Mountain Nuts

At the Cheese Factory

My friend Nettie came to stay over the Easter break and kept me busy with alternate bouts of aggressive-style shopping and relentless eating of highly fattening food. Nettie is a bit of a tooth girl and in her own words, “Could easily exist on cake”.

Scotto and I are terrible eaters. It often gets to five in the afternoon and neither of us has eaten all day. I don’t know why we aren’t as thin as sticks. The wine probably.

The first place I took my visitor to was the Cheese Factory where we bought triple cream Camembert infused with chocolate (an Easter theme I guess) and some Chevre L’Ail which I believe is goat’s cheese fortified with copious amounts of garlic and which I suspect contains about 1500 calories per teaspoon. My neighbour, Mrs Bunny, invited us over for drinks and nibbles on Good Friday and I’d offered to bring a cheese platter you see.

We went to the IGA after the cheese factory and were chatted up by a couple of cheeky, but really old guys in the car park. It was pension day and the seniors were out in force, let me tell you.

“Like your car, Pinky P!” They yelled out after reading my number plate. “You wouldn’t lose that in a paddock!” They were very confident. I'm sure they thought they were in with a chance.

That night we took Nettie to our favourite watering hole for dinner but we soon discovered the average age of the clientele on a Thursday night is 163 years old. Nettie is single and was hoping to spy a mountain man closer to her age so she could brag to her friends but the only ‘mountain men’ to be seen were hobbling around on walking frames and had their teeth sitting on the table beside them as they slurped soup, so we moved on to a restaurant higher up on the mountain.

We were the only people in the restaurant. The service was excellent I must say.

The average age on the mountain is said to be 49 which is old considering all the kids here. I think all the retirees up here must be pushing the average age up. Although most people here seems to be in bed by 8:30pm so who knows.

The next day we gathered our wine and beer under our armpits and trundled up to the neighbour’s house, balancing a generous cheese platter on fingertips.

As soon as we arrived, my neighbour, Mrs Bunny, grabbed Nettie and I, to take us on a tour of her house. I think she has the loveliest house in the street and was keen to have a sticky beak.

“This is my Easter Tree!” Mrs Bunny exclaimed. 

I was impressed. I’ve never made an Easter Tree in my entire life despite being a mother of five children.

However, as we were led further through the house, serious alarm bells began to ring. Each corner we turned there were more rabbits; rabbits hanging from the ceiling, rabbits adorning the walls, rabbits festooned on tables, another rabbit tree, rabbit bunting hanging over doorways, ornamental rabbits in cupboards, paper rabbits on every conceivable surface. There were chickens everywhere as well in the shape of egg cups, salt and pepper shakers and candle holders.

It was Easter Psychoville!

I glanced over my shoulder at Nettie and tried to silently communicate my grave fears for our safety with my face.

I could hear Scotto outside talking to the other husbands and wondered if I should call him inside in case something happened and we weren’t ever going to be let out. Mrs Bunny might murder us and melt us down to make rabbit candles or something.

“You really must love Easter, Mrs Bunny,” I stammered, smiling earnestly.

“I do!” she exclaimed, her eyes shining gleefully as she took in her surrounds.

“And what does Mr Bunny think about all this stuff?” Nettie queried cautiously.

Mrs Bunny shrugged. “He’s happy if I’m happy.”

“So… do you leave this display up all year?” I asked, spinning in 360 degrees and gesturing at the magnificent display.

She looked at me as though I were touched in the head. “No, of course not. Do you think I’m nuts or something? It’ll all be packed up on Monday.”

I breathed a sigh of relief.

“But you should see my Christmas display, this is nothing compared to that…” she added thoughtfully.

Later when we sat outside drinking and eating, the other neighbours teased Mrs Bunny about how many white vans pull up at her house delivering packages at all times of the day. Mrs Bunny loves Internet shopping apparently.



We had a really fantastic time. Mrs Bunny is as eccentric as you can get but quite hilarious and a gracious hostess. She’s also the self-appointed neighbourhood watch person as she’s taken an early retirement and is home a lot. I think we stayed for about five hours and finally staggered home only because the dogs needed feeding. It’s lovely to have good neighbours and I’m thrilled to bits to have new friends.

And I can’t talk about people collecting things because I have a cow collection so I guess Ms Bunny has just taken things a few steps further. Maybe when the mountain air gets into my system I’ll be just as loopy. Can’t imagine it though…

Cow Corner

Sadly, we didn't find Nettie a 'Mountain Man' under the age of 100, so I thought I might send her one like this...

Hope you all had a happy Easter or whatever you celebrate.

Anyone collect odd things?

Don't Mention the Blog!

Get a job! I can't take home brand biscuits for one more day my leetle Conchita.

There’s a Facebook group up here JUST for the mountain folk and Scotto is already a member. Not me, I’m not, because… it’s very exclusive and well, you know… I’d rather remain anonymous for a while for various reasons. I’m not hiding from the police or anything (for now) but how am I going to write stories on my blog if the people I’m writing about start reading it? Anyway, the people on the FB page are a great source of knowledge about all things that go on up here on the mountain.

Scotto asked about a problem with the septic tank last night and he was promptly advised to put a container of yoghurt down the loo. Apparently we now need to feed our toilet antibiographical bacteria or whatever it’s called. WHAT THE BROWN SLUDGY FUDGE?

I don’t know about you but I think that’s a bit weird… maybe they were having a lend of us, you know how tradesmen send their first year apprentices to the hardware store to get a left handed screw driver, a long weight or a bucket of dial tone, maybe the locals were doing something like that.

Besides, if we FEED the toilet bacteria, the things that live deep down in the abyss could grow into virtually anything, poo monsters most likely.

Who here has EVER fed their toilet?

And they also said if you don’t want to use yoghurt you can put sugar down the loo instead. What exactly exists in the pits of our septic tank? A sweet-toothed, dairy product aficionado with long tentacles and sharp pincers who’s preparing to rise up and nip us on the bum when we’re taking our daily constitutionals?

Speaking of bathrooms and toilets, I almost inadvertently scattered my brains all over the floor last night. I slipped on the cheap and treacherous bathmat which some idiot* had stupidly placed on the extremely glossy tiles.

Smack down hard I went, first landing on my tailbone, then my elbow and finally the back of my head ricocheted off the glass shower door. I wasn’t knocked out but I went straight to bed after the incident and fell asleep immediately. I’ve heard you should never do that after a head injury. My last words to Scotto were, “If I die in my sleep can you remember to throw that cheap, shitty bathmat out before our Easter guests arrive and please tell my kids I love them.”

He just nodded absentmindedly and kept watching the telly. When I woke up I thought I must have broken my elbow it hurt so much.

“How am I going to drive to my job interview today?” I wailed piteously.

I did manage to get myself to the interview despite getting lost both ways, on the way there and on the way home. Thank God for my Global Positioning System. I could almost hear the poor woman inside the GPS tut-tutting and shaking her head in disappointment every time I discovered (too late) I was in the wrong lane and failed to take the correct exit. “Recalculating… again, you useless git of a person,” I’m sure I heard her grumble in her odd English accent.

I wonder if I’ll get the job. Naturally they queried my aptitude with technology during the very thorough grilling. They needed to know how much the silly old bat knew about computers and if she could use her probably sparse knowledge to teach small children.

I somehow mustered the common sense to realise they weren’t interested in how many Twitter followers I have.

“I can utilise Microsoft Word with a great deal of expertise,” I smiled nervously.

“Oh, that’s good. You mean you can use Excel and everything?” the lovely interviewer asked.

“No, just the Word bit,” I replied, deflated.

“I have a blog,” I blurted out in desperation. “I’ve published an eBook too.”
They bowed their heads and wrote something down on their pads after failing to conceal slightly furrowed brows.

“Please don’t look it up,” I whispered after realising what a very, very stupid thing it was I’d just done.

“Don’t mention the blog” is what I recited to myself all the way down the hill on the way to the interview. First thing I blab about? The stupid blog. God, I hope they don’t look it up. I blame my idiocy on late onset concussion.

I left the interview with a headache and now I’m wondering if it’s the result of a slow bleed on the brain from my fall or just a tension headache, probably the former knowing my luck.



Somehow I don’t think I’ll get the job. Oh well. I can always work in a shoe shop.

"How will you ever get a job in a shoe shop you silly woman? You know nothing about fashion!"

* Me

Anyone got a suggestion for an alternate career to teaching?

Pinky Returns from the Dead

Pinky stands under a tree with her hand pulling down a branch to conceal her naughty, capricious face behind some leaves.

“Hellooooo…” she peeks out sheepishly. “Sorry about making you all think I was dead. It was a dreadful display of attention-seeking, wasn’t it? I promise I’ll never do it again. Really, I mean it. I was a disgrace.”

The thing is, when I was going through the emotional stress of leaving my home town after five decades, I did feel as though a part of me was dying.

As I backed out of the driveway of the family home that final time and watched our real estate agent, Nettie, clutching the keys, ready to pass them over to our buyer, I began to sob. Big, heaving sobs.

The relentless, over-dramatic sobbing continued until I reached Bowen (200 kilometres down the highway) when I suddenly realised there is NOTHING on this Earth more depressing than Bowen (what with the salt pans and dreary landscape),… nothing… so I ceased my self-absorbed snivelling and braced myself for the remaining 500 kilometre drive to Rockhampton.

I had company. 

Celine the Fox Terrier and Pablo the Chihuahua were tethered on the back seat and the Cat was nestled in a travel cage on the front seat. I drove in convoy behind Scotto who was able to call me on Blue Tooth if; I lagged behind too much, big trucks and caravans overtook me, or if he lost sight of me and feared I’d crashed into a creek or something.

Scotto had Willy, the Silky Terrier strapped into his passenger seat. Scotto said Willy sat up in a highly alert fashion and licked his (Scotto’s) arm continuously for 400 kilometres and it was really annoying, like water torture, really. “Then he went to sleep for three hours and just didn’t move at all. I was pretty sure he was dead,” Scotto told me later. It would have saved kennelling fees, I suppose.

We were running very late to book Willy and the Cat into the kennels in Rockhampton and Scotto became a bit sweary at me and scolded that I needed to speed up because I was a danger on the road and then I had to put my foot down and we just made it before the kennel guy shut shop.

The next day’s drive was worse and we had a fight on the Blue Tooth because of my timid driving and at one stage Scotto yelled at me and then I silently sobbed from Gympie to Brisbane. We were far too late for the kennels when we arrived on the Gold Coast (apparently my fault) but luckily my Mum and Dad said we could bring ALL the animals to their place for the night even though they also have two dogs and we suspected there’d be quite a bit of animalosity between them.

There was.

Borat

Jetstar delivered Borat, the German shepherd the next day. He’s settled in by the way and seems to have given up barking so much, which is fabulous and bizarre at the same time. 

Pablo still detests the sight of Borat but they seem to have reached a kind of truce where they now just ignore each other completely (which is an improvement on the Borat attempting to eat Pablo scenario). 

 

The Cat loves it here and is the ONLY cat in the neighbourhood so she doesn’t get bullied by random bastard cats anymore like she did at the old house. 

Cat

We stayed in our new house on the second night, but until three days later (when the furniture was to arrive), all we had was a mattress, a bar fridge, a couple of camping chairs and a table Mum and Dad let us borrow… but it was magical. The temperature ranged from about 18 degrees Celsius to a pleasant 27 degrees and much of the time we sat in the middle of a cloud up here on the mountain. Clouds literally pass through the lounge room if you leave the windows open. Heavenly.

I’ve spent a lot of spiteful time on my lap top comparing the cool mountain temperatures to the muggy conditions the poor suckers in Townsville are experiencing, gloating in a particularly nasty manner.



Each morning we wake up to laughing Kookaburras and magpies, singing in a chorus of piped warbling.

I’m a country girl now, almost a farmer really. We have a passionfruit vine, an olive tree and a smallish tomato plant. I’ll probably learn to press olives and make my own oil. Or maybe just put them in martinis. Do they need to be cooked first?

My Olives

NB: When I say we have an olive tree and passionfruit vine what I actually mean is that the neighbours have them but they stick out over our fence so they’re sort of ours.

People up here are really friendly, probably because they’re country folk… or they just don’t know me well enough yet.

Two neighbours from across the road called in on the first day and said they’d planned on bringing a plate of ‘welcome muffins’ to us, but they didn’t have any muffins with them. They never actually explained why they didn’t. Bit disappointing really because I don’t mind a muffin now and then. Maybe they were fibbing and they just wanted to know the cut of our jib. Naturally we were drinking at the time. I was scoffing champers and Scotto was drinking beer and nicking passionfruit from next door in case you were wondering.

I don’t know if it’s the crisp, alpine air but since moving to this picturesque, verdant and lush environment on Tamborine Mountain, miraculous things have begun to happen, and when I say miraculous I mean mystifying and not a small bit weird. It’s almost as if we were meant to be here…

On the day after we arrived, the very first establishment we patronised was the local bottle-o.

Scotto began a conversation with the attendant whilst I swanned around the white wine aisle searching for a bargain. By the time we left the bottle-o, Scotto had a job as a computer technician. I’m not lying. He got the job the first day we were on the mountain via the bottle-o guy. Another reason drinking wine is good for you.

Then I felt guilty about being a lazy arse sitting around on long service, so I asked Scotto to drive me around to some local schools to put my name down for relief teaching work. Next minute I received a call saying that one of the teachers had broken both her arms so could I please come in for a day of relief work. Booyah!

Pardon?

No.

I had nothing to do with the broken arms… but it just goes to show the power of prayer.

The wildlife up here is quite thrilling. We have a jungle in one corner of our garden which all of our neighbours, in hushed tones, refer to as the ‘snake pit’.

Fenced off 'Snake Pit'

Apparently there are Eastern Browns nesting in there and maybe a Red-Bellied Black snake or two (which is lucky because I think that’s better than having pythons which might attempt to swallow the Chihuahua). We’ve enlisted the services of a local landscaper to come and clear it. You should see this landscaper. He’s about nine foot tall and built like a Greek God. Scotto said he felt like a hobbit standing beside him. Same with our pool guy, he looks like the Bondi Vet on steroids. I think it must be that the mountain air is good for growing young lads. (It’s certainly increased my appetite, and the cat’s.) I just hope our landscaper knows first aid for snake bites because he’s too big for me to carry him anywhere.

We also have ants that bite. I forgot to wear my farmer-type gum boots the other day and an ant bit me on the toe. It’s still swollen four days later. The dogs kept getting stung as well. 

Icing Celine's stung paws

Naturally, we called in the local pest guy to come and spray the yard. He had to cancel his first appointment because there was an oil slick on the road leading up. The road leading up is so steep and scary I have to squeeze my eyes shut when I drive down it. Imagine driving down it when there’s an oil slick! It’d be like one of those roadrunner cartoons where the coyote gets slammed flat into a cliff.

It’s been really lovely spending time with Mum and Dad (who live ten minutes up the hill). They bought us a chandelier as a house warming present. Quite posh don’t you think?

Mum took me to her favourite library yesterday (she belongs to three libraries). I’ve always secretly derided my mother’s obsession with libraries but I think she’s converted me. It was like being in the monastery of a silent order of monks.

Bedraggled people sat around reading magazines and noiselessly turning the pages. Old, nun-like women padded around on the carpet with wistful smiles on their faces. No one spoke at all and then Mum bedazzled me with the technologically savvy manner in which she checked her books in and out via a scanner. “I never need to talk to anyone at all,” she confided gleefully. “I come here every week and haven’t spoken to anyone here for years.”

I’m joining the library.

We’ve been down the hill to Bunnings more times than I like to remember. Scotto fell through the decking around the pool (almost broke his leg) and it all has to be replaced because it’s rotten (we were warned about that when we bought it). 

Scotto has taken on the job of replacing all the boards himself and while he was looking at boring drill bits, I bought myself a little spade for gardening and for ferrying dog poo down the yard to poke it behind the Norfolk Pine in the back corner (I’ll stop doing it in November so we can use it as a non-smelly, authentic Christmas tree). I bought gardening gloves too, and some potted colour. One day soon I will do something with it all. One day.

We have water tanks and a sump system. There’s no pipeline up to the mountain or sewerage, so if you come and stay you can’t have really long showers or put tampons down the loo. Mind you it rains A LOT and we have three tanks so there’s plenty of water. 

You must check between your knees when sitting on the loo to make sure there are no Eastern Brown snakes poking their head up the cistern so I suppose that’s why you can’t put tampons down the toilet because snakes are attracted to blood.

What? No… ?

Scotto just said that’s sharks.

Okay. Look between your knees for sharks poking their heads up in the toilet bowl then.

Or just don’t put tampons down the loo.

We have discovered our favourite watering hole on the mountain which is guarded by a massive Saint Bernard who can be found lying across the threshold all day and night. The beer garden has amazing views across the valley. 

View from the Beer Garden

They’re very ‘doggy’ people up here, thank God. Every night at about six o’clock the dogs in the surrounding hills all start barking at one another. There’s barking coming from ten kilometres away. No one seems to care.

Finally, I’ve met my tribe.


Anyway, I love you and have missed you soooo much. I will have lots of meaningless stories coming up. Probably more than you could ever want.

Thank you for sticking with me xxx

Oh, clearly I’ve changed my banner up top which Scotto did for me and which includes ALL my animals 

(L-R: Cat, Willy, Borat, Pablo, Celine) not just the two spoiled bratty dogs. I think it fits in with my country farmer style life don’t you?

So thank you to Scotto for his artistic/geeky skills.


So tell me, what sort of farmer would you like to be? Ever cooked olives?

My Escape to the Country

Our new backyard

The countdown is on. In a mere five days we will flee this hot, dusty, drought-stricken city and head for our mountain retreat 1426.7 kilometres away. These are the main reasons I’m so excited…

Townsville temperatures

1. We’re moving to a one story house so I’ll no longer suddenly realise every single one of my five pairs of reading glasses are upstairs and I’m downstairs and I have to huff and puff up the hellishly hot stairs. I’ll be ecstatic to know I just have to shuffle through one (maybe two) rooms to retrieve them from beside the cosy fireplace.

2. I won’t walk out of my air-conditioned bedroom in the morning to be hit by a hot blast of air emanating from the general ambience of the area I reside in. It’s at least eight degrees cooler where we’re heading. I'll have tight facial pores and no more sweat trickling down my moustache and bum crack at 6:00 am.

3. It’s a very secluded location so there’ll be no chance of random drop ins, except for my parents who also have a house on Tambo. But that’s okay because my mum and dad changed my nappies so they won’t mind if they unexpectedly drop in and find me running around with no clothes on and chasing random rabbits that have burrowed their way into the house.

4. Apparently there are rabbits hopping around the backyard at our new house. I love rabbits… unless they come into the house and cause havoc with the fox terrier which has an inbred reflex to chase small animals. I will capture at least one and make it my pet. I will call it Flopsy.

5. Tamborine Mountain has a variety of craft/hobby markets every weekend so I can learn to knit/paint/sculpt/ make jam or become a rabbit taxidermist and make an income without getting a real job. I will dress like a hippie and nurture dreadlocks which I’ve always wanted. I might even have my nose pierced.

6. Absolutely NOBODY up there on the mountain knows me so I can start again, reinvent myself like Madonna does every year. I can be… like a witness protection person. I can lie about my age and pretend I’m only forty years old and am a direct descendant of someone famous. I'll be mysterious and exotic and bung on a posh accent.

7. I will be able to don Wellingtons on freezing cold mornings and take the hounds for a run on the moors. I’ll be able to fantasise that I’m Emily Bronte snuggled on her divan writing a novel whilst sipping hot chocolate. I’ll cook country style stews and the freezing temperatures will burn up the extra calories which will refuse to settle on my hips because of all my long hikes with my woodland creatures. I’ll listen to the rain on the roof and snuggle against the fireplace in the living room. I’ll drink mulled wine (whatever that is) instead of chilled Chardonnay and snack on roasted chickpeas whilst listening to Tchaikovsky.

8. The pink Paddington Bear coat I bought late last winter will finally get an airing. I’ll be able to wear my boots without inviting tropical fungi to infiltrate my toes and I’ll be able to wear beanies on bad hair days. Scarves will be my signature detail.

9. There is no sewerage or water supply on the mountain. Wait… what? None? So…I guess that means no garbage disposal. The poo in the sump system will freeze it will be so cold. Frozen poo doesn’t smell. Ask all those people who trek past it on Mt Everest. Not a whiff. I shall start a compost thing and grow vegetables (far away from the sump).

10. Scotto and I will pop up to the local tavern on weekends, rub our gloved hands together blowing out our frosty breath to warm them, then settle beside the fireplace with a bowl of hot chips and gravy. “This is jolly spiffy!” I’ll say. “Splendidly spiffy, Scotto!”

Tamborine Mountain temperatures

Okay, maybe it won’t be that cold. But it’s got to be better than what’s going on here at the moment. 

Happy Valentine's Day, Cat!

It’s Valentine’s Day and my husband, Scotto and I are sprawled, exhausted on the couch, sweating, panting and rubbing the stinging carpet burns on our elbows.

Minutes beforehand our bodies had been trembling and strained with every muscle shrieking in agony. Both of our bodies had been locked in a powerful contraction until finally, screaming for mercy, we’d surrendered to the orgasmic bliss of release.

God I hate Pilates planks. They’re the worst part of the routine, don’t you agree? I can only last twenty seconds which is as lame as you can get really.

Later today we’ll be heading off to the movies to watch Zoolander 2 because even though I come across as an intellectual highbrow on the blog, the reality is that I have the brain of a 14 year old boy and so does Scotto.

The first weekend we met we watched the first Zoolander on the telly so it seems fitting we should bookend our time in Townsville by watching the sequel on this, the most romantic day on the calendar.

We leave Dodge City in ten days.

The entire process of selling our house and purchasing another has not been without nail-biting misery and uncertainty, let me tell you.

We’ve bought a house which we haven’t even seen. Of course there were photographs on the Web and I sent my parents to scout it out… but we haven’t even set foot in it.

Oh well. If I don’t like it I’ll just blame Mum and Dad.

Anyway, the new house is sitting atop Tamborine Mountain and there’s a huge, fenced backyard for all the animals and no close neighbours to whinge about the incessant barking.

We’ll both be driving our cars on the 1500 kilometre journey. Scotto will have Willy the Silky Terrier in his car and I’ll have the Chihuahua, the Fox Terrier and the cat.

Yes. The bloody cat.

Borat, the German Shepherd, will be travelling down in luxury on a Boeing 737. He’ll probably get an inflight meal, headphones and be able to order a rum and coke or two while Scotto and I will be inhaling dog and cat farts during the long 15 hour road trip.

Naturally, we’ll have to stop overnight halfway through the odyssey and Willy and the cat, will spend the night in kennels whilst the other two dogs stay with us in a PET MOTEL.

There is a lovely lady called Jane, who walks past our house every day and my cat literally runs out to meet her as if it’s just escaped from a volatile hostage situation and Jane is with the Tactical Response Unit. My cat proceeds to rub itself all over Jane in a very undignified manner for some reason.

“Do you want her?” I asked Jane one day. “We’re leaving town soon and she’s getting old and I don’t want to take her,” I said, gesturing at the For Sale sign in case she’d missed it.

Jane spoke to her husband who was standing across the road (with a cautiously suspicious expression on his face). Then she informed me she’d love to take the cat.

Boo-yah!

But then later I remembered how the cat had delivered and cared for her kittens all by herself and how I’d wept and been inordinately impressed with her innate mothering skills when it had happened (thirteen bloody years ago) and how, even though in all the ensuing years she’s done pretty much NOTHING to impress me, I couldn’t give her away after all.

I had to inform Jane yesterday that I had decided to keep her and I saw the cat hiding in the bushes with a big knowing smirk on its face.

Happy Valentine’s day, Cat.



Have you ever moved with animals and do you have any tips for settling them in?

Life in North Queensland Drives You Batty.

Image Credit

“Look! A little bird’s flown in,” commented Scotto, as we sat in front of the telly, watching My Kitchen Rules and eating our lovely dinner.

"It's supposed to be a sign of good luck when a bird flies in your house," I gushed.

The cute bird flew around and around the room, circling the ceiling and narrowly missing the fan.

“Actually, it’s not a bird, it’s a bat,” Scotto corrected himself.

He was right. It was a bat, a horrid, furry, black thing with sharp teeth, fluttering in panic around my lounge room.

I suspended my gastronomical endeavours, fork halfway to my mouth.

“Should we do something?” I asked. “Don’t they carry myxomatosis or something?”

“No, that would be rabbits,” Scotto replied, taking a leisurely swig of his beer. “Rabbits get myxomatosis.”

"Is that why they built the rabbit proof fence," I asked. "Was it to keep all the infected rabbits away from the healthy rabbits?"

"Shoosh," Scotto silenced me. "I'm trying to watch MKR."

“Ebola!” I squealed dramatically. “We’ll both be infected with Ebola.”

“There’s no Ebola in Australia, Pinky,” he eyed the creature which was casting a sinister, fluttering shadow on the wall.

“They definitely carry a disease like rabies,” I insisted. "I read about it on Buzz Feed. Lyssavirus! And another disease where they wee on horses or something. Horses catch it all the time.” I pulled my plate closer and shoved in a forkful of lasagne before it was wee-ed on from above.

“Hendra!” I gave a triumphant flourish. “It’s called Hendra virus!”

“I think you can only get it if a bat scratches or bites you,” Scotto turned the telly up. Pete and Manu were about to give their scores.

“That’s bollocks, Scotto,” I choked indignantly. “People can catch it from a frickin horse sneezing on them.”

The leathery-winged creature continued to orbit the ceiling fan. It looked a bit rabid to tell the truth. I thought I could see some froth dribbling out of its mouth.

“Don’t look up at it,” I cautioned. “If its saliva gets in your eyes you’re pretty much cactus. I’ll have to take you to the ER for a series of rabies shots and even that doesn’t guarantee you’ll survive.”

“I’m more worried about it pooping in my food,” Scotto was shovelling his lasagne down faster than the blood pumping through my jugular vein which I was sure the bat was going to dive down and puncture at any minute.

“Should we catch it with a net,” I asked tentatively, “and release it back into the wild?”

“We don’t have a net,” Scotto grunted.

“Could we throw a sheet over it?” I enquired hopefully. “It’s illegal to kill them you know.”

The bat must have heard me making threats because it suddenly flew back out the window and home to roost.

It must have used its echolocation. I wish I had echolocation. I could go to the loo in the middle of the night without turning on the light and waking myself up.

I hope I didn’t catch Lyssavirus. I didn’t touch it but I think maybe its frothy mouth dribbled into my lasagne when I wasn’t looking. I won’t know for about three to eight weeks apparently. Then it will only be a few days of illness for me before delirium, coma, then… death.


At least it will be quick.

How do you feel about bats? Ever had one in your house?

IPL and How to Disguise your Lifelong Bad Habits

She of the High Forehead!

About eighteen months ago, pretty much overnight, I developed a strange bulge on my mouth. I emerged from the shower one morning and spied a purple lump the size of a water droplet on my bottom lip. Naturally, I asked about it next time I was at the doctor (after first spending a few months agonising over whether or not it was a cancerous tumour and attempting to burst it with a needle over and over).

“It’s nothing,” the doctor shrugged. “It’s full of blood. It’s not a mole or anything.”

I relaxed. Not going to die this time.

Then the doctor frowned and screwed up her cute little nose, “It could be a rare thing caused by…” she trailed off looking me up and down. “No, never mind, it’s not that.”

I didn’t ask what the rare thing was because I knew it wouldn’t be nice and I knew I’d go home and google the crap out of it until I convinced myself that it was DEFINITELY the thing.

I did search online though and discovered the purple people-eating monster on my lip was a venous lake, (ugly photo I found on the web).

"A venous lake is a papule which occurs most frequently in the elderly." 

Fudge off.

Anyway, I read about lots of home remedies for venous lakes and tried them all; applying castor oil, apple cider vinegar and more extensive, reckless digging around in the papule with a sewing needle.

Nothing worked as usual.

Eventually I rang my favourite Medispa, Chrysalis (where you enter as a thorny, old grub and emerge as a magnificent, young butterfly) and made an appointment to have the disagreeable protuberant zapped into submission.

The entire procedure took two seconds and my unattractive, purple friend disappeared completely in three days. 

Why do I continue with this futile pattern of fearful procrastination in my life?

While I was there I asked the gorgeous laser technician, Melissa, about the elaborate network of broken capillaries in my cheeks and if she could do anything about them.

Enter, the magical IPL machine.

Melissa the Magic Machine Technician

I don’t know why I have all these broken veins on my face. Some people say it’s from drinking too much alcohol. I know in my heart it can’t be that. God could never be that cruel. I blame it on the hot sauce I splash elaborately over everything I eat. And it’s not just hot sauce, it’s EXTRA BLOODY HOT sauce.

The first time I had the IPL, I was dribbling with fright, but after Melissa assured me that not one of her patients had EVER died from a session of IPL, I felt a bit better.

I had to wear goggles to protect my eyes from the light flash that occurs when the IPL machine is discharged. The light flash experience is similar to what I imagine it must be like in a nuclear explosion. 

During the repetitive flashes I accepted the fact that when Melissa removed the goggles, I’d be blind; forever destined to listen to audiobooks for the rest of my life. Oh well, what price can you put on beauty? At least I’ll get a guide dog, I thought. I do like Labradors.

But when Melissa peeled back the gauze pads covering my eyelids, I was delighted to notice I could still see perfectly. My face was a bit red, but I was alive and visually intact.

The next two days saw my cheeks puff up making me look like I’d just had an organ transplant and was on anti-rejection drugs or something. I looked like a hamster eating marbles and it was obvious I am not a candidate for cheek implants. 

After four weeks I could see some improvement in the appearance of the veins so I went back for my second IPL treatment. Today, (another four weeks later) I went back for a laser tidy up of stray veins on my chin and nose. I can definitely see that my skin is much more even and I no longer look like Gordon Ramsey after a night out drinking eating a lot of extra hot chilli with Charlie Sheen.

Did I pay thousands of dollars for the treatments? No. Each treatment cost less than a facial.

Does it hurt? Well… imagine that someone asks you to hold the end of an octopus strap against your cheek and then as they hold the other end they walk as far away as they can stretch it, then they let go of their end.

It feels like that.

But as I said, what price beauty?

What beauty treatments have you had?

Linking up with Karin from Calm to Conniption for the Ultimate Rabbit Hole!

Pinky's Hangover Hacks

If I’d known, thirty years ago, what I know now I’d have saved myself many head-pounding mornings staring at the bottom of a plastic bucket and hopefully this post might help you to wake up as fresh as a designated driver after a night where you’ve behaved more like a professional footballer at a long weekend barbecue.

1. Take an aspirin with half a glass of milk before you even start drinking. The aspirin puts a clamp on inflammation surrounding the grey, squidgy matter in your head and the milk puts a lining on your stomach. I accidentally discovered this trick one night when I took an aspirin for a mild toothache before I went out on the town. The tactic has never failed me since. It works for toothaches too.



2. I know it’s a pain in the neck, but drink as much water as you can. I drink room temperature water because you can chug it down really quickly and that way you can get to your next drink without too much delay.



3. You can mix white wine with red wine and follow it up with tequila, white rum, black rum or whiskey. It’s all alcohol and mixing drinks never made any difference to my pain levels the next day. It’s really the amount consumed that’s the killer. If I eat food before the second drink, it slows down the guzzling a bit. 

Mind you, eating is cheating and it does kill the buzz.



4. If you’re like me, once you get the taste of the uninhibited silliness which accompanies the state of tipsiness, your brain tells you that to maintain this alcoholic euphoria you have to keep drinking.

It doesn’t really work that way because after the third or fourth drink, everything starts to go downhill. You lose the ability to say, She sells seashells by the seashore, and it comes out as, Shhhee thells shesells by the… oh just pith off and get me another wine.

You also feel as though you’re walking on a boat in a not-so-sheltered harbour. You repeat yourself when telling stories about your sex life which you really shouldn’t be sharing and you might start putting your arms around other people’s shoulders pretending you like them but really you’re just trying to maintain balance.



Now is the time to distract yourself from mindless chugging. Get up and dance if you can, go for a walk to the loo and strike up an interesting conversation. In other words, delay your next drink for as long as you can.



5. When you get home after a big night, these are the things you MUST do.

Clean your teeth, otherwise when you wake up in the morning it will feel as though someone has superglued your tongue to your hard palate.


Wash off heavy makeup so your eyes don’t stick together overnight and then when you wake up in the morning you panic and think you’ve gone blind, your eyeballs were pecked out by a vulture during the night or you’re dead and in hell.


Close your curtains/blinds so the sun doesn’t stream in at the crack of dawn exacerbating your headache, waking you prematurely and allowing all those cringe-worthy memories to creep in to your mind making you grab for your phone to check if you really did stand on the bar and perform a striptease to the band playing, ‘You Can Leave Your Hat On’. 

Put a huge glass of water on your bedside table. Drink it. Refill it. You don’t want to wake up in the middle of the night and wind up hurtling down the stairs in darkness on your way to the kitchen.


Turn your phone on to silent to prevent idiots disturbing your delicate recovery.


Don’t look at the time on your clock. The less you know the better.

6. If you do wake up feeling seedy, force down a glass of orange juice, eat some toast and sip on weak coffee. Go for a freezing cold shower making sure the icy water is concentrated on your head to reduce rampant swelling of the brain. (Some people say that swimming in the ocean cures a hangover. If you’re capable of driving to the ocean then you don’t really have a proper hangover in my books.)



7. Your liver will be screaming out for greasy food but it’s merely a cry for help from the withered organ. It’s desperately attempting to process the alcohol and thinks it needs fat to help it do its job. In reality, eating a burger and deep fried chips just means the little sucker will have to work harder. A large glass of cold chocolate milk usually satisfies my liver. Yours might be a tad more demanding.



8. This is an irresponsible, final piece of advice that medical authorities would probably get cranky about but it’s my desperation measure. 

I find that fifty percent of a hangover is the result of a lack of sleep. I get jittery and prone to panic attacks when suffering a really disgraceful hangover and I can’t relax enough to take a nap. Sometimes I take a Mersyndol or two to render me unconscious for a few hours. I always wake up feeling relatively normal again. 

The paracetamol most likely strains the liver but it gets rid of headaches and the codeine/ doxylamine succinate cocktail knocks me out cold. 

It’s why Mersyndol has the word, Mercy, in its name.


Remember, the horror of most hangovers only lasts until five o’clock in the afternoon, a bit like a day at work. The agony will soon be over and just like the pain of giving birth, you’ll forget all about it.

I Touched Myself

One of my new year pledges to myself was to stop caring about what people think of me anymore, so when I was at a music trivia bingo night last week and the DJ asked who would sing, I Touch Myself, into the microphone for a free steak sandwich voucher, I put my hand up immediately.

I must have been pretty good because he gave me two free steak sandwich vouchers. 

My friend, Nettie was a bit disparaging and said if she’d done it she would have stood up and suggestively rubbed her hands all over her body but since she didn’t even put her hand up to volunteer, I’m suspecting she wouldn’t have done anything of the sort.

I don’t eat steak but that doesn’t matter. I did it and felt no remorse. In fact it was fun… it was liberating to put aside my self-consciousness and vanity for the sake of a good time. Plus I was a tiny bit pissed.

I gave the steak sandwich vouchers to my starving, student son, Thaddeus when he came over this week. He needs them more than me.

Earlier in the month, I also instigated a petition which resulted in a newspaper interview, two television interviews and two radio interviews. It was an unexpected blur of disconcerting unreality.

Was I nervous? Hell yeah, but I pushed through it because I felt passionate about the issue.

I didn’t watch myself on the telly at all or read the article too closely because I knew I’d be too self-critical. I tried not to read the huge amount of criticism on some social media sites or in the paper either. What would be the point? I believe I’m right so the knockers can get stuffed.

Of course I don’t expect everyone to agree with me but to actively close ones ears to facts and common sense is cheating one’s self.

The petition has been presented to council. I highly doubt anything will come of it but at least I tried to make a difference and I learned something.

I learned who is truly there for me, supporting me… and who isn’t.

I also learned that there are a lot of closed minded, negative, fault-finding people out there.

So many people are too ready to jump on an issue without really examining it. “Grabbing the shitty end of things” is how one friend described it perfectly.

The experience has taught me to stop and think before I make judgments. I’ve learned to tease things apart before I reject them. I’ll try not to instantly jump into a critical, dismissive, default mode.

So that was my January and I think it’s a good start.

What will February bring?

If I’m lucky I’ll live to ninety years of age. That gives me roughly 416 months left to live.



I won’t be wasting any of them.

P.S. I don't think I'm a great spirit or anything but there are a lot of mediocre minds out there, don't you think?

How to Know if Your Partner Loves You For You

We swim in our pool every afternoon because it’s 37 freakin degrees in the shade here in North Queensland and don’t go telling me how you’re hot because you furkin AREN’T.

My hair has taken the toll of all this aquatic action by drying out and developing split ends.

You could use the end of my ponytail to scour your fry pan after you’ve burnt bacon and cheese in the bottom of it., or use it as sandpaper on a particularly gnarled piece of granite, or use it to scrub out the stains on the tiles left by the blood of the air-conditioning mechanic who quoted you $1500 to fix the reverse cycle piece of shit a gecko just shorted out.



“Do you mind if I wear a shower cap in the pool to protect my hair, Scotto?” I asked my long-suffering husband the other day when we were about to take the plunge.

He shrugged, indicating a non-interest in what I wear on my head when we’re in the pool, so that’s what I’ve been doing. It’s really not at all attractive but not as constricting as a bathing cap and readily available.

We loll around in the pool staring at the sky from 5pm until about 6:30 when the news comes on, then we squidge inside with wet crotches, put on dry undies and settle in front of the telly.

I spied a couple of large birds in the sky yesterday when we were swimming.

“Are they hawks?” I asked the non-ornithological expert Scotto. It was a rhetorical question really.

“Yep,” he drawled. “Them’s be hawk birds.”

I heard a loud caw very similar to a crow. Exactly like a crow actually.

“No, Scotto, I think they’re crows, not hawks after all.” I said, tucking a tendril of hair back inside my floral shower cap.

“No, Pinky, those birds have scalloped wings like hawks. The crow sounds are coming from the west. Those birds are definitely hawks,” he drawled like John Wayne on pseudo-ephedrine.

“Bull SHEET!” I screeched indignantly. “They aren’t hawks. They’re making a sound like crows do.”

One of the exact same birds as before flew past us again. “See!” he twanged like a cowboy lying shot dead in a pool of blood on a saloon floor. “That’s a crow! Its wings aren’t as scalloped as a hawk bird.”

“It’s the same furkin bird. you idiot!” I hooted. “It just went round the durn tree and came back agin!”

“Naw… that’s a durned crow and I’d eat my mother’s heart to prove it!” he argued.

I let it go because it was too durned hot to argue. But seriously? It was a crow not a furkin hawk.

That’s what happens when you marry a city boy.



The moral of the story is: If you insist on finding a life-long partner, find one that doesn’t care if you go swimming in a shower cap. 

Frame it.

Yoga for Beginners

Celine, helping me do my yoga.

Scotto and I have been doing Pilates/Yoga exercises via Youtube videos every day for the last two weeks. The sessions only go for twenty to thirty minutes but they’re pretty damn intense. I told my friend, Nettie what we’d been doing when we went out to dinner with her the other night.

“Where are you doing it?” she asked me.

“In the bedroom, in front of the telly,” I shrugged, bolting a chip down my pie-hole.

“Oh, I see,” she used the sarcastic quotation mark gesture. “Bed Pilates… too much information, Pinky.”

“No… proper Pilates, on the bedroom floor,” I hissed, disgusted at her inference.

Scotto puts the computer screen on the TV (somehow) and we follow the instructions of a very vicious, sadistic, thin woman. There isn't much room so I end up with my head smashing into the wardrobe door frame.

The dogs join in and Pablo the Chihuahua is particularly good at the “Down Dog” which isn’t surprising when you think about it. Sometimes he licks my tortured, sweaty face halfway through a Reverse Twisted Locust and that’s not very nice because I can’t shoo him away and have to put up with his slimy tongue up my nostril.

Usually, I’m positioned behind Scotto so he can’t see when I’m cheating, but I can see him. He cheats a lot. He’s nowhere near as flexible as me. When I was a kid I could lie on my stomach and bend my legs over my shoulders so that my knees were either side of my ears (a Reverse Rabbit). 

I could do the splits every which way too. I can’t do that now of course but I can still bend waist over and put my palms on the floor without bending my knees.

Scotto says I have long hammies but I don’t know if he’s being insulting or not.

Anyway, if my hammies are long, he must have short hammies. And you know what they say,

short hammies, short…. distance you can bend forward.

We usually complete our twenty minute session in our swimming togs. Don’t try to picture it. Bits of flesh cascade everywhere and there are carpet burns in unsavoury places; places you can’t normally see without a speculum, torch and whipper snipper.

My goal is to attain spiritual enlightenment by cracking the Wounded Peacock pose.

You do know the oldest yoga teacher in the world is 97, right?

That gives me forty-one years left to practise.

Namaste  

(I'm pretty certain that means 'Happy Australia Day')

Ever tried yoga or pilates? Any tips?

Linking up with Jess from Essentially Jess for #IBOT