I’ve never had a car accident on the road. My record remains untarnished tonight… sort of. I did once drive through my boyfriend’s lounge-room glass doors, accidentally (naturally). Funnily enough, the incident which I am going to relate to you (in confidence, please!) involves the same old boyfriend, now just a dear old friend. I have to tell someone so I am choosing you – even if you don’t give me any useful advice, perhaps writing about it will help me to decide whether or not to come clean. Wouldn’t it be funny if this was the one night that Roland, my friend, can’t sleep and gets up in the middle of the night, and thinks, “I must read Sally’s blog!” Hope not. If I have to tell him it might be best to tell him face to face. Oh dear, I’m feeling very anxious about it again. And to think that only five hours ago I was having such a great time…

After going to Wynnum Plaza to recharge my sim card and buy felt circles to stick under the legs of the chairs in Bill’s dining room I found myself driving over to Gumdale, a few miles away, where I spent my childhood until the age of ten. Incidentally, as you might have gathered already, I was driving the lovely new car that Roland has lent me – the impresser! So I drove up Molle road and stopped outside of our old house – the one that Mum and Dad had built on our three and a half acres – and I got out and took some photographs. At the gate I stood for some minutes just looking at the house, trying to conjure up memories of what it was like inside; the driveway did not seem be as long as it used to be but I know that is always how it appears when you go back.

My reverie was interrupted by the sight of an elderly gentleman walking from the house in my direction. When he reached the half-way point I raised an arm in a wave and he smiled and waved back.

“Hello,” he said as he approached the other side of his gate.

“I came here years ago – we used to own your house…” I began.

“I know,” he smiled with satisfaction because he remembered our meeting over twelve years (nothing wrong with his marbles!).

Mr. Burroughs and I chatted away for thirty minutes or so; we talked about my family, his family (Mary went to school with his son who is a carpenter and earns more money than his architect father ever did), land drainage, snakes (there are still red-bellied black snakes in the bush at the rear), dirt roads, town water, dust, the creek… and just about everything that two people who owned the same property at different times could talk about. We shook hands several times, meaning to part, and then one or another of us would think of something else that was not only relevant but vital and the conversation continued with renewed interest. His daughter drove up and while her father wheeled open the massive gate I told her:

“I’m just chatting up your dad!”

“Good luck,” she said merrily.

She did not stop. Two minutes later I could see her, feeding a flock of pale yellow galahs down by the house (Mr. Burroughs told me there were sometimes as many as sixty of them).

At last I shook his hand more meaningfully and I left for real. I wanted to go to the very end of the road, past the American boat-building yard (where, as children, we used to collect the Coke bottles and get the deposit back at Crockford’s shop), to the creek where my dad used to take us fishing and crabbing.

Finally, I drove along Chelsea Road to the turn off for Parklands – my favourite fishing spot. There was just one other vehicle in the car park so I opted for parking on the empty side. The sky was overcast and evening was drawing near, and yet there was still beauty in the scene of the creek from the decked area where soft fisher-folk, like me, do their fishing in comfort with shaded seats and baiting tables with drains and running water. Feeling very happy and content, I wandered back to my car, and as I did so great numbers of fishermen arrived.

The car park was nearly full and a large ute, parked directly behind me on the opposite side, had left me little room to manoeuvre. Slowly I inched my (Roland’s) car back and turned the wheel. My window was down and I popped my head out to see…just as a jutting piece of wood snagged on my bumper, by the wheel-arch… Did you know that cars are made of plastic nowadays?

I was on my knees trying to push the bumper into position – it had dislodged on one side and was hanging down by two inches – when the police car pulled up beside me on the road.

“Can you help me please?” I asked. (Was that the wrong thing to ask a policeman?)

He got out of the police car and pulled up his belt as he stretched to his six-feet three. (Policemen always do that when I talk to them in their official capacity.) He wasn’t very skilled at pushing the bumper back into place, and neither was the lady policeman who, nevertheless, was extremely sympathetic and agreed that the jutting piece of wood was a great hazard and impossible to see – I was not at fault. The policeman made a joke about me drinking but we women ignored that one.

The kindly Australian police couple escorted me to the main road, just to make sure that the bumper didn’t fall off (which it didn’t) and I took it easy driving home to Bill’s.

The car looks great – really impressive – again. Bill is a marvel – my brother used to be a mechanic – but he says it really needs a new bit of plastic. He’s going to try to find one for me tomorrow. If he does, and he puts it on, then I do not need to tell my friend that anything untoward happened to our car; but if he can’t find the proper Subaru bit of plastic then I will have to tell him – won’t I? This is my little quandary….

There were some sausages left over from Australia Day, now beyond their sell-by date; there was a magpie who took note of my gesture from his vantage point in the poinciana tree – he made the call; and before long the lawn was like a scene from “The Birds”. My friend, the one who always comes close to talk to me, did so again and seemed not to mind too much when I bent down to take his photograph. I reckon he knows I admire his pluck (and his eyebrows).

Last evening there was an almighty crash outside and Bill ran out ahead of me to the back yard.

“It’s just a possum,” my brother said, pointing to the possum hiding in the roof of the carport, “he knocked over the basket on that shelf.”

“How cute,” I responded.

“Yes, but you don’t want them living in your house – they carry diseases,” he answered.

I remembered the possum that used to come most nights to our house at Gumdale when we were children; he used to sit on the meter-box under the window sill and wait for his bread and jam. Nobody worried about diseases in those days, all the same, I took Bill’s word for it; and of course, you wouldn’t want one actually living in your roof and clattering around – they are quite big animals.

Bill went back indoors to find the humane possum trap (if caught the possum might be sent on a trip to Gumdale, which is still a bit bushy even these days). My phone rang and I sat down on a garden chair to take the call (well, it was a chatty conversation). After a short while I noticed a golf ball come whizzing out from under my chair, between my feet on the concrete and up towards the grass – it went so fast that I thought it was a ping pong ball at first. Lily the chubby cat (three of us are feeding her at present) came bounding from somewhere behind me, caught up with the ball and sent it back and forth, up and down the concrete floor of the carport. All that extra food has given Lily lots of energy.

What a surprise when I went out to feed the chooks and the magpies this morning! I surveyed the scene beyond the back door and realised, with some satisfaction, that our Lily is an extremely clever cat for, quite obviously, she has developed her own form of the French game of Petanque (Boules) – see the photographs and judge for yourself. To think that if the possum had not knocked down the basket of balls from the shelf Lily would never have discovered her talent. Perhaps the possum and the cat played Boules together all night long? Lily is a tad lethargic, yet hungry, today. Or maybe I’m talking fanciful balderdash?

I had almost finished doing the washing-up when I began to feel quite emotional… It had nothing to do with the conversation with my brother over lunch, which was very pleasant and genial. The day had been good so far – plenty of exercise, my hormones were fine and nothing was bothering me; I was simply standing there with my hands in the sink when I noticed, through  the gaps in the bubbles, the pretty colours in the hand-knitted cotton dishcloth. It started pale blue at one end for two rows, then on to mauve, cerise and white, and finished with a pale pink – a single line of navy blue against the white made it edgy in an artistic way, like a dark line in an abstract painting by Mondrian. But the point is that I recognised the handiwork and I thought of the hands that had made it…

Those are the hands I have known all my life; the hands that held me first and nurtured me with love and kindness; they are the industrious, hard working, tireless, giving, soothing and loving hands of my mother.

I wrung out the dishcloth in my slightly daintier hands (than Mum’s), wiped the kitchen worktops and returned it to the sink.

“Soak it in a little bleach every so often and it will keep on going for years,” I could almost hear Mum saying.

I did exactly that and the colours became brighter.

Although I felt emotional thinking about my mother and all she has done for me, I didn’t cry; in fact, I smiled to myself. Mum may be nearly blind these days but she is hale and hearty (if perhaps a little cold) in England. I expect she is knitting or making aprons (by feel, while she keeps abreast of world news on the radio) even as I write this.

At around five-thirty this afternoon I went out into the garden to find Bill, my elder brother (with whom I am staying at present). He was smiling as he walked up from the vegetable patch; he had something in his hand.

“Bill, I’ve invited Diane for dinner,” I called out before reaching him, “well, we had so many leftovers from the barbecue… and it won’t be as good another day from now.”

“Great idea,” he replied, “What about Henry?”

“He’s at work but Diane can take a dinner back for him.”

“Sally, look what I dug up just now. Ever seen anything like it?” Bill asked laughing.

He held the object suggestively in his hand and, for a moment or two, I wondered what it was exactly – then I burst out laughing.

Twenty minutes later, when our younger brother’s girlfriend arrived for dinner, she was rather taken aback by our unusual arrangement of salad on the table for there in the centre was an enormous… well, see for yourself. Let me just add that nobody fancied radish tonight…

This joke was awaiting me in my in-box this morning. I have a feeling that Robert thought I might pass this on to you… and he was right!

The Kind Nurse
A male patient is lying in bed in the hospital, wearing an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose.

A young student nurse appears and gives him a partial sponge bath.

“Nurse,”‘ he mumbles from behind the mask, “are my testicles black?”

Embarrassed, the young nurse replies, “I don’t know, Sir. I’m only here

to wash your upper body and feet.”

He struggles to ask again, “Nurse, please check for me. Are my testicles black?”

Concerned that he might elevate his blood pressure and heart rate from worrying

about his testicles, she overcomes her embarrassment and pulls back the covers.
She raises his gown, holds his manhood in one hand and his testicles gently in the other.

She looks very closely and says, “There’s nothing wrong with them,
Sir. They look fine.”

The man slowly pulls off his oxygen mask, smiles at her, and says very slowly,

“Thank you very much. That was wonderful. Now listen very, very closely:

Are – my – test – results – back?”

The carnival was over, well the Australia day festivities were over! The leftovers from the barbecue were tucked away into the fridge and all the guests had gone, even the ones who had held out to the very last, and even Ron (the young American who looks like Jeff Goldblum) who stayed on for a bit of karaoke fun; and even my niece, Loretta (who has her own house now), had to tear herself away. So at last, we were down to just the three of us – my brother, Bill, my nephew, Will, and little old me…

It was past ten o’clock – late for people who get up at five in the morning – but Will had just put on his favourite karaoke compilation and we couldn’t bear to retire to bed without singing “Morning has Broken”, then “The Sounds of Silence”, then…. well you get the picture. Bill didn’t want a microphone, he preferred to lie in his comfy recliner while Will and I sang the golden oldies. We must have sounded alright because Bill soon fell asleep.

William put down his microphone and joined me on the sofa. The song, “Sunshine On My Shoulders” came on and I didn’t think I knew it so I offered the microphone to my nephew.

“No, you sing,” he said.

The song came back to me and I could see John Denver’s face in my mind’s eye. The words were happy but the tune was sad; and I thought about John Denver’s premature demise in a plane crash; and the words made me think about sunshine on my shoulders – about my being in my homeland of Australia…

“I feel like crying,” I admitted to Will.

“So do I,” said my twenty-five year old nephew.

“You’re so soulful,” I responded, “maybe that’s why I love you so much.”

“I love you too,” he said.

And I ran my hand through his hair (as aunties are apt to do), and I sang a few more songs, and now it’s time for bed. I’ll leave you with the lyrics of the song and wish you a sunny day wherever you may be.

Don’t worry, they are friendly, beer swilling, Australian crocodiles of an ornamental variety. There is a nice frog and a sociable magpie too…

My brother needed to go over to Capalaba yesterday; it’s not far away and I thought I would take Bill for a spin in my smart car (the Imprezza or, as we say in Australia, “The Impresser!”). Bill got in and I remembered there were some nice Mint Imperials in the compartment between our seats; Roland had put them in the car for me before lending me his car for three months (I was impressed by both the car and the Mint Imperials).

“Would you like a mint Bill?” I asked, taking two mints out with a flourish.

“Thank you,” he said taking the mint and looking very thoughtfully at it.

He began to chuckle.

“What’s so funny?” I enquired.

“Someone once told me never to refuse a mint if it’s offered, and I have always followed that advice,” his voice trailed off enigmatically.

“Oh Bill, I just thought you might like a mint,” I laughed too before adding, “the people with bad breath never take the hint or the mint.”

Bill nodded. For a few moments we were both silent, each of us thinking of instances when, disappointingly, offers of mints were rejected…

Of course, that is not me –  “Too in love to eat mince” – I don’t need an excuse not to eat mince. Besides, I had just had a breakfast of egg and bacon (no toast – still dieting!), and mince was not even on the menu. You see my lovely brother, Bill, had gone outside the back door for a smoke when I heard him chuckling.

“Sally, this is so funny, you should come out and see this,” he called.

I ran, coffee cup in my hand, outside to see what was so amusing. Bill gestured towards the tree in his next-door neighbour’s back garden.

“See those two magpies on that bough?”

I nodded.

“Well the larger one is a fake magpie!”

True enough, the real magpie was besotted. He sidled up to his bird of choice, not seeming to mind that she may have been regarded as somewhat “plastic” by other, more discerning magpies. He chatted her up and showed off, trying to get her attention by hopping from one bough to another. He was just like any other boy in love.

Bill’s neighbour, Mary, was in her garden and heard us talking about the magpies.

“Want to see some more?” she asked me, hardly waiting for my reply as she dashed up the steps of her house and disappeared behind the screen door. Moments later her arm appeared – there was something in her hand… The magpies had eyes like hawks (except that they have cute little bushy eye-brows, as I’ve told you before) and several flew onto the porch railings whilst others waited in the wings (so to speak) on the side fence.

Now Mary is well-known in the neighbourhood for her love of magpies – you see she feeds them mince – and that is what enticed them to eat from her hand.

“I feed them raw sausage – cooked is too fatty – or they roll it in the dirt,” said Bill.

“And I feed them bacon fat,” I thought to myself.

Bill and I are of the opinion that magpies should be given a varied diet. But the magpie in the tree was not tempted by any tit-bits; he let the others vie for Mary’s outstretched arm while he stayed in the tree. As I said, he was too in love to eat mince….