As it was Scotto’s birthday, we’ve spent the entire weekend celebrating. Yesterday Mum and Dad took us to the Fox and Hound, a pub which was transported (like the convicts) all the way from England to Australia because some fella missed his local pub in England.
I’m not even fibbing. Read about it here.
 |
| Outside the Fox and Hound |
Half the pub is done up in the English tradition and the other half is Irish. There was a wedding happening in the Irish half so we dined with the Queen. I had beer-battered cod and chips served on newspaper.
The fox must have suffered a bit on the journey over I think because it barely moved the entire time.
 |
| Poor little sick fox. |
Today, Scotto and I went to a winery on the mountain for lunch which was lovely, and then we went meandering down the street to seek out an adventure.
 |
| Tamborine Mountain Winery |
Because I’ve had a vicious spasm in my neck for the last three days, I suggested we stop at a massage place I’d spotted on the way. Normally I buck up about strange people touching me, but my neck has been soooo painful, I was desperate.
We entered the establishment but there was no-one about, except that we could hear someone giving a Tarot card reading in a curtained off room just past the door.
We waited patiently, scanning the books about angel visitations, chakras and admiring the dream catchers whilst eavesdropping on the boring love prospects of the person having the reading behind the curtain.
I noticed a trashy detective novel, a pack of ciggies and a lighter on the counter and hoped they belonged to the massage person who might have slipped off to the loo or something. My neck was killing me.
Finally the curtain drew back and a frightened looking person scuttled out, paid their bill and suddenly we were left facing the fortune teller.
“Any chance of a massage?” I asked hopefully.
“No. The massage guy didn’t turn up today. Would you like a Tarot card reading instead?” the lady rasped.
I looked at Scotto who just shrugged non-committedly. He always leaves the big decisions to me.
“Okay,” I sighed. “But feel free to have a ciggie first.”
I noticed a trashy detective novel, a pack of ciggies and a lighter on the counter and hoped they belonged to the massage person who might have slipped off to the loo or something. My neck was killing me.
Finally the curtain drew back and a frightened looking person scuttled out, paid their bill and suddenly we were left facing the fortune teller.
“Any chance of a massage?” I asked hopefully.
“No. The massage guy didn’t turn up today. Would you like a Tarot card reading instead?” the lady rasped.
I looked at Scotto who just shrugged non-committedly. He always leaves the big decisions to me.
“Okay,” I sighed. “But feel free to have a ciggie first.”
I’m nice like that.
She looked at me with a knowing smile and a wink.
After her ciggie break, we sat opposite her in the small room and she asked me to shuffle the cards.
Naturally I dropped them all over the floor.
“Did you get them all?” Scotto asked in an urgent tone, worried I could initiate an entirely bogus reading by accidentally missing a card under our feet which could possibly reveal a potential billion dollar windfall from Lotto.
The Tarot card reader laid the cards out in neat piles.
“Is there anything you don’t want me to tell you?” she asked, cocking her milky, glass eye at me in a diabolical fashion. (That’s made up.)
“Yes,” I said. “Please don’t tell me when I’m going to die.”
She picked up THE FIRST TWO CARDS, looked at them closely. “Okay,” she said and then hurriedly threw the cards aside.
What the actual fudge? It seemed this whole reading was a farce. If I’m about to die so soon then why was I spending twenty-five bucks to have my bloody fortune read?
Then she said that either Scotto or I have a psychic ability. She said that one of us is the type who answers all the questions on quiz shows and doesn’t know where they get the answers from.
Well that would be Scotto, but that’s only because when we watch The Chase, he shouts out the answers before I have a chance, he’s often wrong, and the answers he does get correct are from pop culture knowledge he’s acquired from watching the bloody Simpsons.
I reckon she really meant that I was the psychic one because I suggested she go have a smoke and how did I know that she smoked? (I could smell it on her as well actually).
Anyway, then she started telling me some very strange things.
1. One of my son’s girlfriends is about to have a white-haired baby. (Not entirely impossible.)
2. A middle-aged freeloading man is going to come and live with us soon. (Who? Please don't, whoever you are. I don't like freeloaders or random middle-aged men.)
3. I’m soon to be awarded with glory and recognition for all my hard work over the last thirty years. (About bloody time.)
4. And then she told us something else is going to happen that is really terrible and it made me cry and Scotto had to hold my hand and pass me the tissues.
She made us tape the whole session and gave us her phone number and said if all the stuff doesn’t come true we’re to ring her and get a full refund.
I don’t like fortune tellers anymore. And my neck still hurts.
She looked at me with a knowing smile and a wink.
After her ciggie break, we sat opposite her in the small room and she asked me to shuffle the cards.
Naturally I dropped them all over the floor.
“Did you get them all?” Scotto asked in an urgent tone, worried I could initiate an entirely bogus reading by accidentally missing a card under our feet which could possibly reveal a potential billion dollar windfall from Lotto.
The Tarot card reader laid the cards out in neat piles.
“Is there anything you don’t want me to tell you?” she asked, cocking her milky, glass eye at me in a diabolical fashion. (That’s made up.)
“Yes,” I said. “Please don’t tell me when I’m going to die.”
She picked up THE FIRST TWO CARDS, looked at them closely. “Okay,” she said and then hurriedly threw the cards aside.
What the actual fudge? It seemed this whole reading was a farce. If I’m about to die so soon then why was I spending twenty-five bucks to have my bloody fortune read?
Then she said that either Scotto or I have a psychic ability. She said that one of us is the type who answers all the questions on quiz shows and doesn’t know where they get the answers from.
Well that would be Scotto, but that’s only because when we watch The Chase, he shouts out the answers before I have a chance, he’s often wrong, and the answers he does get correct are from pop culture knowledge he’s acquired from watching the bloody Simpsons.
I reckon she really meant that I was the psychic one because I suggested she go have a smoke and how did I know that she smoked? (I could smell it on her as well actually).
Anyway, then she started telling me some very strange things.
1. One of my son’s girlfriends is about to have a white-haired baby. (Not entirely impossible.)
2. A middle-aged freeloading man is going to come and live with us soon. (Who? Please don't, whoever you are. I don't like freeloaders or random middle-aged men.)
3. I’m soon to be awarded with glory and recognition for all my hard work over the last thirty years. (About bloody time.)
4. And then she told us something else is going to happen that is really terrible and it made me cry and Scotto had to hold my hand and pass me the tissues.
She made us tape the whole session and gave us her phone number and said if all the stuff doesn’t come true we’re to ring her and get a full refund.
I don’t like fortune tellers anymore. And my neck still hurts.
Do you believe in fortune tellers?
