Category Archives: Humour

A Poor Fish

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Laughing cloudover Coochiemudlo

 

Coochiemudlo Island

 

 

 

 

 

 

The location – in the waters off beautiful Coochiemudlo Island.

The Skipper

 

 

 

 

The skipper – Cap’n Birdseye.

Note the double image – we had hit a wave.

My fish

The first fish – my big bream! My dinner!

Breaming with pride

 

 

The Captain’s grin… and his little bream. For the Captain’s table!

Flathead

 

 

 

 

 

 

The hammerhead shark – returned to the sea.

Half a fish

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Two big bites – firstly the bream, then the shark that took half of him!

 

 

Poor fish

 

Another skipper getting ready for departure

 

 

Waiting to come back in to land at Victoria Point.

 

 

 

And after the gutting, scaling and decapitation…

Veggie dinner

I couldn’t fancy eating fish for dinner. Next time they’re going straight back into the sea.

 

With a Bit of Levity

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“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.

 

 

A Bird in Your Ear

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Roland really is a bird-man (not like the one in the miserable film called “Birdman” which I saw on the plane – well, I didn’t like it); no, our friend doesn’t attempt to fly but he is beloved by the bird population of Belivah, Brisbane.

A mother magpie with her chick (which sounds like Sweep from the old “Sooty” show) calls around at breakfast time for tidbits of bacon rind, and then again at dinner time for steak fat or chicken gristle (umm, lovely!). No bomb-diving from this attentive mother – she knows which side her bread is buttered. Throughout the day they don’t fly far from their beautiful woodland home – they flit happily from one shady bough to another, walk on the lawn or cool down in their special bath.

In the afternoon a butcher bird first sunbathes on the railings, then he flies through the open verandah and onto the boughs of the white frangipani tree; Roly knows the butcher bird’s antics and the butcher bird waits for the bird-man to respond. He goes to the fridge and finds a bite-sized morsel, prepared earlier, and throws it to the waiting recipient. The butcher bird catches the meat in his beak and Roland smiles to himself.

The rainbow and scaly-headed lorikeets descend in a huddle on the outside table where some stale bread, softened with water, looks delicious; then a pair, very much in love, fly off for some privacy in the perfumed boughs of the frangipanis… Roland calls them “the lovebirds”.

A Dog’s Dinner

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Actually, yesterday’s visit to Vanessa and Kendall’s house wasn’t a dog’s dinner in any sense – we had a lovely afternoon tea of cheeses and biscuits – but Roland’s sister and her daughter happen to have four dogs between them… Hector, the young Staffordshire opportunist, amused us by taking his place at the table whenever a chair became vacant. His antics did him no good (except to draw attention to himself), whereas Boris’s more subtle tactic of leaning against my leg and licking my foot was a tad more successful. Ssh…

The Curious Case of the Mysterious Shoe at Midday

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In itself, there is nothing too odd about finding discarded items of clothing and shoes on Australian roads (those Aussies are a sexy lot!), but usually the shoes are broken thongs or a pair of sand-shoes (more often than not, tied together and thrown over the electricity lines); therefore, I was intrigued whilst out cycling yesterday to find a single black lace-up shoe on the side of the road and a black sock in the middle of the road. Why just one sock and shoe? Was the owner a one-legged man? A passing motorist was similarly intrigued to see a woman photographing a black sock in the middle of the road…

“Are you alright?” asked the concerned fellow.

“Oh yes,” I looked up surprised, “I’m just taking a photograph of this mysterious sock and that missing shoe over there.”

“It probably fell off a Ute,” he said smiling, “I saw your bike on the side of the road and you in the middle of road and I was worried.”

“Don’t worry,” I said, “but thank you for stopping.”

We smiled at each other for a second or two and then, without any excuse for chatting longer, the driver bade goodbye and drove off. It’s heartening to know that you can always count on an Aussie male to help a damsel in distress.

In truth, it was rather late in the morning to out cycling, especially on a  very hot day, which is why I had lathered myself with hypoallergenic sunscreen. I was keen to discover somewhere in the area, other than the Albert River, as a cycling destination; Roland had suggested there might be some cycle-paths around Windaroo, a couple of kilometres from here down the main busy road. Happily, I didn’t get hit by any big trucks or speeding cars even though the cycle lane had a tendency to run out just at the most dangerous points. In fact, I must have been looking very happy when I arrived safely at Windaroo Lakes Golf Course because a Japanese golfer in a cowboy hat said:

“Ah so, you look so happy!”

“I am happy,” I said (little did he know about the cause of my happiness).

Within a few minutes the three Japanese golfers, having finished on one green (it’s not a huge golf course), passed by me again.

“Are you following me?” I joked.

“I think you so happy, if I see you again, I catch happiness from you,” my cowboy friend joked back.

“He happy because he the winner!” informed one of the other two Japanese golfers.

A little later I saw the trio again – this time I was catching up with them.

“Are you still winning?” I called.

“No, he winning,” the cowboy pointed to the smaller man in the baseball cap and check shirt.

The new ‘Number One’ approached me, smiling. I think he may have thought I brought him luck.

“You look very energetic,” he said, “look like sexy guy!”. And his shoulders did a dance from side to side to show his appreciation.

I shrugged my own shoulders (in a figurative sense) and laughed to myself as I watched the figure of my oriental admirer (under the blue parasol) pressing on to join his pals.

Something hit my helmet as I cycled homeward on the busy road. And yet again. The same mother magpie bomb-dived me four times and I had to put on a spurt to get out of there quickly. The sweat dripped from my brow and my eyes smarted. I could hardly see – I was going blind… Then my nose streamed… Thank goodness… it was just the hypoallergenic sunscreen lotion – not so hypoallergenic after all. The cycle-lane ran out and became a gravelly hard shoulder. Barely able to see, I dismounted to wipe my stinging eyes…

What do you think I saw? Right before me on the hard shoulder was the other black shoe and just up the road a short way was the other black sock. Case solved. He (whoever ‘he’ was) hated those hot thick socks and heavy shoes!

How Does Your Garden Grow?

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Amazingly, considering all the land in Australia, many modern properties have tiny gardens. Not so in beautiful, semi-rural Belivah (South-side Brisbane) – here you need a ride-on mower and plenty of time on your hands for manicured lawns. One of Roland’s retired millionaire neighbours can often be seen lying outstretched on his extensive lawn; he’s not sunbathing – he has a magnifying glass in one hand and a pair of tweezers in the other (for the newborn weeds).

Surprisingly, considering all the sunshine Queensland has at this time of year, the gardens in Belivah are lush and packed with colour and wonderful scents. Here are some photos I took yesterday as I walked back from the cow-house.

Miraculously, considering nearly all the other gardeners have said the frangipanis we put in three weeks ago (using the wrong method) would not survive, they appear to be doing well. And the geranium cuttings Bill gave me at the same time are in bloom!

 

Moo Baby Moo

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“You must be highly regarded,” I called out over the barbed wire fence. At the time I was walking along the drive to the big gates of the new property where Roland has been working recently.

“Moo, moo,moo moooo – why is that then?” (Moo translation), asked the largest of the cows, looking up at me (the driveway was above them).

“Because you have your own milking shed in the form of a picturesque little Bali Hut and you have your own swimming pool,” I said, taking out my mobile phone camera.

“Moo, moo, moo etc… – don’t be daft! Just look at the size of us! We’re of a rare breed – we don’t provide milk, except to our offspring. Yes, we are much admired but the main drawback is that our calves are very valuable and don’t stay with us long, especially if they are redheaded,” continued the garrulous cow.

“What are those two silver buckets for then?” I inquired.

“What’s a bucket?” asked the cow.

“Never mind,” I uttered intolerantly. Well it was hot out in the sunshine at eighty-thirty this morning and I wasn’t planning to stay there all day teaching her new words. “I take it the red calves are rarer?” I turned the conversation around to safe ground.

“Moo – yes,” she said succinctly and left it at that (obviously a sore subject).

“It’s a great spot here,” I tried to perk her up.

“I suppose so,” she said despondently, “but we’re rather disappointed…”

“Why is that?, ” I asked surprised.

“Moo, moo,moo – well, you’d think they would line the swimming pool, wouldn’t you?I can tell you that we haven’t been swimming once! Also, they started building the house nearly two years ago and it’s still not finished.”

“These massive constructions must take a lot more time to build than conventional timber-framed houses like the old Queenslander style. Then there are all the high-tech modern gismos to be installed…You know ‘Rome wasn’t built in a day’. Oh, sorry, I don’t suppose you do know about Rome?”

“Yes, of course, we heard about Rome the other day, on the electrician’s radio. We could do with some nice clean Roman baths here!” said the smiling cow (chuffed that she knew about Rome, if not silver buckets “Whatever they are!”).

“I must be off,” I offered.

“Do you know what really gets to me?”  the cow reverted back to her woeful mood and gave me a ‘cow eyes’ look.

“No, what?” I started walking to let her know that I couldn’t stand around all day chatting.

“We were hoping to move in for Christmas!”

 

And if you don’t believe me… here is photographic evidence.

Supergran Bites the Bullet

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It’s inevitable that kind people will give helpful advice to the aged, even when the aged person concerned happens to be Supergran (my mum). On this particular occasion the kind person with the good advice was my kid brother Robert, also something of a superhero himself being a fireman (and extremely handsome in his uniform!).

“Mum,” he said, “you know you really oughtn’t to just say the first thing that comes into your mind. Try to think first before you say things to people.”

“Oh, that was a bit tactless of him,” thought Supergran but she kept it to herself because she didn’t want to hurt Rob’s feelings.

“And you really ought to get out more and meet new people – get involved in new things,” added the whippersnapper superhero.

Perhaps he didn’t know that she was “Supergran” and had had more than her fair share of excitement in her ninety-two years. She smiled to herself.

Nevertheless, Supergran thought long and hard about it and decided to take her son’s advice. One cold morning recently she ventured out, seeking the new and exciting… in our sleepy old home town of Dawlish in Devon. She wondered who would be out on such a day, and wondered also if she would recognise anyone (owing to her near blindness).

At last she came across a gathering ahead of her – a load of tall people. Supergran has shrunk to five-feet tall so she couldn’t see what was going on.

“Ah, how exciting – new people,” she thought and she approached a lady on the outskirts of the throng.

“Excuse me,” Supergran said very politely, “but may I ask what is going on? Is it an event I should know about?”

“Well,” began the lady, “it’s all over.”

“Oh dear, I’m so sorry I missed it,” Supergran sighed, “all the same I should like to know what I missed out on.”

“It was a funeral,” said the lady.

Supergran, mindful of the lady’s feelings, managed to keep a suitably serious and sympathetic expression for some moments; then she flew off home and had a laugh to herself over a nice hot cup of tea.

Supergran on one of her previous adventures

New Shoes at Toad Hall

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I was sat in the verandah at Toad Hall. My legs were outstretched with my feet resting on the seat of another chair. In truth, I was admiring my new white thong sandals with the sparkly bits on the top – they glittered so brilliantly in the afternoon sunshine.

“What do you think of my new shoes?” I asked Toad.

“It’s a pity we don’t have snow in Queensland,” he said without even a hint of a smile (rather like a miserable toad).

“Why’s that?” I returned, not guessing at his answer but anticipating a funny remark.

“Well, they are snow-shoes – aren’t they?” Toad broke into a broad beam.

Dear old Toad. He meant no harm. In fact, he simply wanted to try on my new sparkly shoes!

My Buddy’s Beach at Buddina

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I couldn’t leave Lorelle’s place at Buddina, Sunshine Coast, without going down to the beach. I snuck out the house before anyone had stirred and spent a glorious hour walking on the beach path and the sand… Laden with photographs and frangipanis, I returned to the house for breakfast with Lorelle and Monica (my old friend’s beautiful guest from Germany); and soon I was making tyre-tracks back to Brisbane and the arms of my gorgeous boyfriend Mason (well he says I’m his girlfriend – he’s only three!).