“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.