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Friday, October 28, 2016

Pinky is Fowl!

Hodor, Ygritte, Khaleesi and Jon Snow

So… we bought four chickens.

First we bought a nice little A-frame chicken coop then we tracked down a chicken vendor on the mountain, cunningly negotiated with the chicken seller, then stuffed the four chicks in the cat carrier (our cat sleeps in) and transported the little buggers home. I imagine the poor fluffy things probably freaked out at the malodorous scent of murderous cat.

The lady who sold them to us couldn’t guarantee that they’re all hens and promised to honour a return policy in case some of them turned out to be roosters because the council doesn’t permit roosters due to the well-known propensity of roosters to initiate irritating crowing at four o’clock in the morning or something.

We named the chicks, Jon Snow, Ygritte, Hodor and Khaleesi, after the Game of Thrones characters, but Khaleesi is such a butch and gargantuan creature, we suspect we should have named her/him Brienne of Tarth and that if one of them is a rooster it is most likely Khaleesi what with the strutting and ball sack.

Joking. There’s no ball sack.

Our four dogs are enamoured of the chicks in a manner of which I would describe as undesirable and shameless yearning.

Pablo the Chihuahua, sits outside their coop licking his lips like a pothead staring at a KFC advertising billboard.

Borat the German Shepherd, circles the coop like a wolf closing in on a flock of defenceless, tender, juicy chicks and if not for the presence of chicken wire would have consumed them all by now.

They’re Pekin chickens and have fluffy feet and don’t grow to be very big which means they lay small eggs which is a bit bloody crap really. The only reason I wanted them is that having chickens is one step closer to being prepared to go off the grid (in case of the apocalypse and everything). We have our own water and we have our own sewerage system and now we have our own eggs. Well, we will in a few months anyway even if we will need about seventeen eggs to create a decent omelette.

If we hadn’t been so impatient we could have purchased some proper, fully grown chickens (that definitely aren’t roosters) ready to lay proper sized eggs but because we are impetuous fools we bought these four fairly useless things that may turn out to be roosters and we will be far too attached to them and won’t want to return them and then we’ll be fined by the council and we’ll still have no eggs but lots of baby chickens.

Also, now that I’ve had a real chicken as a pet I am no longer a pollo- pescetarian-vegetarian but just pescetarian vegetarian.

God help me if we ever buy fish.

Friday, October 21, 2016

Adventures with Dentures

Image Credit

My husband, Scotto, has a very dear, lifelong friend who has lost quite a few top, front teeth and was forced to get a partial denture. One day when this friend was perched on the loo, sans denture, he witnessed in a certain measure of alarm, his ill-disciplined dog hurtling past the loo door mischievously.

The dog was merrily sporting our friend’s expensive denture with bucktoothed pride and looking like he could eat a chew treat through a tennis racket.

Naturally, the exorbitantly priced denture was uselessly mangled after being worn by the recalcitrant mutt and at last report, still needs to be replaced.

So when my front tooth was callously ripped from my upper jaw last week and temporarily replaced with a partial denture, our friend’s naughty, thieving dog was the one image running through my mind.

In fact one of the warnings that come with a denture is, “Keep denture well away from dogs.”

Who’d have guessed that one?

Three seconds after the dentist had wrenched my tooth from its pitiful socket, he then proceeded to cram an acrylic denture the size of a dinner plate in and up against my hard palate.

To say it felt like an invasion of my cranial space at an extinction event level is an understatement.

I drove home feeling as though driving off the cliff and plunging down the mountain in a fiery fireball might be a better alternative than living with Martha Stewart’s Tupperware collection in my mouth.

When I finally walked through the front door and tried to talk I could hear my voice echoing in my head like I was standing at the bottom of the Grand Canyon and I had no control of my tongue whatsoever.

“You just have to get used to it,” sympathised Scotto. “Give it time, little toothless Pinky.”

“Thuck woo!” I screeched, stomping into the bedroom. “It’th alrighth for thum people!”
I sat in the bedroom petulantly singing the ABC Sesame Street song for an hour attempting to accustom my tongue to its new surroundings and eventually emerged sulking and sat in the lounge room slurping on a cuppa soup.

It’s been a week since then and I can happily say that I still want to kill myself.

I can’t swallow properly.

I can’t talk intelligibly for the first two hours after I wake up

… and when I eat, I dribble like a centenarian.

But at least I can smile with confidence… I thuppothe.

I don’t know how our grandparents survived with full dentures.

The moral of the story is; dogs are ashmoles and can’t be trusted and also you might want to look after your gums.

Any experiences with strange objects in your mouth?

(No rude comments, thanks).

Thursday, October 13, 2016

Being Born a Genius can be Hard

Trees on Tamborine Mountain

It’s been difficult to write posts lately because all of my subject matter is either going to offend someone or reveal too much about me.

I CAN tell you that I did attend a very posh and arty function on Sunday where I was awarded a framed certificate and a coffee table book and then had my photo published in a local rag.

I can now add “award winning photographer” as well as “published poet” to my brag book.

Scotto and I arrived at the award presentation which was held at a local winery and were amazed to find about 100 people in attendance including the ACTUAL MAYOR and the previous mayor.

The mayor smiled at me and said congratulations when I sashayed past him as I gripped my framed certificate and grinned like a fool.

Ah… I’m such a celebrity here on the mountain now. I’m practically besties with the mayor.

Scotto and I were given a token (each) for one free wine on arrival which was a pleasant surprise. Naturally, Scotto tried to order a Corona with his wine token and was refused which took a bit away from our credibility as sophisticated, wine drinking, photographer types.

I wore my leather jacket in an attempt to look artistic. It’s not real leather but has a certain madcap/fearless, quality I thought might add to my authenticity as a gifted artiste. I have a leopard skin beret in my undie drawer which I considered, but I thought that might be overkill.

Everyone at the award presentation spoke in very posh, well-enunciated voices. Nobody actually talked to us but I eavesdropped on a lot of conversations and quickly realised that we were mingling with intellectual types far beyond our bogan circumstances.

The presentation began with a lady reciting a poem in a totally unexpected manner. We were all sitting there scoffing wine and gobbling down smoked salmon canapes when a woman perched halfway down the staircase started blathering on about Lyrebirds on the west side of the mountain.

Scotto almost choked on his mini spring roll.

Me, being a published poet and award winning photographer and all, frowned at Scotto and smiled knowingly at the culturally sensitive performance of the lady on the staircase, nodding and smiling at the correct moments and applauding delicately and knowledgeably at the finale.

It’s hard being an aficionado of the fine arts and being married to Scotto sometimes. He just doesn’t understand the subtlety of creative genius.

What are your 'brag book' moments? 

Please don't comment if they're better than mine.

Tuesday, October 4, 2016


I’m highly competitive. 

I love to enter competitions but I never expect to win and frankly, I never do. 

When I say never, I mean NEVER.

I have occasionally come second or third, but I never win.

Once, when I was twelve years of age, I won a picnic blanket in a raffle and my mother used it afterwards as a dog blanket which was a disappointment because all I ever yearned for as a child was a picnic. 

The fact I remember that unremarkable incident from forty-four years ago, should relay to you how truthful my statement is that I just don’t win stuff. 

Plus it should reveal to you what a picnic deprived childhood I had.

I always rehearse my winner’s acceptance speech for anything I enter because, despite being a serial loser for the last 56 years, I still always expect to win. I think that’s what I would call an optimist. 

It’s always a suitably fake-humble acceptance speech I must add. I ALWAYS thank the other competitors in my pretend acceptance speech.

So when I saw an email in my inbox yesterday with the subject title, “You Won!”, I was understandably skeptical.

I assumed it was a Nigerian Prince telling me I’d won his private lottery.

I almost deleted it.

What could I have won? I hadn’t entered anything lately that I could recall.

For some reason I clicked on the email and fudge me... I had actually won something.

Not money.

Of course not.

But it was something I had accidentally and serendipitously won.


The funny thing is that Scotto was entering this same competition (on a subject of which he has some expertise) and when I was lying in bed beside him one night I stuck my big snout in and said, “What are you up to, buddy boy?”

He told me he was submitting some entries into a local photographic competition and full of Dutch courage and unwarranted confidence, I slurred, “Well enter me too! I ha
ve an entry!”

Reluctantly, he did. Even though my photo entry was taken on my shithouse Sony phone.

The result is that I won and he didn’t.


Monday, October 3, 2016

Come Meet the Locals on Tamborine Mountain

So... we've been living on Tamborine Mountain for seven months and we haven't gone bonkers yet despite everyone's predictions. 

Mind you, apart from our lovely neighbours, we haven't really made any friends so today we thought we'd take a stroll around the village and attempt to strike up an acquaintance or two. 

I must say... they weren't a very talkative bunch.

There was Pam the artist who ignored us as she was busy playing Pokemon Go and couldn't tear herself away from her art.

There was Bill (or Ben... not sure) who kept asking us if we had any weed...

We came upon a dragon with bloodshot eyes who kept puffing smoke and I really began to wonder about what the locals are growing in their fields.

This family were friendly but haven't seemed to have grasped the whole engineering aspect of train tracks...

This girl captured my heart with her pink hair but I think she might need to think about switching nail salons.

This is actually my dentist. We have a love-hate relationship but let's just say I hope he and his family enjoy their holiday in the Bahamas on me.

This is Alice who was waiting outside the dentist to have her braces fitted. She can't afford a car anymore because of the expensive dental work so she has to catch the bus. There are no buses here but I didn't tell her because I didn't want to upset her what with her looking as though she might have underlying anger issues.

This is the guy waiting outside the dentist for when you don't pay your bill. He's called the EXTRACTOR. He's quite nice when you get chatting.

This lady, Glenda, is what happens when you drink far too many Chardonnays at Clancy's Irish Restaurant and then irresponsibly get on your broom to fly home. 

 This is the local alcoholics anonymous rep coming to invite Glenda to a meeting.

This is Glenda's mother coming to pick her up. She'd been babysitting Glenda's kids last night and had them come with her in the back seat to see what a disgrace their mother is.

This is Glenda's friend, Mabel, who she'd been partying with last night. She had a really good time at Clancy's. "Life's too fudging short, you losers!" I believe were her last words as she plunged towards the ground at 150 kilometres an hour.

This is a local real estate agent. His clothing reveals just how tough the property market is at the moment.

This suave lady's man is our local book worm who sits outside the library. He told me that he once had a one night stand. But his books wouldn't all fit on it.

This is Con the Fruiterer who is hungover from his night at Clancy's where he'd whooped it up with a couple of wild women. He wondered how they felt this morning. He hoped they felt better than him.

Meet our Vet. He's treating this cow for mastitis and mad cow disease.

They do serve crow at this cafe, believe it or not. But they call it chicken on the menu. Jokes. 

It was a warm day so Scotto sat down with a couple of locals.

 I'm glad to see ET found his way home to his gingerbread house.

This is caring Carla from the RSPCA.  She wonders why the entire community seems to have such a murderous hatred towards crows,

These people were just down the road from Clancy's Irish Bar and still haven't made it home from the night before.

Ah. Me old mate from Mitre Ten. These blokes were the first lovely people we met on the mountain when we went up looking for snake proof chicken wire and they laughed and laughed at us. "Our mountain snakes eat chicken wire for breakfast," they mocked.

This is what happens when you swallow water melon seeds. Don't do it kids!

This is Tammy the local tourist guide looking glamorous as usual. 

This guy is a patient waiting outside the doctor's surgery. He'd been at Clancy's last night too and had fallen off a table whilst trying to simultaneously dance with Glenda and Mabel and play the tin whistle.

 Scarecrow fail.

This guy was waiting for a Tarot reading. He'd met a couple of fun chicks at Clancy's last night and wanted to know which one he should ring for a date.

Master chef of desserts this guy is. I could tell by his moustache and his OUTRAGGGGEOOUS French accent (plus the ice-cream he's holding).

These guys are tourists up from the coast visiting the Monkey Tree Bar on Gallery Walk. 

The family resemblance is uncanny... I think it's the eyes.

Hay baby!

This guy wanted a hug from everyone who walked past.

This chef went mad so they shot his legs off and now he has to ride around on a wine cask in fields of lilac. 

This is a scarecrow of a crippled Dachshund.

This is the dachshund the scarecrow was modelled on... Andrew Morris.(That's his actual name). I know. Awwww.

This is the mayor of Tamborine Mountain. 

Naturally there were shenanigans going on at the Brewery where some poor avocado farmer had been abducted by a giant crow. I don't blame the crow what with the price of avocados these days.

This is Jack, one of the local lads. He works at the local nursery and specialises in growing legumes.

And last but not least we bumped into Molly, the St Bernard's Hotel mascot with her new little companion. 
Of course we had to drop in for a drink after all that walking.

This is all part of the Tamborine Mountain Scarecrow Festival which was held this weekend. 

Good wholesome fun!