Actually I know this dear little face quite well – this is young Mason. Not only is he a gorgeous boy, he is also a delightful model for me to draw, although I must admit that I drew him from photographs rather than life (didn’t think he would be able to keep still for long enough).
Tomorrow I’ll be back with my brother Bill at Tingalpa where I plan to paint every day. Watch this space….
Charis has some remarkable scales. Oddly enough, she keeps them in Gregory and Sally Peck’s bedroom….
“Well, I guess you do have to watch the weight of your pets,” I said to myself, “it’s so easy to overfeed them when you love them so much.”
All the same, I didn’t fancy risking the sharp beaks of my fine-feathered friends by getting them out of their cages and standing them on the scales – they would have to take a break from “Lorikeet Weight Watchers” this week while I’m house-sitting (after all, it is Christmas). And truthfully, the scales looked more appropriate for human use which is why I thought I would brace myself for any shock and stand on them myself.
Now we all know that most scales these days are so newfangled that you have to have a manual to work out how to use them (and even then you don’t believe they are correct) but these ones belonging to Charis take the cake. It’s not a case of first tapping twice with your foot to activate before standing on fully (then repeating it several times until it does work); no, Charis’s are much easier than that for they have a button to press – and you can’t miss it because the button is lit up with a picture of a house on it (maybe for people the size of a house?).
I stood beside the scales and pressed the start button. Hey presto! The scales began to move! The machine had a mind of its own. It dove under one bird cage, came out, went back in, then out again and under the other cage. Gregory and Sally Peck were as bemused as I was and squawked a bit but refrained from saying “Of course I love you” (as they did yesterday morning).
It seemed to us (I think I can safely speak for the Pecks, both cats – Archer and Sterling – and me) that the scales were starving hungry and searching for food. It made a beeline for the dried cat-food dispenser, tried to push it over, unsuccessfully, but succeeded only in pushing the fancy canister off its rubber mat and rejecting a few old morsels that had got away. A strip of magnetic tape prevented the scales making their escape from bedroom to kitchen and, none-the-less deterred in its quest for food, the keen machine set about mounting the cats’ wet-food bowls. The remnants of tinned cat food in the bowls were untouched (obviously the smell was enough to put off even a hungry set of bathroom scales from a bird bedroom) and the scales advanced towards me…
Of course they didn’t get me (I’ve always been rather good at avoiding bathroom scales) and now the scales have fallen from eyes I can tell you that the machine is actually a robot hoover. But where is the rubbish held? Now that’s a mystery on a different scale!
“Get ’em off,” said a voice softly from inside the room I was passing.
At the time I was busy sweeping the floor in the corridor here at Charis’s house at Seventeen Mile Rocks (I still think it’s a funny name for a Brisbane suburb). I could hardly believe my ears.
“Pardon?” I asked, putting aside the broom and going through the open doorway.
“Get ’em off, get ’em off, get ’em off,” came the voice again.
“How rude!” I said going closer to the insistent fellow.
“Get ’em off!” his voice became higher as his frustration mounted and he got into a flap.
“Certainly not!” I answered indignantly.
“Of course I love you…” he said, and my heart melted.
“Of course I love you…” I mimicked.
“Of course I love you, of course I love you, of course I love you,” he repeated.
“I love you Sally,” I replied (even though I usually call him Gregory).
At this point he became unintelligible but his mood remained unusually affectionate so I stayed close to him, thinking he must be lonely for female companionship such as mine. And such was my good humour that I even let him lick my middle finger… thrice. His tongue was exceptionally long, if thin, considering his overall size, and he gently licked all around the top of my finger in a most pleasant manner.
“It seems we will be good friends after all,” I almost cooed and let my finger stroke his nose.
Then he bit me – not enough to draw blood (things are looking up!) – which is why I call Charis’s boy Lorikeet Gregory Peck!
“Of course I love you,” I said and went back to my brushing up.
A marvellous Christmas Day was had by all at Charis’s house, where I am house-sitting currently in Seventeen Mile Rock (I know, what a funny name for a suburb of Brisbane, Australia!). Would you believe that Rudolph the reindeer turned up, minus his red nose but with rose pink hair (he’s such a deer!)? Then, of course, there was Merry Lorelle, who wore a cute festive red apron while she and I prepared the roast dinner; and, good sport that she is, Merry Christmas didn’t object when presented with a black Afro wig to wear under her tiara. (specially designed with her name on it). Like Merry, I was wearing red shorts and an identical tiara – but without the red feather. Santa rolled up at twelve-thirty and the day got into full swing, in particular, when the little deer took on the role of disc jockey.
Instead of wearing big black boots, evidently, Father Christmas had changed into summer snow shoes; and he wore red shorts trimmed with white fur (for the expected authenticity). Likewise, his coat was made for a Christmas party in Queensland, therefore it was short-sleeved and worn without a modest thermal vest beneath (and it barely covered his brown stomach).
We were grateful we had opted for roast pork rather than roast turkey, if not only because no-one had thought to buy a turkey but also because the little deer was nursing what we first believed to be a duckling back to health (after it had been mauled the previous night by Archer the cat – one of my current charges). Sadly, the baby brush turkey (notorious, but protected, in these parts for scratching around and ruining gardens) died during the course of the afternoon and the tiny brown bird was laid to rest near the fence at the bottom of the back yard.
“Perhaps it’s for the best,” Merry Christmas consoled Rudolph, “Charis may not have wanted her plants dug out… and I certainly wouldn’t!”
Nevertheless we were sorry for the mite that had flown but once in his short life – when he had fallen from Rudolph’s knee to the ground.
“At least he experienced flying,” said the deer wistfully.
At length it was time for some good things to come to an end. Merry Christmas had far to go – back up t’North Coast – and Rudolph accompanied her like the good deer he is. Finally Santa, also had “fish to fry” (or catch, perhaps) and continued on his merry way with a “Ho, ho, ho…” (to his own patch of garden?). And I was all alone…
And yet, I wasn’t completely alone. I had slept with a ginger male (everything has been red this Christmas!) who had been content to bask in my company all night and lapped up every stroke and touch; he was still on the bed as the light of dawn permeated through the curtain. A crow cawed outside and I awoke to find the familiar furry body snuggled against my thigh. I stretched my hand down to find him. He licked me. A siren sounded, long and deep, which was followed by the barking of a nearby dog – “For Christ sake shut up!” the barker seemed to say. For what seemed several minutes the siren kept howling… and then I realised that it was howling.
After hours of housework, and feeling so alone on Boxing Day, I considered going to Lone Pine Koala Sanctuary (not far from Seventeen Mile Rock) but decided I would not enjoy it enough on my lonesome ownsome to justify the $36 entry fee. Instead, I went for a walk to discover the local nature corridor behind the fence – Santa had said that it might lead to the Brisbane River. I couldn’t have been out for much more than thirty minutes – it wasn’t a long corridor after all – and I ended up in a cul-de-sac. Kookaburras laughed on the boughs of distant gums while I returned home, even more lonely, with stomach-ache.
I was somewhere “between a (seventeen mile) rock and a hard place”, not wishing to be a burden on anyone – wishing I was home with Chris in England. Ginger stretched seductively on the rug and I stroked his head. It didn’t do “it” for me this time. The pet lorikeets heard my feet on the floor as I passed their room and they catcalled. We chatted nonsense – none of us understood – but I felt I understood their need to speak, especially on Boxing Day. The telephone rang and I said some more nonsense.
“What’s up with you?” Santa asked.
“It’s just that it’s the first time I’ve ever been on my own on Boxing Day,” I complained.
I looked out the window as we spoke and I noticed a crowd of crows in the garden, down by the fence… down where the baby brush turkey had been laid to rest.
Nevertheless, by the end of the conversation I was smiling again. Then I phoned Chris. He was up and had already shaved and had breakfast. He had to get ready for Boxing Day visitors – our middle daughter and her boyfriend. Chris was glad I had called. I phoned Lorelle (Merry) and she quite understood why I’d been feeling blue on Boxing Day (girl friends always do).
Finally, I went in to chat to the birds again and I was feeling confident that we were becoming friends. While I was talking, and replenishing their food supplies, Gregory Peck bit me – hard enough to draw blood – but I didn’t scold him; he is just a lonely bird who talks nonsense and enjoys having a peck sometimes.
“You look tasty,” I said to myself. At the time I was making my way to the counter at the “Discount Store” in the Hyperdome at Loganholme, Brisbane (where, for the princely sum of $9, I was about to buy a nice wig for Lorelle, my childhood friend, to wear during our Christmas day party – hope she will like it!). Actually, I wasn’t talking about myself when I thought, “You look tasty” (in case you’re wondering); I was looking at a big bag of some of my favourite lollies from childhood. Now it’s not that they are exactly the most delicious lollies (or sweets, or candies – if you’re not from these here parts) in the world… but they are just about the most fun to eat. So I bought the bag for $2 (a bargain, only from the Discount Store) and I couldn’t resist opening them before even making it outside to the car park.
A sweet little girl saw me open the packet as I waited for Roland to come out of the ‘gents’ and she didn’t take her eagle eyes off of me – she knew what I was going to do… she willed me on… And Roland smiled when he laid eyes on me. And the little girl laughed into her hand up at her mouth. I gave her three winks as I passed her – I couldn’t talk because my mouth was well and truly full.
A bit later, after we had arrived at my brother Bill’s in Tingalpa, I was about to sit down with all the men out in the garden (my younger brother Henry, too, was there and also Rob and Ross, Bill’s friends) when I decided to bring out the old favourites.
“Want one of these?” I asked, offering the bag of lollies to Rob. Overjoyed, he went to take one and I added, “But if you take one you must put it on properly!”
He still took it. Ross took one also… and Bill. They kindly posed for photos and seemed not to object when I admitted that the shots would be broadcast around the world on my blog. Have you guessed what kind of lollies I bought? See if you are right….
It’s rather exciting to leave the mainland and head for a beautiful island – isn’t it? For those of you who are slightly nervous of anything out of the ordinary, here are some helpful hints to island survival (especially off the coast of Brisbane, Australia).
Firstly, you must be armed with a new pistol (only available on the mainland… priced very reasonably at all IGA stores). Be prepared to jump on the nearest available water transport, preferably the big blue barge, seeing as it’s more of an adventure to travel with vehicles (and cheaper!). But do not expect friendly banter from an old man in a wheelchair (not if he is engrossed in a book, anyway).
Learn to swim before embarking on your island incursion; failing that, do not wade out too far (and take off your best shorts as the water is tidal). Also, whilst on the beach take the opportunity to learn how to load your pistol and work out which way to hold the pistol (thumb on the trigger is not advisable).
Do not be frightened when one hundred chooks and ducks make a beeline for you as soon as you open the gates to the land of purple and pink railway carriages – the birds think you are bringing food (next time bring some stale bread). By all means observe large furry animals in cages but keep your gun handy…
Eat what the natives eat – there are plenty of ice-creams at the kiosk or at Red Rock Cafe – and do what the locals do (they seem to love swings, slides and jungle gyms – or is it Jungle Jim’s?).
By the way, as you will see from the photographs, it helps if you’re only three…
It happened on Coochiemudlo Island, South East Queensland…
The location – in the waters off beautiful Coochiemudlo Island.
The skipper – Cap’n Birdseye.
Note the double image – we had hit a wave.
The first fish – my big bream! My dinner!
The Captain’s grin… and his little bream. For the Captain’s table!
The hammerhead shark – returned to the sea.
Two big bites – firstly the bream, then the shark that took half of him!
Waiting to come back in to land at Victoria Point.
And after the gutting, scaling and decapitation…
I couldn’t fancy eating fish for dinner. Next time they’re going straight back into the sea.
“Oh no!” I cried out, as the actress revealed she was not wearing any knickers.
I couldn’t understand why everyone around me (and there were many, including my brother Robert who is a member of a church) was so laid back about the risqué performance. It was a most unusual play, set in the outdoors – in a street, actually – and the audience lined the street while the cast cavorted.
“How rude!” I said loudly, “How typically Northcott Theatre!” (Years ago I went to a play called, “Privates on Parade” – hardy har har – at the Northcott Theatre in Exeter. Obviously the Northcott had aimed to buck against the perception of the West Country as being an artless and parochial part of Britain and, in doing so, had endeavoured to be avant-garde.)
“Sh… Sally,” said Robert, glaring at me, “you’re the one being rude!”
The actress lifted her skirt again and, in despair, I closed my eyes (as I had done those many years ago at the Northcott Theatre).
“I think they should be jolly well ashamed of themselves,” I hollered out for everyone to hear.
“Salleeeee,” Robert put an annoying stress on the ‘y’ sound (making me hate my name), “You remind me of Mum”.
“How parochial,” sneered the actress.
All the people present – cast and audience – stopped and stared at me with utter disdain. In sheer horror and frustration I found there was nothing more I could say or do except levitate; unfortunately, I was unable to fly up to my usual twelve feet or so (ceiling height) and could manage only five feet – around shoulder height. Nevertheless, I hovered triumphantly above the crowd and gloated.
“That’s nothing,” said the actress, “I know someone else who can do that.”
Then there came a tap on my door and I awoke to find that my head was thumping and foggy. Not only was I having a bad reaction to an allergy tablet (new ones, untried by me before), but also, I was still suffering the bad reaction from a brush against a spiky Agave plant in Bill’s garden some days ago.
“Are you alright Sally? You’re normally up before now,” inquired my host through the door.
“I was just watching a rude play and hovering, like a big turkey, above a crowd of people who hated me,” I answered, managing a laugh in spite of my headache.
“You must have been thinking about those huge chicken breasts we had for dinner last night,” came the reply.
And this morning my world isn’t quite so foggy; the rash is still burning on my thigh but my head belongs to me. And soon I shall cycle over to the Albert River and meditate, if not levitate, on the bridge.
