any further gold the maggies might be offering. I make a mental note to include a new can opener on the shopping list: the old one finally gave up the ghost last night, trying to open the tinned dolmades. The sunshine suggests it’s probably also a good laundry day, and the quince tree’s perfume is filling the front yard – a reminder that their poaching is nigh!

The radio announcer mentions a comet viewing tonight. Will the kids be interested? I still have that old telescope somewhere. I’ll need to do some planning as a clear westward horizon is essential, in position about an hour after sunset. Maybe a barbeque somewhere elevated? But not too late, as the children have school and daycare tomorrow.

I consider options. There’s that clearing in the pine forest atop Mt Parrwang*, the fireplace, a picnic table and minimal light-spill from westward settlement. Perfect!

I buy sausages, rolls, tomato sauce, ice cream, and the can opener. We’re on-site by five, the snags cooked and eaten well before sunset. We settle in. I have the telescope set up but Thomas suddenly lets out a cry of dismay. His front tooth has fallen out. It’s on the ground somewhere. All focus is on the potential loss and implications for a Tooth Fairy’s visitation!

We are on hands and knees, minutely searching the grass. Thomas simpers. A magpie chortles a tenor melody while from somewhere distant, kookaburras provide baritone harmonies. I see an enamel glint, the tooth is wrapped in tissue and pocketed safely, the Fairy’s visit secured!

Indisputable priorities, between fairies and comets, are made. We head home.

*- Djadja Warrung word for Magpie

I had half an eye on the catastrophe unfolding in the Grampians, terrifying images flash across the screen. Rampant flames swallow grasslands, trees and houses, insistent red and blue emergency lights wink furiously. Yellow Hi-Viz bedecked men and women hold hoses, hopeful, but powerless against this de-bottled genie.

The Bureau predict the maelstrom; dry summer bush, high temperatures, cyclonic wind speeds and probable lightning. A perfect coalition. It arrives. I reflect on my recent fishing trip to the Grampians’ Lake Bellfield.

My mind refocuses back on the crossword. “Oh, of course,” I exclaim, waking old Barak, snoozing below the table. He stands, barks uncertainly and drops a malodorous fart. ‘Significant Australian summer event.’ 8 letters ‘Bushfire’, why didn’t I think of it before? It’s going to fit with both 7 and 12 down, too. I use the puzzle to blot out the TV and its coverage of the conflagration.

Janet and I have agreed sunset is our deadline; forty-five minutes left and I note that she is going gangbusters. Her pen slashes across the page in furious endeavour.

Concentrate. 3 down ‘Traditional evil expulsion’ – 6 letters. Jesus. Oops, No I don’t mean him – only five letters anyway! Traditions. Could it be an Indigenous evil? Kaditja? Nah, that doesn’t fit. Ummm, I’ll come back to it.

OK, 8 across. 6 letters ‘A bad omen, Caesar.’ Janet wanders into the kitchen. I hear the jug being filled. “Do you want a cuppa?” How can she afford the break – only 35 minutes left? “Yep, thanks.”

“How are you doing? What about that bloody clue for 3 down!” I stretch things a bit and I hunker down further on the couch. I cross my fingers and legs, moving the newspaper closer to my chest, away from potentially prying eyes. “Yer, how sneaky is that!”

I can feel beads of sweat on my upper lip. Time is of the essence. I realise I shouldn’t cross my legs: or is it my fingers? Which one brings bad luck? One of them is lucky, and provides immunity when telling a porky. I can’t remember, but anyway, it’s just an old wives’ tale. Maintain focus!

The ‘Traditional evil expulsion’ remains unresolved. My phone sits beside me on the couch. Nah that’d be cheating.

Am I spelling ‘expulsion’ correctly? I take a peek at Danword’s crossword solutions. ‘Evil expulsion’, a sneeze is traditionally thought to be evil leaving the body. Sneeze. That’s a bloody stretch. That’s worth a letter to the editor. I insert it.

8 across. ‘Nighttime cosmology.’ I have blank, blank, T, blank, blank, R. Is this another Aboriginal spiritual reference? The night skies were certainly always on their agenda. Comet, Star, hang on, of course, Meteor.

I am almost there – 3 minutes left on the clock! Will Janet guess I cheated?

Her pen slams down onto the kitchen table. Wack. “I’m done” she yells, a look of absolute glee writ across her dial. Barak is rudely awake again, stands and another deadly fart fills the room!

They had shared the corridors for years. Ashley’s room looked out over the park, while Taylor’s caught quite a lot of morning sunshine. They shared many interests, even shared the shaggy dog that locally ate, wagged, and shat. During the recent Covid, they had taken to walking the pooch on the trail that circled the nearby park. It got them all out of the building for their Stage Four-regulation exercise!

They shared a newspaper, although each was careful of the need to unfold, de-crease and reassemble it back to page one. The crossword and sudoku were photocopied, each competing for speed, neatness and accuracy! The quizmaster’s role was turnabout and followed their shared evening meals, prepared in the kitchen, again on rota, and eaten in the dining room.

They shared a laundry, but agreed that the extra water, electricity and powder was a small price to pay for the separate attention to their own ‘smalls’!

There were occasional arguments, and disputes about the legitimacy of including ‘cine’ or ‘info’ in the Target, as neither could remember the outcome of the last time they sort referral from the bloody Macquarie! Routine had become the taskmaster, and it seemed to reduce the need for decisions!

The garden sometimes saw heated debate about whose turn it was to mow the grass. In recent months it was becoming noticeable that the chores were slipping. They were also seeing and smelling a cat, evidently taking a liking to the porch, and shitting in one of the corners! Chilli-flakes were now liberally sprinkled, and Ashley was suggesting a cat trap, to relocate the bugger!

But it wasn’t all a bunch of roses! Taylor sought quiet time to read. There was an established beachhead in a big comfy chair, positioned to catch the morning light. Questions wafting up the passage about options for an evening meal were ignored! Similarly, Taylor’s suggestion, from the Netflix’s menu, rarely achieved agreement.

On their weekly visits, the kids were noticing the disquiet, the increased distance along the passage between the rooms, the neighbourly formality that had replaced their once intimate playfulness.

The Lockdown was shifting the relationship. Throughout the autumn, and the dank winter months, the couple were housebound. Yep, sure there were the park walks with the pooch, even the weekly, masked drive to Aldi, IGA and the new-found Asian Grocer but further afield was off-limits. Friends were no longer able to pop in for a cuppa and a chat. But it belatedly dawned on them that they weren’t particularly concerned.

There was a new rhythm, rejigged routines, a lighter pace. Taylor bought an e-reader and within a week of its homecoming, Ashley followed suit and the pair agreed to download the same books. It morphed into a petit book club.

Separate, photocopied Quick crossword, Sudoku and Target remained as the underpinning of their mid-morning mental manipulations, the inability to easily venture out had brought the Cryptic also into play. The ludicrous clues sometimes brought forward an argument, but increasing bouts of laughter, occasionally lewd interpretations and guffaws! A loudly exclaimed “What on earth does … ‘an indication of emotion from an unknown number before first session amid returning noise (10)’… mean?” brought the pooch looping in from the kitchen, concern and angst writ large on its face!

The household was softening, but while snoring and doona-snaffling kept two bedrooms occupied, there was now a lot more kitchen togetherness. They had started to collect The Age’s Adam Lieu and Kylie Kwong’s Home Made supplements, and their shopping lists began to include coriander, limes, vegetable and sesame oils, oyster sauce and a couple of styles of soy. Fresh bunches of basil, baby Dutch carrots, fresh ginger, Singapore and Udon noodles were in the basket, and while Ashley chopped, Taylor worked the wok! The kitchen felt laughter again!

The television still didn’t inspire, apart from an hour on a Wednesday evening, quizzing with Tom and manically giggling with Micallef and his team. A friend had paid for a Netflix subscription and had explained how to use I-view, but within 24 hours, neither Taylor nor Ashley could remember the operating instructions. A good Roquefort, water crackers and a delightful, albeit pricey Taylor’s Chardonnay made Wednesdays a weekly celebration of contentment.

Sunshine and warmth were returning with the spring, and there were shared weeding hours. Marigolds were sewn around the roses and fruit trees, ostensibly to attract lacewings, to munch the aphids! Ashley finally went for a medical test, resulting in the fitting of a hearing aid. There was an admission that much dialogue, music, birdsong and the background hum of their suburban existence had remarkedly, returned!

There was a large glass, half full of water supporting a bunch of tangerine, lemon and plum-coloured, stemmed roses, freshly picked from the garden.

Covid, despite all its ills, had brought a new rapprochement!

The sticky mess flies high, arcing towards the huge gum tree growing off the back deck. ‘Thank goodness that’s gone’, I muse, as I march back inside to resume loud protestations against the efforts of the would-be cook.

Twelve eggs, 100 grams of Beluga caviar, a goodly measure of thinly sliced prosciutto, plain flour and a cup of French fizz – ‘to give it a lift’, he says, is wasted. It is one of the most expensive omelette disasters ever attempted; now gone to the heavens. I am ropeable.

The caviar is a treat, bought with some budgetary trepidation at the Prahran Market yesterday. It, and the bottle of Moet, are to be the centrepiece of our celebratory family gathering, following the children’s return last week, from their Balkan adventures.

The weather is absolutely perfect: one of those days that you want to bottle – late teens, heading for the mid-twenties, cloudless, a gentle zephyr tinkling the wind chimes, low humidity. The kids are arriving mid-morning, and I am downstairs washing the windows. It is nearly two years since we’ve been together as a family unit – I am humming a tuneless piece, reflecting my growing anticipation.

And then the bloody omelette! How could he? We now sit down to eggs, grilled tomatoes and some rancid bacon I find at the back of the fridge.

Excited, bubbly chatter largely overshadows my funk. A new apron, a souvenir from Dubrovnik, a small imitation bouzouki and a bottle of Grappa. Stories tumble over each other: missed trains; beach parties; new friends; drunken escapades; ancient cities, and Adriatic cruising.

The scratch brunch drifts towards a sleepy afternoon, me snoring on the couch, the kids retiring to the bedroom. John stacks the dishwasher, snivelling as he revisits the morning’s disaster.

With the kids out at the cinema, we have the evening to ourselves and the argument recommences. “Half the weekly shopping budget blown!” “What were you thinking?” Recriminations explode like hand grenades.

It takes a couple of days for my indignation to settle, but detente is eventually achieved; white flags are waved and normal communication resumes. I know I can sometimes be a prig; but that bloody caviar!

It is a few weeks later, and I am mowing the lawns. I have forgotten about my food-disposal routine. Mid-morning carolling from our tribe of magpies, seven of them, has me looking up. Four metres from the ground, where the foliage is starting to thicken, a new nest is in evidence. Our tribe are out on adjacent limbs, possibly riding shotgun for the expanding family’s fortunes.

What is that white slickness poking out? It looks like a rubber mat and I get the ladder and climb to a nearby vantage. Not rubber, exactly, but rather our ex-omelette, neatly inter-spliced with the sticks and feathers. I had to laugh. I hope someone enjoyed that Beluga!

Back on the lawn, I continue to chuckle, realising philosophically, that one family’s disaster can morph, and provide a useful supplement to fill another’s needs.

I knew it was coming. 4.15, the after-school shift had arrived and were staffing the check-outs. As my frozen beans, yoghurt, fruit, vegetables and tins slid inexorably towards the scanner, it arrived: “Got much on for the rest of the day?” An hour earlier, the phlebotomist had asked me the same question, as she explored my arm for a puncture site. My mid-morning coffee payment had received a similar, trite enquiry.

Which moronic HR consultant has come up with this inanity? Proffered with such insincerity, while activating a social norm that dictates a rejoinder, knowing our response will fall, ignored, on closed ears and minds already miles away! Why were we being exposed to this nonsense? At every second turn!

I, and innumerable friends have considered these questions, tossed around possible responses, agreeing to a discomfort suffered as we are drawn to make a polite response, like a moth to a flame, against an awareness that even as we open our mouths, the rejoinder will bounce against already redirected focus.

“Well actually, I am heading home to explore pent-up sexual peccadillos” was one suggestion. Another “I am considering ways of slaughtering the next person who enquires about my day’s activities!” “That is private and you should mind your own bloody business!” One wit suggested, “Well actually, I have a large, dead sheep on the front lawn that I have been meaning to cut up and put in the chiller.”

Proffered civility or an actual explanation of planned activities both left me feeling duped, and drawn into a meaningless void. I wanted to approach management, requesting they stop insisting the staff pose such a socially inappropriate, meaningless exchange.

I thought more about my response. At the point of payment, I don’t need the insertion of a “social” interlocutor. I am paying for a service received. A “Thank you” or if a name badge identifies the staff, “Thank you Kaitlyn” should be an adequate verbal recognition of the transaction, a satisfactory lubricant to achieve egress.

If I knew how, I would propose that a tweet-handle be established “@GotMuchOn…” and organise a marketing campaign to get it circulating: the Donald might be able to provide guidance, here!   Tee shirts and caps could be struck, owners encouraged to wear them when progressing through supermarket check-outs. In the fullness of time, there’s the possibility that a political movement could be crowd-funded. The GMO Party, fielding candidates in local, state, and possibly even federal elections on the policies of tighter gun control, climate change action, effective universal healthcare, and a reduction in the use of inane, gormless language and time wastage.

If you have a moment, and a credit card, “… all you’ve gotta do to join is to…” purchase a T-shirt, make a commitment to wearing it, offer a small donation to the cause, and provide an indication of an ability to volunteer your time and energy at the next local council election, if the decision is taken to formalise the GMOP. “Got much else on?”

It was a year since we had entered into our first mortgage. It followed finding and falling in love with the old farmhouse, its hundred hectares of grazing land, and four dozen cattle.

In preparation for a new family member’s arrival, it was time to tackle the shed, to explore where the sun never shone, its dark, dusty corners, and its pile of old boxes and crates. We also needed space to transfer some of our own superfluous junk.

The Agent had explained that the pensioners had died at the property, the coroner eventually determining it had been a murder/suicide. Adult children had come and cleared away furnishings and personal effects, while the neighbours agreed to mind the livestock until new owners were installed.

Over the years, the spiders, dust and grime had created a webbed blanket over that corner of the shed where the old boxes were stacked. It was over a year since we arrived but a rip in the web suggested somebody’s interference. I dragged a couple of heavy trunks onto the floor.

The first had old account books, receipts, tax returns, and business papers to do with the farm, dating back over the past half-century. Similar business papers covered the top of the second chest, but scuff marks across the dusty top layer suggested that the papers had been handled not too long ago.

I rummaged deeper. ‘Julius Marlowe – your shoes of distinction’, read the box. It was spotless and tied with red and green Christmas ribbons; totally out of sync with the rest of the stuff in the trunk. I lifted the surprisingly heavy box out of the crate, walking back towards the kitchen for a sharp knife.

There was some excitement as I lifted the cardboard lid but disappointment followed, as I saw more old papers. Julie waddled into the kitchen and came over to the table. “What have you discovered?” as she peered over my shoulder at the papers.

Storytellers often talk about ‘eye-popping’ astonishment. That’s what happened as the veneer of paperwork came away revealing neatly bundled stacks of $20 notes – hundreds of them! “What the …, My God, there must be tens of thousands of dollars here!” Questions flew between us. “Who put them there? How did they get there? Whom do they belong to?” “Is it finders, keepers?” “What do we do?” “Should we notify the cops?”

Strong black tea for me, while Julie had a cup of hot water. I mentioned the recent disturbance in the shed, and we decided to put the box back where we found it. I replaced the trunks onto the stack in the corner. I even carefully swept up a little dust and threw it over the crates.

We waited. Alice was born four weeks later. Neither of us forgot about the box but new responsibilities pushed the treasure a little further from our routine consciousness.

A year passed. Julie, Alice and I revisited the trunk. The shoebox had gone!

I stopped smoking last Sunday night, October 8^th, 2006 a couple of weeks short of my 57^th birthday! I had fallen off the twig last June, eagerly anticipating company at ATE, a little tobacco-laced joint was all that it took to get those warm, fuzzy tobacco thoughts pumping again. So four months on and it is time to get my defences back on track, to arm myself with new resolve, new armour and a knowledge that this is IT!

I carefully husbanded the dregs of the tobacco pouch through until I was able to role only a very small zephyr late on Sunday night. “That was it”, I acknowledged at the kitchen sink as I choked down a large glass of water. Water was the trick – a large glass every time I felt the urge for a smoke. I mentally started to tick off the list of smoking associates to be avoided, the likely triggers I would be encountering over the next few weeks. I reviewed my past errors, the tragic lapses and made notes.

Monday morning arrived and I got out of bed with the anticipatory thoughts of what was next. I wandered into the kitchen and instantly came up short with the memory of resolve. Water – some green cordial made it the easier to swallow.

Day One had commenced. No smoking bans and a workstation 10 floors above the pavement were advantages. I found myself mentally gearing up for a smoke all too often. I was into the water in a big way and combined with a dodgy prostate saw me wearing the already threadbare carpet between the office and the dunny down to its underlay.

An interesting revelation occurred around lunchtime on Day Two. While my body was awash with umpteen litres of water, I became aware of the process of addiction. I stood outside of me and made notes, quite objectively and with a delicious sense of triumph – I’ve got your measure – you bastard!

In moments of total absorption, I became aware of a feeling, a thought, a misty cloud wanting to envelope me in anticipatory warmth, offering goodness, even nirvana. The ‘cloud’ entered my psyche, growing and developing – this wonderful sense of happiness just beyond my here and now. It grew with extraordinary intensity. I was finding myself preparing for pursuit, standing at my desk, tapping my breast pocket for reassurance of pouch and lighter’s presence.

As my non-smoking confidence grew, I found myself able to objectively identify these approaching ‘warm and fuzzies’, and to bolster my defences. “Hey – I know who and what you are! Piss off, get away, I am a non-smoker.”

At Day Five, I am drinking less water. I am arriving at ‘warm and fuzzy’s-door less often and can now even smile, confident in the knowledge that I am able to simply sidestep the message effectively. I am still wary of other smokers and while today I am travelling with a casual smoker, have rung ahead and asked that she doesn’t bring ANY tobacco with her.

I move on, one day at a time but know that as a non-smoker, I will not ever smoke tobacco again.

Post script. It is 13^th April, 2010 – I have had two cigarettes in the intervening period. I still have a craving – however brief and note that I still inhale deeply as nearby smokers exhale. The difference now is that I am NOT a smoker. I have the craving but my armour thickens as the year’s roll on. I am a pain in the arse to smokers – if it keeps me straight, I don’t care.

The radio never worked after alone, one Sunday, I took it apart. I reassembled it, before they returned, but the crackle got worse. “Good evening, this is the ABC News. Darwin has been hit by …”. Dad banged it, giggling and threatening dire retribution, and got “… evacuation will be continuing …” He continued to bang it with his fist. We got a new, flash HMV combo radio/record player.

I honed my skills, even built my own generator. I was hooked and at Uni, a Telecom scholarship came my way. The three years I spent refining the development of a new remote, microwave telephone system improved telecommunications between Adelaide and Darwin dramatically, and I went on to gain cyber security clearance at the Australian Signals Directorate. Still can’t say too much about that period, suffice to say, I saw and learnt a lot of ‘spooky’ stuff.  Asia became my ‘beat’, loving its foods, pace, and peoples, learning Indonesian; Timor often on my itinerary.

Spicy, hot food, my cheeks glistening, a Bintang used to bring things back under control. It took me a few years, stolen moments, but I eventually graduated from Ma Jong’s wok-cookery school. It was the rainy season and we were preparing Singgang Bebek Bali – grilled duck. Ma dipped, then licked her long, spidery finger into my marinade. A considered moment: “Mmm, maybe add a splash of vodka” was her assessment of my dark soy, seaweed mix. “It’ll lift the duck dramatically.”

But that crispy creation needed a palate-cleanser. I experimented. Balinese, pistachio ‘gelatissimo’, drizzled with melted chocolate, topped with a generous splash of Appleton’s White Rum, left everyone – ah, well, let’s say – contemplative!

I married Ni Luh. Her father’s military career dictated they moved often, mostly within Indonesia, but there had been overseas placements. We met over cocktails, in KL at an Armaments Expo. We found a shared geekiness: telemetry.

We never discussed assignments or absences. “Mum’s home tomorrow…” often as good as it got. Three wonderful children. We had a strictly demarcated life. Ni Luh worked in a shady section of NATO; me, still with the Directorate. We made it work!

But, my God, we came together in the kitchen! It was our shared rendezvous – forgotten, the secretive, tiny, creaking hinges as chilli crabs, barramundi, with tamarind chestnut stuffing, or a myriad other sensationally spicy, sizzling offerings were plated and served. Oh, how we loved those times!

We retired to a beachside house in Dili. She choked on a fish bone. My world fell apart. I haven’t cooked since.

I welcomed the dark muffled curtain of senility, lifting only as we secretly re-enter the kitchen, awakening joie de vivre, sunlight, warmth, love, and laughter.

I stuffed it down the front of my shorts and walked out. My fallback, if challenged, was that I was excited! Money was tight, we were hungry and the cheese wedge fitted quickly and easily into my jocks! The girls were less enthusiastic about the Blue as I extracted it. Ashley was in a funk until Florence pointed out that it was still in its wrapper!

Florence unloaded two small avocadoes from her bra. Ash had scored tobacco, papers and two rolls of dunny paper. On the way to the beach, I went into a bakery and bought a sliced loaf. We were set for a feast tonight!

But that night, I lay on the sand thinking about my larceny. Was this to be my lot? A lifetime of crime, a gorgonzola tonight, chops and pasta a few nights earlier, petty heists from suburban supermarkets, as the opportunities presented? There was a family anecdote featuring a distant pheasant-stealing relative, transported to Sydney Cove. I had also heard tell that my grandpa had done time in a reformatory, as a young bloke. Was this nature, or nurture – a predisposition, a genetic imprint?

We still had three days to eke out an existence before Centrelink kicked in again. Squashed avo and cheese sandwiches were not going to cut the mustard! Two nights ago, the cops had moved us on. We knew it would happen again.

Just four months since our landlord had perfunctorily upped the rent, we were on the street within weeks, sharing the luxury of my station wagon, an awning, a gas cooker, pans, cutlery, a water can, an esky and a spade. Welcome to our world!

Ash lost her shifts at Maccas – they said she smelled. Flo and I had both been laid off while we still had the flat.

We got to know which beach toilet facilities included showers, their opening and closing times. We sensed the daytime odium from other beachgoers – but they would piss off, as the weather cooled.

I was realising that I didn’t mind the stealing. The system had screwed us, we were taking a little in return. We each got to know our capacities, adapting circumstances to suit our needs. I got large-pocketed shorts from St Vinnies: 350gram tins fitted seamlessly, noodles in my shirt front, I repeated the cheese secretion regularly.

Florence found a hundred buck note in the street. We were almost in ecstasy with a splurge on a few beers and a cold bottle of cheap bubbles. A bloke outside the pub gave us half a deal of weed with the change, and we spent the evening plotting to overthrow the system.

Covid arrived and our status shifted down a gear. Late autumn rains added an extra layer of shit. It got worse with both Ash and Flo getting the bloody Omicron. I got them to the hospital but both were put on ventilators, a high price for the roof over their heads.

The beachside existence got lonely without them!

What is it about domestic appliances that is so complicated? I have provided the necessary operating instructions countless times – explained patiently about not needing to unwrap the dishwashing tablets and of having the confidence to just place the used, dirty dishes straight in – no need to rinse, just in they go. A non-too-subtle response is just to continue the sink washing – it has been five years since the dishwasher was installed!

I have even explained that we can use our solar energy to run the bloody thing, so long as we turn it on during daylight, and NOT straight after dinner.

There is an ugly spot at the back of the fridge. That large plastic container, sealed yes but “… don’t open it! That was the remains of the chicken casserole from ten days ago – no – that is not a fancy flower arrangement – that is mould.”

My favourite omelette pan, seasoned, burnished, and oiled lovingly over the years, found gleaming, back to the bare steel, in the cupboard! Jees, that really pissed me off!

When did a washing machine effectively clean clothes when it was loaded to the gills, then, for good measure, or as an afterthought, a sheet is added. The 28-minute fast-cycle is chosen, two measures of powder added, (“… it works better”!), the ‘go’ button pressed and the washing left to mature for 48 hours. Still in the laundry, who would put their grubby overalls in with the delicates?

Why is the new Dyson Stick vacuum not the go-to tool to remove the spider, and its’ webbing off the ceiling! “Why?” “I’m not going to grace that with a response.”

“Yep – the sheets might look fresh, but they have been on the bed for several weeks, every night assaulted with your methane, grubby feet, hair goo and other bodily excretions. Humour me and help change the bed – pillow slips as well, please.”

“Do you want me to go on? I can!”

“The dog hair in the carpets has reached epidemic proportions, both the kid’s eyes are streaming and with the choice of two vacuums – stick and barrel, why has neither been used.” I am reminded that I have a Rostered Day Off next week!

“And I draw the line with the dog poo. I will not pick it up! Yep, I know you designated a corner spot in the garden, but Roger just hasn’t picked up on that, preferring the grass under the clothesline. And the semi-dissolved lumps are a disgusting eyesore, a play and health hazard, not to mention an embarrassment.”

“Toilets – are this is where the gender divide really comes into its own! Nothing to do with seat-lifting – rather the failure to clean it properly. Both have habits that necessitate a check under the seat lip – stale urine competes with ‘other’ residues – do we need a notice sellotaped to the bathroom wall?”

“You say that I put your bras in with the general washing. I admit I did that on a few early washes but I never do it anymore! I’ve learnt!

The phhft of the Blue Pyrenees bubbles steadies the acrimony, there is a hesitation, a reflective moment, shoulders relax, bums sink into the couch, two glasses chinked, the kids are tucked up, asleep. Friday evening has arrived. It’s been a long week.

Matthias and Fran had moved in next door about four years ago, after migrating from Herve, in Belgium, to pursue Fran’s medical career.   They were a lovely couple, urbane, well-read, and sociable. Both couples enjoyed camping, bushwalking, cooking, wine, reading, and it wasn’t long before we had proposed a camping trip to the Grampians.

Most of the day had been spent walking around several ancient rock art sites. Exertions and sunshine had left us excitedly tired. More so the Europeans, who had never before encountered this ancient art. The flickering flames from the fire fractured a nosey Merlot, swirling in our glasses.

We had dined, from a camp oven rendition of Boeuf de Anglaise, followed up with home stewed quinces with a macadamia ice cream. It was time for cheese and Matthias had been promising to introduce us to one of his family’s ancient runny cheese recipes.

He returned from the car fridge with a sealed container, inside, a wrapped, cellophane parcel. There were wafer-thin biscotti, and then … all hell broke loose. Aged, homemade Limburger! It fairly took your breath away, possibly damaging our nasal passages, and scarring the back of our throats!

Delicious, if taken with the nose pinched, but that night in our tent, the farts were malodorous! It was fortunate that it was a warm night, enabling all tent-sides to be rolled up.

Since that first exposure, Limburger fumes have been coming over the back fence regularly. We talked to Matthias about the issue. We suggested limiting cheese-making to weekend excursions out in remote bushland. He agreed to limit production. But we always knew when a new round was being ripened. The odour only intensified as the weeks went by – twelve weeks, and it meant that parts of the neighbourhood were evacuating!

We eventually approached the Council’s OH&S Officer. Emilia spoke with a distinctly Gaelic accent, but she investigated, eventually confirming that no By-Laws were being broken! She suggested we move, if we thought it was so offensive!

With some misgivings, the House Sale sign went up! We moved to hippiedom’s Nimbin Central.

With the current social distancing restrictions and the semi ‘lockdown’ at home, the last thing I expected was to be happy with my personal situation. I thought I would be climbing the wall, bored, anxious, possibly argumentative. But I am surprised at the ease with which I exist within this Covid bubble!

I have an extensive vegetable garden. My quinces need stewing, the cumquats to transform into marmalade. The strawberry guavas and feijoa will be ripening in the next few weeks.

I have unpacked, recharged and loaded my e-reader. There is the daily newspaper quiz, crossword and sudoku, and I have found the SBS Movie channel.

As a pensioner, I’m told that I am at risk, but think I am fortunate. My thoughts are with those who have lost family and friends, the hundreds of thousands, their livelihoods, have tenancy fragility and the future burden of a $230,000,000,000 mortgage to service!

I presented a beautifully crackled Pork Belly, with our homegrown broad beans, broccoli and freshly dug, roasted kipflers. There was also our apple sauce and, a spicy, plum sauce.

It had taken me years to predictably get the crackling to work. Stephanie advised fridge-drying the cut for eight hours, getting the oil and salt into the scored skin without penetrating the flesh, and then, on the rack, into an extremely hot oven for 30 minutes, reducing the heat for another 30 minutes, resting and serving!

I awoke with a start – Mon Dieu, had I killed the pig before roasting it!

I wake. A memory, lingering at the edge of consciousness, of sitting in the café, all of us loudly competing against the hubbub, sipping a deliciously large cappuccino. I can smell, maybe even taste the coffee, as I make my way into the kitchen.

Next thing I know, I’m lying on the floor: groggy, but conscious. I recall reaching over to flick the kettle on. I tripped over the bloody cat. My fractured memory recalls the screech of the cat, I resurfaced to the scream of the kettle. Damned cat! Why are we babysitting her?

I conduct a basic triage. There is blood on the cupboard and on the front of my pjs’. My fingers find a long cut on my forehead. My hip issues a significant bleat, my ribs also complain when I try to sit up. I remain, spread ingloriously across the kitchen floor. I think I may have pissed myself, too! The cat has disappeared: good job, ‘cos I have a mind to chop its bloody head off. Was that the doorbell?

Surprisingly, the kettle, and its electrical base are on the floor beside me. It has landed upright, still on its cradle. What are the odds of that, I wonder? Is that why I heard it screaming so loudly?

My hand confirms it has boiled recently. I idly flick the switch. Jees, it’s still connected. I’m lucky not to sustain third-degree burns, possible electrocution. The kettle starts to shriek again and I stretch over. It beats me, and turns itself off!

I am stuck here – well, that’s a bit dramatic. I just lie doggo for a while, gathering my senses.

My brain continues to wander. I note the greasy, baby-poo-coloured walls. We really should get a painter in. What would she charge, just to do the kitchen? Nah, you couldn’t do that – OK, maybe the lounge, as well. Alright, keep ya PJs on, we could do the whole bloody house!

I wouldn’t mind getting my book from the bedroom, only a few chapters to go. Those silly blue ducks, they forever chase the fly-specs on the retro tiles. I’m quite hungry, and I still haven’t had my morning coffee.

The cat slinks in, inspects my prostrate form, meows plaintively, suggesting that her milk is way behind schedule. My thoughts remain, just thoughts. Bloody animal!

The doorbell rings again. I yell, a shadow passes the kitchen window.