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!

Why I Love People Born in September.

It was my birthday yesterday, along with a lot of other people who have been celebrating on FB lately. 

 So many people celebrate their birthday in September. December is clearly the month for hanky-panky after all the Christmas spirit having been imbibed, probably leading to surprise pregnancies nine months later.

It’s a wonder everyone born in September doesn’t have foetal alcohol syndrome. Our mothers were probably off their faces when they conceived us, guys.

Or maybe we all do have it and we just don’t know it, because we have it.

Do I have it? You’d tell me if I did, wouldn’t you?

Oh well. What I don’t know won’t hurt me, I suppose.

It’s not funny really. I’m not making light of a serious subject. I’ve looked up the symptoms and I think I do have it actually and it’s why I have so many friends born in September. We’re flocking together.


Of course the most important thing about birthdays is the receiving of presents and these are the presents I received in no particular order of favourites.

Scotto had a portrait of my son (with my grand dog in it) put on canvas.

I can’t publish the photo because my son hates me putting him on the Internet and as he wasn’t born in September he probs knows better than I do.

My dogs gave me nothing which didn’t surprise me. Thankless bastards that they are.

My sister had one of my favourite wedding photos made into a decorative cushion which I really loved.

It was my wedding, btw. Not just my favourite, random wedding.

My Mum and Dad bought me a very large green tablecloth which I picked out myself and which I adore because it will cover my big wooden table where I’ve planned a lot of future Italian type family gatherings. (Certain members of the family are banned from sitting at the table unless they fold the tablecloth back because of their propensity to spill rum and cokes and flick smoldering ash. One of these family members was born in September… just saying.)

My five children (under the bossy guidance of my only daughter… thank God I had her because none of the boys would have had the impetus) arranged for a voucher from Stefan so I can have my sandy/beige foils re-done.

And even the government sent me a little present which was a lovely, totally unexpected honour.

Birthday Bowel Testing Kit!

We had a backyard party under the tree with all the animals attempting to steal food from the table and king parrots hanging around the pool fence.

The best gift was that my sister and her family came all the way down from North Queensland to celebrate with me.

Admiring her from across the table, I commented that my niece looks a bit like Audrey Hepburn. Mum pitched in that people used to say that about my sister, Sam, when she was young.

“These days, I just look like I ate Audrey Hepburn,” my sister complained bitterly.

I spat my champagne all over my new tablecloth at that one.

She’s a laugh, my sister. She was always described as the ‘beautiful’ sister by outsiders when we were kids. Now that I've figured out about the foetal alcohol syndrome thing I can finally accept why that was without feeling extremely vilified. 

I couldn't help the way I looked. 

It. wasn't. my. fault.

So… since my birthday last year I have sold and bought a house, resigned from my job of ten years and worked at five different schools, dined at almost every surf club on the Gold Coast, gained an extra five kilograms, taken up extreme bush walking, lost 2.6 grams and spent at least $2000 at the dentist who is seemingly collecting my extracted teeth to sell for a bucket load on the ivory black market.

I’ve also learned to find my way around the Gold Coast without using the GPS or ringing Scotto in tears, shrieking into the phone and hyperventilating that I’m “fudging lost again”. 

I wonder what the next twelve months will bring.

These are my three main goals:

1. Get a proper job.

2. Lose 4.9974 kg

3. Grow back my teeth.



Do you make goals on your birthday? Are you a September baby?

Stick that in your Fanny Bag!

Remember this time last year I was boring you all stupid with posts about my buffalo grass? I went on for months didn’t I?

Sorry.

But now you have to get ready for an inundation of posts about bush walks.

“What the fudge are these piddling, tiny things supposed to fudging be?” I screamed at Scotto this morning after the parcel delivery guy had zoomed back out of our driveway on his scooter.

“What the fudge are these? Snake Gaiters for ants?” I ranted.

I’d ordered (online) snake gaiters from a company I will (for legal reasons) call, ‘AnnaFuckonda’ and even though I had ordered ‘small’ because I’m sort of small, they’d sent me the ‘Junior” version which I presume must have to them meant fudging ‘six years fudging old’.

I was relying on these gaiters because we are doing a LOT of bush walking and frankly, I’m sick of looking out for random snakes. I just want to walk along enjoying the scenery knowing if a fudging taipan decides to lunge at me he will bounce off the Teflon gaiter thing and have to go to the dentist for a root canal and crown because he knocked a fang out.

But… naturally, the eejits who organise internet packing of stuff couldn’t do their fudging job right and now I have to continue to risk my life walking amongst venomous reptiles who aren’t afraid of a silly pair of Kathmandu hiking boots.

I looked around a few internet sites and apparently Australian snakes are a bit feeble and can’t bite much because they have small fangs so I’m thinking if I wear jeans I should be fairly safe until I can order some new snake gaiters. Of course, I make Scotto walk ahead of me on our treks in order to scare away the snakes with his heavy trudging but he can’t really be trusted because most animals like him and the snakes would probably let him pass and then take an instant dislike to me. 

That is the general pattern of my life anyway.

We called into the Mitre 10 on the mountain before our gaiter-less walk this morning. The guy there told us that as it is spring time, the snakes are a lot more active and that their venom is more potent but not to worry as they are more scared of us than we are of them.

I call bullshit. I am definitely more scared of them. Even though I’ve never seen one.

What I will say is that I’m becoming addicted to the pure, clean oxygen, the smell of the rainforest, the meditative clumping of boot steps, the sounds of whip birds and kookaburras, the burning in my thighs as I climb the mossy rocks, the cool, ginger-pepper air and the squelch of wet leaves under my feet. It’s the best free exercise you can dream of.

I bloody love it.

I've ordered a fanny bag (online) to carry my asthma puffer, three compression bandages (in case of snake bite) and a packet of aspirin in case of unexpected stroke. We should be safe unless the fanny bag turns out to be designed for a six year old.



What’s your favourite form of exercise?

I'm Occasionally Highly Visible

I sent an official resignation letter to my old school yesterday advising them I will NEVER be returning. That means I’m stuck here on the Gold Coast, with no job, no family (except parents) and no people that know about my shady, nefarious past.

That’s one thing I suppose.

So it looks like it’s a relief teacher’s career for me from now on.

Woo hoo.

Today, I had Prep, Grade 1, Grade 2, Grade 3 and Grade 4 for an hour each.

It was a bloody long day.

It was all going splendidly until I slithered into Grade 1 and accidentally instructed the kids to glue a particular worksheet into their scrap books. By the manner in which the stressed out teacher entered the classroom in a highly anxious state, after the hour was over, I realised my instructions had actually been, “Under no circumstances let those brats glue the worksheet into their scrapbooks!” instead of what I’d misheard it as, “Ask those brats to stick the worksheet into their scrapbooks with full gluey adhesive, non-removable Selley’s Aruldite.”

The teacher was not happy.

I then had to borrow her ‘high visibility’ jacket to do a handball-swerving, playground duty and managed to spill cranberry sauce from my turkey/salad/cranberry wrap all over said jacket.

Oh well, orange is the new black, so I’ve heard.

I tried to wash it out under the water bubbler but by the time I handed it back to her it was a soggy, disgusting mess and looked like someone had had their period all over it.

I’m guessing she won’t be requesting me back into her classroom even though she was very nice about the whole thing.

I wish I could listen to instructions more closely. In my defence, I did ask the kids at least five times whether or not they were supposed to glue the worksheet in and quite a few responsible looking ones said, ‘YES! Mrs. Poinker,' which at the time, I took to be an honest and reliable answer.

Little liars. They probably just wanted me to get into trouble.

You just can’t trust Grade Ones.

In Pursuit of Thinness

Twin Falls Springbrook Mountain

I read a meme the other day about how someone’s greatest fear when they were growing up was a fear of quicksand and yet since they’ve now grown up to the age of 50, they’ve never once in their lives encountered actual quicksand.

As a child, I was afraid of quicksand too after reading Victoria Holt novels in the 70s (and also as a result of watching Gilligan’s Island) but I’ve never encountered quicksand in real life, thankfully to God.

I think if I ever sink in quicksand I’ll try to float. If I get the chance, that is, before the undercurrent sucks me under. Luckily there isn’t much quicksand on the mountain where I live. There might be for all I know but it would be unusual considering we are quite a long way from the sea and any sand at all. We might have quick ‘soil’… but if it exists, I’ve certainly never heard of it.

Scotto and I have been on a fitness binge and have been doing an uphill rainforest circuit walk every other day. I spend the entire 30 minutes of the downhill trip staring at the ground in a wary hunt for Eastern Brown snakes and the remaining 30 uphill minutes, puffing and wheezing up the steps and slopes, checking my pulse and clutching the asthma puffer in my pocket, not caring a bit about snakes at all and mainly thinking about my heart, angina and possible strokes.

After about nine bouts of the Witch’s Falls circuit, we decided today to tackle the indomitable Twin Falls hike on Springbrook Mountain. It was four fudging kilometres. We were going to need an ambulance to meet us at the end.

I’m happy to say we did make it through the trek (despite two particularly vicious leeches which attempted to suck the strength from us) but because of my fear of snakes and strong desire to recklessly spend money I don’t have, I suggested to Scotto that we pop into the local outdoor activity outlet and buy some outrageously expensive hiking boots.

So in order to replenish our iron levels after the before-mentioned leech initiated blood loss, we enjoyed a hearty lunch at the Mudgeeraba Hotel (including wine), and we then decided to descend on the Kathmandu Extreme Level Sporting Shop at the Robina Town Centre.

I had to apologise to the girl who was attending us because of my blood stained socks (what with the leeches and all) but she waved me off with a laugh and was very happy about the two pairs of very exorbitantly expensive boots she was about to get commission on.

My boots make me think I could walk through the Kokoda Track like I was walking on to a yacht with my hat strategically tipped below my eye with a scarf that was apricot.

They are fudging excellent. Snake-proof too.

We’re thinking about Everest next, or perhaps Machu Picchu.

At least we'll look good.

So tell me, what silly things have you bought in the pursuit of thinness?

P.S. Scotto just got up me because I didn't credit him for the photos. Yep. He took 'em.

Robert De Niro's Mole

Like many of you, we give our four dogs lots of different names. Whatever comes out of our mouths at the time is what we call them, really. That’s how the name of my blog came about. I was calling out to my fox terrier,

“Oi, Punk! Punky… Poinky… Punky Brewster… Punky Punker… Pinky Punker… Pinky Poinker!…. Come here and get your disgusting bone, you eejit dog!”

That is honestly how I came up with the silly name for my blog.

Our German Shepherd sometimes gets called Robert, mainly because he so closely resembles Robert De Niro.

It’s mainly the mole on his muzzle. Our Germy Shepherd has a mole in the exact same place as Travis Bickle in Taxi Driver (or Jack Byrnes in Meet the Fokkers… depending on your level of intellect).

Mind you, I don’t believe Taxi Driver is more intellectually elevated than Meet the Fokkers.
Taxi Driver was a pretty boring movie and I didn’t even get one bloody laugh out of it, whereas, “Meet the Fokkers” was HILARIOUS.

Especially the part when the cat flushed the dog down the loo. I know there was no dramatic catharsis or complicated, ironic and studied, Freytag's pyramid involved… but there was the toilet humour.

Frankly, I think ‘Taxi Driver’ was highly overrated. Who cares about taxi drivers, anyway?

Only Uber drivers, I suppose.

Recently, my eighty-one year old, Dad picked us up when Scotto and I were going out for our anniversary lunch. Dad’s anniversary present to us was a lift to the winery and back. When he turned up he had an Uber sign on the dashboard which gave us all a laugh.


It wasn’t so funny later on when my elderly Mum drove up to the local IGA and the local louts kept trying to flag her down for a ride because Dad had forgotten to remove the sign. That, my friends, is a completely true story. Poor Mum.

We went over to visit Mum and Dad last night as it was Father’s Day and all. Dad had been on his death bed all week with the flu.

“I need to tell you all my passwords,” Dad croaked as he sat in his velvety dressing gown scoffing pizza. “In case I die. I think it might be happening soon.”

“Dad, you’re as healthy as a draught horse. You just had the bloody flu!” I scoffed.

“No, my dear, I should show you where all my official papers are in case something happens,” he rasped, whilst slurping up a generous bowl of apple crumble and cream.

“You’ll be outliving me!” I shrilled. “Shut up and stop talking about death!”

My parents love to talk about death. They look up the obituaries every weekend on Google to see who they’ve outlasted. Before I moved down here, whenever I talked to them on the phone, thirty seconds into the conversation, right after the “how are the kids?”, Mum would casually ask, “So… who’s died in Townsville, lately?”

Every time I take Mum to lunch she invariably starts discussing her will and what she wants done with her deceased fudging estate.

As I sit, choking down my toasted cheese sandwich, she relates explicit instructions on how she wants the money divided up between the grand kids.

The thing is, with my diabolical drinking habits and avoidance of medical tests, I’m fairly sure my parents will both outlive me.

And what will I care? I'll be dead.


So, anyway, my question is this… What nicknames do you give your pets?

or

Do you think "Robert De Niro's Mole" would be a good novel title?

Answering the call of the Wild Baked Bean

I’ve been taking a commercially baked, delicious oat bar thing to school to eat at morning tea, but as the kilos have continued to pile on to my girth, the virtuous oat bar has somehow become the scapegoat for my continued weight gain (it's not the vat of wine I drink every day… oh no, never that).

So instead of ingesting the highly processed, highly calorie laden and sugar-filled, oat bar every day, I’ve been eating a small can of baked beans instead.

Fibre… you know.

It was a shock to realise that even a very tiny can of baked beans has a thunderously, gaseous side effect and I’m guessing that at my advanced age, the farty effect is even more exaggerated.

Shortly after morning tea yesterday, as I was meandering past a group of grade ones during their dance lesson, I accidentally dropped a very robust and loud, fluffy monster.

Thinking like a ninja, I spun around quickly in feigned outrage, “Who was that???” I glared at the small children in mock horror.

The grade one-ers all looked at one another with suspicion, nudging each other in the ribs with their chubby elbows and staring at the skinny boy wearing glasses who was sitting in the corner by himself, the kid everyone always pick on, the odd boy who never gets chosen as a partner and picks his nose and has facial tics.

It MUST have been him who so rudely farted.

Of course, I let the innocent boy take the fall for my fluff. He looked like a patsy to tell the truth. He was asking for it, really.

You know I’m joking. Please don’t ring the Teacher Registration Board.
It’s very difficult teaching dance lessons when you’re full of wind. The knee bends, the jumps, the kicking the legs in the air… these actions avidly invite the random and explosive expulsion of excess air.

If it had been grade sixes I might not have got away with my subterfuge… but grade one-ers will be sucked in by anything.

The truth is, they giggled a lot and I suppose they did suspect it was me who fluffed, but because they’re grade ones they forgot about it ten seconds after it happened.

I could teach grade ones the same lesson every day for a year and they wouldn’t even notice anything unusual.

I had quite a few boys sidle up to me during the last three weeks and whisper in anguished voices, “Mrs Poinker, sorry, but dancing’s not my thing. I’d rather not participate, thanks.”

“You don’t like dancing? Well that won’t get you many girlfriends later in life!” I’ve quipped back.

“I don’t like girls,” has been the standard response. “I never want a girlfriend.”

I’m sure they’ll change their mind about liking girls but the terror and shame with which some of the boys approached the idea of dancing was enlightening.

I remember showing a grade four class the film “Oliver Twist’ once and one boy in my class almost had a fit because there were people dancing in the movie. He was truly tortured by musical theatre. He was in physical pain watching it. At one stage he started crying in frustration and torment.



Why do some males, young and old, hate the thought of dancing so much?

Even Scotto hates dancing. He pretended to like it when we first met but now refuses to even consider it.

Any ideas?

Also, do baked beans have the same effect on you?

Rainbows and Hay Fever Season

Rainbow at the end of my street!

I’m sort of superstitious but Scotto is worse.

When we met twelve years ago he started this whole thing where we have to say ‘bless you’ when one of us sneezes.

I find it very annoying. 

For a start, he always sneezes twice, never just once, always twice. So I have to sit and wait for the second sneeze because otherwise I’ll end up saying ‘bless you’ twice which is a waste of breath and really pidges me off. 

His second, follow-up sneeze can take over a minute before it develops and that minute can be a very long minute. I twiddle my thumbs, fidget and check my phone waiting for that damn second sneeze. I hate putting my life on hold like that.

The second annoying thing is that when he says, ‘bless you’ after I sneeze, I am mandated to say ‘thank you’ which is tiring in the extreme. He sits and waits for me to say thank you too, so I can’t get out of it.

I drew up the courage the other day to ask him if we could just stop with the whole ‘bless you’ thing. He scowled at me as if there was something intrinsically wrong with me, as if I’d asked him to accompany me on a naked, moonlight romp dancing around a slaughtered goat or something.

“Why? Why don’t you want to say, ‘bless you’ after I sneeze, Pinky?” he demanded. "What is wrong with you?"

I had no valid reason, sigh, so I still have to do the 'bless you' thing.

Spring and hay fever season are about to start too. 

Shudder.

As I’ve told you, I’m superstitious about crows. They’re harbingers of death. If I see one I immediately look away and pretend it’s not there or sometimes throw a rock at it.

Rainbows, on the other hand, are a sign of good luck. We had one that finished right at the end of our street recently. I’m still waiting for the good fortune from that sighting to befall itself upon my body and teach me proper grammar, though. I’m sure it will appear soon.

Imagine my delight when we found this shop on our trip down to Byron Bay last weekend.

I bought a rainbow umbrella and a pair of rainbow leggings, which are a thoroughly inappropriate and unseemly item of clothing for a woman of my age to be buying but I don’t care.

They sold so many different items I could have walked out of the shop dressed from head to toe in rainbow if I’d wanted.

Other things I think are signs of good luck coming my way are, seeing a shooting star, finding a coin head side up on the road, having a lady bug land on me, plus seeing rainbow lorikeets (as long as they aren’t flying into my windscreen at the time).

Things I won’t allow into my house include peacock feathers and opals.

My ex-husband wanted to give me an opal engagement ring all those 28 years ago. He had a bunch of opals his mother had bequeathed to him. Thankfully, the ugly, milky things had cracks in them and the jeweller refused to go along with my ex’s cheapskate antics.

Fancy trying to fob off your late mother’s old, tissue wrapped, cracked opals on your future bride.



That’s got to be a bloody bad omen for a marriage I reckon.

Your weirdest superstitions?

Teachers Know Everything!

Working as a relief specialist teacher I get to teach the entire school during the week.

When I pick them up for their lessons, there’s a decided difference in the usual conversations between me and the varying age groups.

Preps: (Whilst clinging onto my thighs in a vice grip, five at a time)

We love you, Mrs Poinker. You’re the bestest most beautifullest teacher ever, Mrs Poinker!!!!

Me: I know.

Preps: YOU look like Mrs. Poinker!

Me: I know. That’s because I am Mrs Poinker.

Preps: Ooooooh!



Grade Ones: I like your earrings Mrs Poinker. I like your hair Mrs Poinker. I like your necklace Mrs Poinker. I like your red top, Mrs Poinker, it’s really nice.

Me: I know.



Grade Twos: I lost a tooth yesterday, Mrs Poinker. I have a cut on my wart, Mrs Poinker. I have a blister on my tongue, Mrs Poinker. My eyes is sore and full of pus, Mrs Poinker. I have nits, Mrs Poinker.

Me: I know.



Grade Threes: You have a yellow car, Mrs Poinker. I saw you at the shopping centre and you waved at me. Mrs Poinker. You wore that shirt last time we had you, Mrs Poinker.

Me: I know.



Grade Fours: Mercutio is walking along the garden bed, Mrs Poinker. Mercutio is not coming inside the classroom, Mrs Poinker. Mercutio is pulling faces through the window, Mrs Poinker.

Me: I know. Just ignore him.

Grade Fours: Mercutio is showing us his bottom, Mrs Poinker.

Me: I know. Just ignore him, don’t give him any attention and he’ll come inside in a moment.

Grade Fours: (Squealing very loudly) He’s really showing us his bottom Mrs Poinker.

Mrs Poinker looks towards the window and sees Mercutio spreading his cheeks in a Jackass-type, explicit manner.

Mercutio could get a job with an all-male review when he leaves school.

Mrs Poinker rings admin in a somewhat urgent mode.

Mrs Poinker on phone: Mercutio from year four is doing dreadful things. He’s out of control.

Admin: Sigh. We know.

Mercutio is rounded up with a swift reconnaissance type mission by harried, long-suffering administration officer.

Grade Fours: Mercutio always does that when we have a relief teacher, Mrs Poinker.

Me: I suspected so. I didn’t actually KNOW. But I suspected.

Grade Fives: Mrs Poinker, Garibaldi is giving you the rude finger every time you turn around.

Me: I know.



Grade Six: Mrs Poinker, do you know what a dab is?

Me: Yep.

Grade Six: Will you do one for us?

Me: No.

Grade Six: Dabs are really cool.

Me: I know.



See. Teachers really DO know everything.