Pinky's Book Link

Friday, April 13, 2018


Driving along in my car to my walking destination, I suddenly became aware of the fact that although I’d remembered my Nicorettes, asthma inhaler and sun visor, I’d forgotten to wear a bra.

I was three quarters of the way there already so I screeched to a halt and weighed up my titillating situation.

Do I waste petrol and go back home or do I air the girls in public in the nonchalant manner of a truly progressive, enlightened woman?

After peering down and acknowledging the twins were reasonably disguised by a black t-shirt with a large, all-encompassing chicken decal, I decided to save the petrol and free-ball it.

Every time I passed another jogger/walker, I pretended to scratch my opposite ear which provided a decent barrier between my nipples and probing eyes and also steadied any overt jiggle-jiggle. 

Nobody would even know!

Can I say the experience was liberating in the extreme? The cool breeze, the lack of diaphragmatic restriction and the absence of an errant bra strap slipping down my shoulder requiring constant adjustment produced a much more comfortable walking event.

At one point, a family of tourists pulled up beside me.

“Excuse me,” enquired a lady in the front passenger seat. “Can you give us directions to Main Street?”
I began to scratch my left ear with my right hand.

After the initial thrill of being tagged as a local (the lack of a bra probably helped), I delivered some complicated directions involving complex turns, knotty loops and obscure landmarks.

They smiled in a baffled manner and thanked me before driving off.

I felt proud of the fact that after two years living here, I finally felt confident to help tourists find their way around the byzantine roads of the maze-like mountain.

I felt proud that I did it without wearing a bra.

I felt proud for about three minutes, until it dawned on me that the road I’d set them off on with such self-assurance, actually led down and off the mountain and nowhere near Main Street.

I figured it would take them twenty minutes to realise and another twenty to get back up the mountain to find me and abuse the shit out of me so… I skulked back to my car, dodging from shrubbery to shrubbery and taking shelter behind large ferns.

You can never play it too safe can you?

Ever been out without a bra?

Monday, April 9, 2018

When a Man Gets a New Toy...

Golden Boy (my ex-Suzuki Sport) is sold... and all credit goes to Scotto, who vacuumed/polished and cleaned him up, arranged for the dint to be fixed and basically did all the Gumtree stuff I didn’t know and didn’t WANT to know about.

Scotto’s commission for the sale of this treasured car, was a Nerf Gun in order to fire at the chickens when they start eating our plants, as they do, frequently and annoyingly.

Sadly, due to the Weapons Act of 1991, there are no Nerf guns to be found in any toy store in Australia. I was very pleased at this because I assumed Scotto would just forget about it and I wouldn’t have to spend money on frivolous, silly things like ammunitions against poultry.

“Look!” I exhaled impatiently one day when I had returned from yet another fruitless attempt at buying a missile-like weapon from the two dollar shops. “I can only find water pistols. They’re the same as the hose as far as effectiveness in scaring off chickens goes. How about you look for a drone and then you can swoop on the unsuspecting victims from above.”

I never thought or even suspected Scotto would recall this conversation. I thought, well that’s the end of that then!

Today, even though I had long forgotten about my extravagant and insincere offer, Scotto came home with a drone.

He was clearly exhilarated, overly excited, intoxicated with a Bruce Willis type of innocent, inner aggression, and stood in the backyard with his mouth gaping like a six year old boy finally allowed to shoot his Grandpa's shotgun.

The Fox Terrier was so excited by the strange, electronic, flying object, she fell off the deck (she's okay).The Chihuahua, the German Shepherd and the Silky Terrier couldn’t have given a small shit about the whizzing machinery, and the chickens… well frankly they didn’t even notice it.

But Scotto… I probs won’t even see him until after winter.

Wednesday, April 4, 2018

Shopping with Pinky

New Boots!

“I need a new pair of jeans for winter,” I said to Scotto last weekend.

“Well, do you think you can buy a pair that actually fit you for once?” Scotto arched his eyebrows at me.

He knows I usually buy clothes about one to two sizes too big because I’m too lazy to go into change rooms so I round up to the nearest five kilograms when buying clothes off the rack.

It was with Scotto’s specific directive that I embarked on a shopping expedition with my mother yesterday morning. I needed to purchase a pair of 'sexy jeans', not a pair of grandma jeans with a slowly descending crotch that sometimes falls to my knees when I walk too quickly.

First we had to stop at the library. My mother loves the library.

The Gold Coast is currently hosting the Commonwealth Games and naturally the baton relay was taking place in the library car park as we pulled in. Some harried looking security officer kept yelling at all the elderly library patrons (including me) because they were parking in the wrong place. I’d hoped to avoid this scenario by a self-prohibition of driving down to the coast during the games.

Inside the library were a lot of very old people. While I waited for my mother to choose her books, I decided to read some New Scientist magazines but all the oldies had taken any available seating.

I waited until a ninety-eight year old man left his seat to dodder off for another newspaper then cleverly snaked into his deserted chair before he returned. Hmmmpf. I’m almost a senior too.

Mother came to fetch me soon after and we arrived at the mall soon after I’d managed to knock over several witches hats in the library car park on the way out.

As well as desperately requiring jeans, I needed boots, ballet flats and an asthma puffer.

I’m allergic to the hare. 
I know… that’d be bloody right, huh? I’m still keeping her though. I’ll just use my puffer when I my breathing hole closes up. It's not a drama.

After a carefully orchestrated operation involving the purposeful scouring of every single shoe store in the Robina Town Centre, I found a pair of cheap, suede ankle boots which are guaranteed to antagonise my bunion and elicit quite a lot of complaining during the winter months. 

They look nice though.

Finally, we reached the clothing store where I hoped to discover a pair of jeans which would ignite the lusty fire in Scotto’s loins and which I would not be able to just pull up over my hips without undoing them because they’re so baggy. (This does save time in the toilet, I must point out.)

“Oh, how gorgeous,” exclaimed my mother, holding up a highly desirous item she’d pulled off a rack.

I scanned the price tag. It seemed to be in my parsimonious range.

“Do you think the style is a bit young for me?” I asked, hoping she would say no.

“Well it’s too young for me but you could probably get away with it,” Mother assured me, rubbing the soft material against her face in admiration of the fabric.

She shrugged and tottered off to the back of the store to look for tea towels with chickens on them.

My mind struggled against its natural penchant towards frugality. I hate spending money on clothing.

Eventually, visions of my forlorn, empty wardrobe defeated the alarmed screaming from my inner penny-pinching muse and I tentatively made my way to the counter; wallet open and credit card clutched in my trembling fingers. 

I was going in, baby.

Soooo… this is me in my new outfit. 

What do you think? Do you think Scotto will like it?